My mother-in-law calls my husband multiple times a day, wishing him good morning and goodnight,” my husband says his mother is the most important person in his life and he must help her.
My name is Emily, and lately, I’ve felt like an outsider in my own marriage. At first glance, my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitaker, seems like a woman others would envy. She’s only 49, looks youthful, keeps in shape, never without makeup, her hair always styled, dressed impeccably. After her divorce, she devoted her life entirely to her only son—my husband, James.
On paper, she lives in her own flat on the outskirts of Manchester, but in reality, she might as well live with us. Her voice fills our home more than mine does. She calls James five or six times a day—in the morning to wish him a good day, at night to say sweet dreams. In between, she reminds him to wear a coat, asks what we ate, where we went, what we talked about, how I’ve been behaving. And he tells her. Everything. No filter. As if she were his wife, and I were just a flatmate.
On weekends, James drives to see her. Not out of necessity, just so “Mum doesn’t feel lonely.” If she needs groceries, he goes. If a shelf needs hanging, he drops everything and rushes over. Even if she books a salon appointment, he tags along, sits there, helps her pick a hairstyle, comments on how she looks. As if she weren’t his mother, but a queen—and he, her devoted attendant.
And then there’s the money. She’s skilled at coaxing it from him. One week, it’s a sudden spa retreat. The next, she complains, “There’s not a single decent dress in this dull city, I need something new.” Then the flat’s repairs aren’t finished, or the fridge is too old. James and I only married recently—we’re renting, saving for our own place—but he never says no. He just opens his wallet. And then we scrape by until payday.
I’ve tried to talk to him. Gently at first, then through tears. But every time, I hit a brick wall. “Mum is sacred to me,” he says. “She gave up everything for me. Never remarried, raised me alone. I owe her. You wouldn’t understand.” And that’s that. Every conversation ends in silence or shouting.
Margaret believes only she knows what’s best for James. Everything I do is questioned—how I cook, how I clean, how I dress. What used to be irritation has hardened into certainty: she sees me as competition. She’s convinced James he’s in her debt, and now he pays it back—with his time, his attention, his money, his soul. And I’m left with the scraps.
Yes, she birthed him. Raised him. But so do most mothers. Does that give her the right to keep him on a tight leash forever? To manipulate him with guilt, invade his private life, break apart a marriage?
An overbearing mother doesn’t want her child to grow up. Because an adult makes his own choices—who to love, where to live, how to spend his time and money. A grown son might one day say no. And she can’t bear that. She wants total control.
I keep remembering something I once read: a child is a guest in your home. You feed them, teach them—then let them go. But we don’t. We cling. We smother. We think, “If I forbid it, I’ll keep them safe.” But instead, we break them.
A healthy parent-child bond can only exist if there’s trust. If you see your child as his own person, not an extension of your will. If you burden him with your fears, your grudges, your hang-ups—you’ll only make him miserable. And his wife, too.
Letting go doesn’t mean pushing away. He’ll still be your son, even if you don’t call him ten times a day. He’ll still love you, if you let him breathe. Better to stand beside him as a guide than loom over him as a jailer.
For now, I sit by the window, waiting for my husband to return from his mother’s. He’ll bring her groceries, admire her new haircut, slip her a few quid for “essentials.” And I’ll be left in an empty flat, with empty pockets and the hollow silence of my own heart.