My Husband Is a Real Mama’s Boy at 35 Years Old

Ive certainly made my share of mistakes in my life, but the greatest one still lives right beside me, and I havent a clue what to do about it. I was twenty-five when I married a man named James. He was two years older than me, and at the time, honestly, he seemed almost like a prince riding in on a white horse.

James constantly showered me with flowers and gifts, carried the heavy bags for me, and we never argued. Any problem could be solved calmly and sensibly between us. Wed never lived together before marriagenot him, not me, nor did either of us believe in cohabiting before tying the knot; we considered it a bit frivolous. So, we simply got married. My mum and dad gave us some money for the wedding, but the sum wasnt nearly enough to buy a flat. I had no particular desire to rentwhy pay a stranger and have to answer constantly for how we lived? To put it simply, Jamess mother suggested we live with her. She had a two-bedroom flat in Manchester, and truth be told, she was bored and there was plenty of space. Why not live there for a bit?

I agreed without thinking much. Jamess mum seemed like a decent woman, so establishing a common ground didnt take much effort. However, as soon as I married James and moved in with his mother, I learned far more about my husband than I ever expected. It turned out his mother still treated him like a small boy. When he lived with her, he did absolutely nothing around the house. To the point that shed even wash his underwear and socks for hima grown man, for goodness sake. You ought to admit, thats not normal.

James did little more than head off to work and take care of his own affairs. Naturally, the moment we began living together, all household responsibilities were put on my plate. Now, I cooked for everyone, tidied up, did the laundry, ironed clothes. Did I really need all this? His mum didnt interfere or invade the kitchen when I cooked, but the very fact she never offered any help made me feel as though I was nothing more than a servant brought into their household.

Things only got worse. Once, a socket caught fire, and I managed to put it out. When I asked James to remove the remains and fit a new one, youd have thought Id asked him to solve complex physics equations. Turns out, my husband hadn’t the faintest idea how to replace a socket. And when it came time to change the lightbulb in the lounge, he backed away in fear and said he couldnt do that. So, I climbed up on a stool and changed it myself. Essentially, James couldnt do anythingperhaps not the end of the world, but he didnt even want to learn. Why bother? Better to call someone and pay them for it. Fine, but its not as if James earned thousands of pounds, enough for others to do everything for him.

The thing that boiled my blood the most was how his mother constantly treated him like a seven-year-old. And he responded shyly, calling her mummy.

“James, have you put your socks on, changed your underwear? James, did you wash properly?” Hearing such conversations made me want to scream. Hes a grown man, and his mothers asking if his pants are clean.

Honestly, I desperately want a divorce. But what would I do then? I have no place of my own, and the money my parents gave me is already spent. Yet I cant bear this any longer. How much more of this utter muteness can I stand?