**Diary Entry 14th June**
«Why wont you open the door?» Victor demanded, scowling.
«I dont want to. And I wont,» I said flatly. «Guests should announce visits, not rummage through drawers, fridges, and wardrobes like they own the place.»
«What do you mean, *wont*? Thats my *mother*! She came to see *me*!»
«Then *you* go greet her. Just not in *my* house.»
To be fair, Emily had always gotten along better with his mum.
«You know, if I started listing all the ways my ex was better than you, wed both be embarrassed,» I muttered, scrubbing at the kitchen table harder than necessary.
«Though, honestly, Im not sure about myself,» I added bitterly. «If you were so happy with Emily, whyd you even break up?»
Victor turned away, jaw tight, staring out the window like it held answers.
«You already know the story.»
«I do. So spare me the tales of Saint Emily,» I snapped. «Or Ill be your next ex.»
I meant it, too. I was ready to walk.
Wed met nearly a year ago at a mutual friends gathering. I even knew Emilynot well, but enough. She was the one whod brought Victor along. Then, months later, she vanished off the radar.
One drunk night, Victor confessed hed dumped her after catching her cheating. Hed even shed a tear.
At the time, I thought it sweeta man unafraid of emotion, who valued love. Something clicked in me, that urge to comfort and cradle.
I realised later that «something» was maternal instinct, not attraction. But it was enough to start something between us.
It began nicely. Hed pick me up after work, drive me home, send daily sweet nothings, fuss over whether Id dressed warmly enough. I felt cherished.
The first red flag came via textfrom Emily herself.
*»Hey. Heard youre seeing Victor. Not my business, but be careful. He and his mum are a package deal. Tight-knit.»*
I noted it but brushed it off. Love conquered worse, didnt it? Just because things soured with one woman didnt mean they would with me.
*»Thanks for the heads-up, but well figure it out,»* I replied, ending the chat. It felt disloyal to entertain it.
Victor, of course, had no such qualms about *my* comfort.
When his mother, Margaret, first dropped by unannounced, I forced calm. Maybe they didnt realise how intrusive it was. Maybe she just worried, wanting to see who her son lived with.
I sent Victor to greet her, threw on clothes, scraped my hair into a ponytail, and stumbled outsleep-deprived, shadows under my eyesto meet my potential mother-in-law.
Who was already rifling through our living room drawers.
*»Hmph. Chaos in here,»* Margaret tutted, smiling like shed caught me out. *»Soon youll have mismatched socks. Natalie, after breakfast, Ill teach you how to fold clothes properlyno wrinkles, no lost items.»*
No *»hello»*. Just criticism. I was too stunned to speak. A stranger, rooting through my underwear in *my* home, felt like violation.
But snapping back seemed petty so early on, so I bit my tongue.
*»Oh, love, those under-eye bags!»* she clucked. *»You need cucumber masks. Or a kidney check. My friend Gladys had the same»*
I nodded, smiled, pretended interest in strangers ailments. All while longing to crawl back into bed. It was *8 a.m.* on a *Saturday*. Id stayed up late, planning to sleep in.
No such luck.
Margaret stayed till evening, dispensing *advice*: correct flower-watering, scrubbing bathtubs, polishing cutlery. I even got a *demonstration*. By dusk, I was wrung outa squeezed lemon.
Not once did Victor step in. Not a hint to his mother that we might want rest.
*»Is your mum always this *hands-on*?»* I ventured that night.
I didnt mind close families, but boundaries mattered.
*»Yeah. Why? Shes just being friendly,»* he shrugged. *»Emily and I lived with herwas lively. Now shes lonely.»*
*»I hope we wont be a throuple»* I sighed.
*»Problem?»* He stiffened. *»Youve got a issue with my mother? Emily got on with her fine.»*
I stayed silent. Emily was eight years younger, a people-pleaser. Of *course* they got on. She probably knew Margarets friends by name, starched sheets just so, baked pies to her specs.
But I hadnt signed up for that. Life had taught me: the fewer meddlers in a relationship, the better. Victor disagreed.
*»Mums sociable. Gets on with anyone.»*
*»Not everyone *wants* that,»* I nearly said. Didnt.
Worse came next. Margaret returned *the next morning*, this time inspecting our fridge.
*»Chicken eggs? I only cooked quail for Victorbetter for men,»* she declared. *»Shelves are grubby You *eat* off these, Natalie. Clean them.»*
*»I dont lick the shelves,»* I thought.
*»Ill do it later,»* I said. *»We planned to rest today. Its our *weekend*.»*
Victor, of course, was still asleepleaving me to entertain her.
*»Weekends are for *chores*,»* she said firmly. *»Fetch a sponge. Next weekend, Ill teach you meat piesVictors favourite. Youll *wow* him.»*
I froze. Crossed my arms. Two days in a row, dancing to her tune? No.
*»Margaret, maybe take my number? Call before visiting. We might have plans.»*
*»Call? I need *permission* to see my son?»* Her face pinched.
*»No. But your son lives with a woman now. Mutual respect would be nice.»*
*»Emily never minded,»* she sniffed.
*»Well, *my* exs mum didnt barge in at dawn,»* I shot back. *»She brought cherry scones. Delicious. Want the recipe?»*
Margarets face darkened. Wrinkles deepened. Her eyes sparked.
*»Think carefully, dear. The nightingale doesnt outsing the lark in *this* family.»*
With that, she leftbut the unease stayed. Victor didnt *hear* me. His mum treated our home as hers. And Emilys ghost haunted us.
*»Emilys cabbage rolls were better. Her mums recipe,»* Victor would muse at dinner.
*»Get *her* to teach you, then,»* Id retort.
I suspected Margaret was poisoning him against me but avoided the topic. I just wanted it gone.
A month of peace passedthen it repeated. Another dawn doorbell. This time, I refused to answer.
Rude? Maybe. But was it *polite* to ignore clear hints?
Five minutes later, Victor stormed outsleep-rumpled, furious.
*»Why wont you open the door?»*
*»I dont want to. Guests announce visits. They dont rifle through our things.»*
*»Its my *mother*! She came for *me*!»*
*»Then *you* greet her. Not in *my* house.»*
The row that followed probably reached Scotland. He accused me of rejecting his familyrejecting *him*. Margaret shrieked demands through the door, rang my phone.
Finally, I snapped.
*»Enough! Either you explain what *guest* means and send her home, or were done.»*
He chose option two.
I wasnt heartbroken. We hadnt even married. Bullet dodged. Living with a man wed to his exs memory *and* his mothers apron strings? No thanks.
Months later, gossip reached me: Victor had a new girlfriend. A mutual friend spilled it.
*»She moved in with him *and* his mum. Already wants out. Asks to meet you.»*
*»Why?»*
*»According to Margaret, youre *perfect*. Pretty, strong-willed, a great cook.»*
*»We *are* talking about *Victors* mother? About *me*?»*
*»Guess she only likes you *after* youve left him,»* she laughed.
**Lesson learned**: Heed warnings about men who idolise exes and cling to their mothers. Such «mamas boys» will always put her first. Finein moderation. But life with them? No.
Sometimes, the best love stories are the ones that *dont* happen.
