Why wont you open the door? I asked, my voice echoing down the narrow hallway of the cottage.
Because I wont, Victor snapped back. Guests ought to announce their arrival, and they certainly shouldnt be rummaging through my drawers, the fridge, or the cupboards.
Do you mean you wont let her in? I pressed. Shes my mother, Victor. Shes come to see me.
Then meet her, he replied, but not in my house.
Emma, the girl who had always gotten on with my mother, seemed a better fit for that role.
You know, Victor said, if I started listing all the ways my exgirlfriend was superior to you, wed both be embarrassed.
Honestly, Im not sure what Im good at, I muttered, rubbing the kitchen table with nervous fingers. If you and Emma were so happy together, why did you break up with her?
Victor turned away, his gaze darkening as he stared out the window.
Well, you remember the story
I remember. So dont tell me about your Emma then, I snapped. Otherwise I might become your next exwife.
I was already contemplating drastic measures.
I had met Victor about a year earlier at a mutual friends party. Hed introduced me to Emma then, though we werent close. Emma had come along with him, and a few months later she vanished from everyones radar.
One evening, when Victor was halfdrunk, he confessed that he had left Emma after catching her in a lie. He even shed a tear.
That, to me, seemed almost endearing: a man unafraid to show his feelings, someone who valued love. Something clicked in me; I felt compelled to console him.
It was clear that what I felt was more maternal instinct than genuine romantic interest, but it was enough to set our relationship in motion.
The start was lovely. He would meet me after work, give me a lift home, send sweet texts each day, and ask whether I was keeping warm. I felt swaddled in his attention.
My first worry arrived when Emma herself wrote to me.
Hi, Ive heard youre seeing Victor. Its none of my business, but please be gentle with him. Hes part of a tightknit pair with his mother.
I noted the message but dismissed it as trivial. Love, after all, overcomes such obstacles. If Victor had a rough patch with one woman, that didnt mean he would repeat it with another.
Hello. I think well sort things out ourselves. Thanks for the warning, though, I replied.
I didnt want to prolong the exchange; it felt awkward to keep the conversation going, especially with Emma lingering in the background.
Victor, however, paid no heed to my comfort.
When his mother, Margaret Thompson, first turned up unannounced, I managed to stay remarkably calm. Perhaps neither of us grasped how uncomfortable the intrusion truly was. In the end, Margaret probably just wanted to see the woman her son lived with.
I sent Victor to greet his mother, pulled on a loose dress, hastily tied my hair into a knot, and, still halfasleep with dark circles under my eyes, made my way to meet the wouldbe motherinlaw. Already she was poking around the sideboard in the sitting room.
Ah, everythings a bit mixed up, Margaret said with a patronising smile. And youll have mismatched socks soon enough. Natalie, breakfast is at ten, and Ill teach you how to fold clothes properly so nothing gets lost or creased.
That was her version of a greeting. To say I was flustered would have been understating it. A stranger rummaging through my linen in my own home felt downright rude.
But meeting rudeness with rudeness at the very start of a relationship seemed wrong, so I swallowed my irritation.
Oh, dear, you look like youve been up all night, she continued sympathetically. You need cucumber masks. Better still, a kidney checkup. I have a friend wholl do it for you
I smiled, nodded, and pretended to be fascinated by her health anecdotes, while all I wanted was to crawl back into bed. It was only eight in the morning, a lazy Sunday, and I had deliberately stayed up late the night before, hoping to catch up on sleep.
Time slipped by. Margarets visit stretched into the evening. She lavished me with criticism and advice about watering plants, scrubbing baths, and polishing cutlery. I even managed a few practice runs. I felt squeezed like a lemon. Throughout it all Victor never offered to help, nor did he hint to his mother that we needed a break.
Is your mother always this active? I asked cautiously before turning in for the night.
I liked the idea of a big, closeknit family, but I also craved a little distance.
Well, yes. What of it? She just wants to make friends, Victor shrugged. Emma and I used to live with her; it was cozy. Now shes bored being alone.
I hope we dont end up three in one roof, I sighed.
Whats the problem? Youre not against my mum? Victor bristled. She got on well with Emma, everything was fine.
I stayed silent. Emma was eight years younger than me and had a habit of ingratiating herself with people. Of course they were friends. Margaret likely knew all her acquaintances by name, their ailments, could iron a duvet perfectly and bake pies from her motherinlaws recipe book. But I wasnt signing up for that kind of happiness. Id learned enough in life to know that the fewer outsiders meddle in a couples affairs, the better. Victor, however, held a different view.
My mother is very sociable. She finds common ground with anyone.
Only not everyone will be pleased with that, I wanted to say, but held my tongue.
Things only worsened. The next day Margaret returned at dawn, this time conducting a thorough inspection of the fridge.
Chicken eggs? I only ever prepared quail eggs for Victor; theyre healthier for men, she declared, eyes narrowed. Your shelves arent tidy youll be eating from them later. Natalie, could you give them a wipe?
I thought, I dont eat straight off the shelves, thank you very much.
Then Ill clean them, Margaret Thompson, I promised. We were hoping for a quiet weekend, after all.
Victor spent the day asleep, while I was forced to entertain his mothers endless demands.
Exactly! A weekend is for cooking and cleaning, the lady proclaimed. Grab a sponge and a cloth. Next Saturday Ill teach you Victors favourite meat pie youll lick your fingers clean!
I froze, arms crossed over my chest. I wasnt prepared to be a puppet for a second day in a row.
Margaret, could you maybe give me your number? So you can call before you visit. I have plans on the next weekend, you see.
Call? You think I cant come over to my own son? she asked, hurt flashing across her face.
Yes, you may. Its just that your son now lives with a woman. It would be lovely if we all considered each others wishes.
We never had such problems with Emma, Margaret replied, frowning.
My exmotherinlaw never rang me early in the morning. She used to bring cherry pies. Very tasty. Want the recipe? I offered, trying to defuse the tension.
Margarets expression hardened; a line of anger crept across her forehead.
Natalie, think carefully. In our family the night owl never outsings the early bird.
She left, but a sour aftertaste lingered. I didnt know how to proceed. Victor seemed deaf to my concerns, his mother treated our home as if it were hers, and the spectre of Emma haunted our relationship.
Emmas cabbage rolls were the best her mother taught her, Victor once muttered over dinner.
Then let her teach you, and youll be cooking for me too, I retorted.
I suspected Margaret was trying to steer her son, but I didnt want to discuss it. I simply wanted to excise the whole episode from my life.
The following month passed peacefully, without visits, until the pattern repeated. I awoke to the phone ringing. This time I resolved, with finality, not to answer.
Was that wrong? Perhaps. But was it right to keep letting strangers barge into my home without warning after a polite hint?
Within five minutes, Victor burst into the corridor, blearyeyed, disgruntled, even angry.
Why wont you open the door? he demanded.
Because I dont want to! Guests must give notice before they show up, and they mustnt rummage through my cupboards, the fridge, or the wardrobe.
You mean you wont? Shes my mother! Shes come to see me!
Then greet her! Just not in my house.
Victors outburst was loud enough for the neighbours to hear. He berated me for rejecting his mother, and by extension, rejecting him. Margaret shouted from the front door, demanding entry and ringing the phone.
In the end I drew a line.
Enough! Either you send your mother home right now and explain to her what a guest is, or we end this, I said.
Victor chose the latter.
I wasnt devastated. We hadnt even had time to say proper goodbyes. Perhaps it was for the best. I never wanted to live with someone whose past relationships and overbearing mother were packaged as part of the daily routine.
A few months later an unexpected piece of news arrived. Victor had a new love interest. Their mutual friend from the same old circle, a woman named Clara, told me about it.
We work together. She moved in with Victor and his mother, but now she wants out. She asked me to introduce you, Clara smiled.
Really? And why?
If you believe Victors mother, youre just the perfect woman beautiful, strongwilled, and a good cook.
So were now talking about Victors mother and about me?
Probably because, according to his mum, anyone who doesnt live with Victor is suddenly a good person, Clara shrugged.
Since then Ive learned to listen to strangers gossip, but I keep my own head on straight. Im cautious of men who constantly bring up exgirlfriends and are painfully attached to their mothers.
Life with such a machismo will never work; a mother will always be first on the list. That may be acceptable, but only within sensible boundaries. Do you agree? Write your thoughts below, and give a like if this struck a chord.
