Mum asked me again yesterday: “What kind of marriage is this?” — I’m alone with my son while my husband lives with his mother.
In a small town near Manchester, where garden fences hide whispers between neighbours, my life at 33 has become an isolation I never expected. My name is Emily, I’m married to William, and we have a five-year-old son, Oliver. But our family exists only on paper. William lives with his mother, while Oliver and I are on our own. Yesterday, Mum called again, asking, “Love, what sort of home is this? It shouldn’t be like this!” Her words and the judgement from friends tear at my heart, but I don’t know how to change it.
**The Love That Promised Happiness**
William was my first real love. We met when I was 25—he was kind, funny, full of dreams about family. His mother, Margaret, seemed sweet at our wedding, hugging me, calling me “daughter.” We rented a flat, Oliver was born, and I thought our life would be complete. But everything changed when Margaret fell ill two years ago. Heart problems, the doctors said. William decided to move in with her to help.
At first, I understood. “Just for a while, love—Mum can’t manage alone,” he said. I stayed with Oliver in our rented home, believing we’d reunite soon. But weeks became months, and months became years. Now William lives with his mum, visits us once a week, and I raise Oliver alone. Margaret, it turns out, isn’t as unwell as she claims—she shops, meets friends, yet still keeps William by her side.
**A Life Split in Two**
Even to me, our life seems absurd. I work as a receptionist to pay rent and Oliver’s nursery fees. William gives us money, but rarely—his wages go to “Mum’s needs.” Margaret calls him constantly—a leaky tap, boredom—and off he rushes, leaving me to explain to Oliver, “Mum, why doesn’t Dad live with us?” I invent stories about work, but the guilt gnaws at me.
My own mother is horrified. “Emily, this isn’t a marriage! He’s with his mother, and you’re like a widow!” she says. Friends whisper, “Why do you put up with it?” I ask myself the same. Margaret won’t let go, and William doesn’t seem to mind. When I beg him to come home, he sighs, “Mum needs me—just wait.” Wait? I’ve waited two years, and I’m exhausted. Oliver is growing up without a father, and I feel abandoned.
**The Final Straw**
Yesterday, Margaret called me directly. “Emily, William’s busy—fetch my prescriptions,” she demanded. I was stunned. I juggle Oliver, work, the house, and now I’m meant to run errands for her? I refused, and she scoffed, “Selfish girl—no care for family.” That was it. I realised: to her, “family” means her and William. Oliver and I are just an afterthought.
I confronted William. “Choose—your mother or us?” He stammered, “Don’t make me pick—I love you both.” His words cut deep. How can he love us from another house? Friends urge, “Leave—he’s a mummy’s boy.” But I love William, and Oliver adores him. How could I break our son’s heart? Yet how can I stay when I’m drowning?
**What Now?**
I don’t know how to escape this trap. Give William an ultimatum? I fear he’ll choose Margaret. Talk to her? She’ll dismiss me—she rules her world. Or wait, hoping things change? But nothing does, and I’m disappearing. Mum insists, “Take Oliver and start fresh.” But the unknown terrifies me—I never wanted to be a single mum, never wanted Oliver fatherless.
At 33, I imagined a loving home, yet here I am, married but alone. Margaret may fear solitude, but why must I pay for it? William may love me, but he chooses her. How do I bring him home? How do I save Oliver—and myself—from this loneliness?
**A Plea for Family**
This is my cry for a real family. Margaret may not mean harm, but her selfishness is destroying us. William may be a good father, but his weakness leaves me stranded. I want Oliver to see his dad every day, to fill our home with love, not emptiness. At 33, I deserve to be a wife—not my mother-in-law’s shadow.
I’m Emily, and I’ll find a way to reclaim my family, even if it means forcing William to choose. It will hurt, but I refuse to stay married yet alone. Sometimes the hardest truths set us free.