Ive made my fair share of blunders in life, but my biggest mistake still shares a roof with meand honestly, I havent the faintest idea what to do about it. I was 25 when I married a bloke named Simon. He was a couple of years older, and I foolishly thought he was practically Prince Charming, minus the white horse (though he did always show up in a respectable Ford Fiesta).
He showered me with flowers, gave me gifts, carted around my heavy bags, and we never so much as had a row. If we ever faced a snag, we handled it with British calm and a nice cup of tea. Wed never lived together before tying the knotneither of us fancied the idea, really thought it was a bit cheeky, so we just skipped ahead to marriage.
My mum and dad chipped in for the wedding, but it wasnt a fortunecertainly not enough to buy a place of our own. I wasnt keen to rent, either. Why pay some landlord a kings ransom just so he can stick his nose in about whether I wash up properly or hang washing out to dry? So, Simons mum suggested we move in with her. She had a two-bedroom flat in Manchester, lots of space, and frankly, she was a tad bored. Why not?
In a moment of sheer optimism, I agreed. Simons mum seemed the sort, so I thought wed get on famously. But the minute I married Simon and moved in with my mother-in-law, the truth came out. Apparently, Simon was still her little boy. While living with her, the man didnt lift a finger. I mean, the woman even washed his pants and socksa grown blighter! Surely, thats madness.
Simons daily routine was: go to work, come home, repeatnothing domestic. As soon as we started living together, every job was mine. I ended up cooking for everyone, cleaning, washing, ironing. Honestly, is that what I signed up for? To be fair, my mother-in-law never meddled while I was cooking and wisely kept out of the kitchen, but the lack of any offers to help made me feel like I was drafted into their family as a live-in servant.
Things went from bad to worse. One day, a plug socket caught fire, and I managed to put the fire out. When I asked Simon to help sort out the whole burnt socket drama and replace it, youd have thought Id asked him to solve nuclear fusion. Turns out, Simon didnt even know how to change a plug. When it came to changing a lightbulb, he drew back in horror and announced he simply couldnt. So, I got out a stool and handled the bulb situation myself. In summary, the man cant do anything. At first, I thought, No big deal, everyones got their quirks. But he didnt even want to learn! Nope, better to call someone else and pay for itexcept Simon didnt exactly bring in enough pounds for hired help.
What really drove me round the bend was his mum constantly treating him like he was seven. And there he was, answering with a bashful Mummy, as if hed just wet himself.
Simon, are you wearing matching socks? Changed your pants? Simon, did you wash properly, love?
I had to bite my tongue listening to those chats, because honestly, they made me want to chuck up. This is a grown man, and his mums checking if hes changed his pants.
To sum up, I truly want a divorce. But whats next? Ive no home of my own, I spent all the money my parents gifted me, and I cant stick it out much longer. How much more of this nonsense am I meant to endure?
