“Are you still asleep? It’s time to make breakfast for James!” My boyfriend’s mother rang, her voice sharp through the phone. I gathered my things and left, certain that a grown man couldn’t be changed.
We’d met at a mutual friend’s birthday party in a cosy little café in Manchester. James had noticed me straight away. We chattered non-stop all evening, and I couldn’t tear myself away from his sparkling wit and charm. He seemed so fascinating, so quick with a joke—I’d always been a fool for men who could make me laugh.
When the party wound down, James asked for my number. I gave it without hesitation, then spent days waiting for his call, checking my phone every few minutes. At last, he rang, and we arranged to meet at a café.
He was already there when I arrived—elegant, with a lavish bouquet of crimson roses. We shared a romantic supper, then strolled through the park, breathing in the crisp evening air. I was over the moon, and so, it seemed, was he. It was love at first sight—or so I’d thought.
After that, we were inseparable. James showered me with flowers and gifts, and I could never tire of talking to him. We were so happy that, within two months, we decided to move in. Since I lived with my mum in a small flat on the outskirts while James had his studio in the city centre, he suggested I join him there. Full of hope for our new chapter, I packed my bags and moved in on a Saturday.
His place turned out to be a tiny one-room flat where two people could barely move. I knew at once that finding quiet moments to myself—something I cherished—would be a struggle. I loved company, but I also needed time alone to gather my thoughts. Now, everything would have to be halved: space, time, even the air we breathed. Still, I told myself love was worth the sacrifice. That Sunday, I planned to sleep in, savouring the fresh start before the workweek began.
But Sunday morning became a nightmare.
Early hours, James’s phone shattered the silence, wrenching me from sleep. He handed it over, muttering, “It’s Mum.” Half-conscious, I fumbled the receiver to my ear. “Hello? Still in bed? Up with you—James needs his breakfast!” Her tone was brusque. I mumbled something incoherent, hung up, and stared at James.
He lay there, grinning slightly as if nothing were amiss. My blood boiled. Without a word, I got up, scribbled a grocery list he’d have to fetch himself, and began packing. Suitcase, handbag, another bag—everything I’d brought went straight back in. I called a cab, stepped out, and slammed the door behind me. Back at my mum’s, I burrowed under a blanket, determined not to let that absurdity ruin my day.
James rang all afternoon, but I ignored it. Texts piled up—pleas to talk—but I refused. By midweek, he stopped trying. When my friends heard, they scolded me. “He’s clever, ambitious, owns his own flat!” they insisted. But I wouldn’t budge.
I was certain: you can’t remake a grown man. If he still took orders from his mother like a schoolboy, what came next? If our shared life began with her dictating when I woke to cook his meals, where would it end? Would she decide how we raised children? Spent our wages? Where we lived?
I pictured my mornings starting with her calls. “Have you ironed James’s shirts? Made his supper? Don’t forget—he likes roast on Sundays!” The thought maddened me. I wanted a man who stood on his own, not one who waited for Mummy’s permission.
Looking back, perhaps I acted hastily. Maybe I should’ve talked to James, given him a chance to explain. But whenever I remember that call—the certainty in his mother’s voice—I know I did right. I won’t live by someone else’s rules, bending to their expectations.
My friends still say I let a “good one” slip away. But a good man wouldn’t let his mum meddle from day one. I’d dreamed of partnership, equality, a love with no room for outsiders. Instead, I felt like hired help—there to please both him and his mother.
Now, I sit in my old room at Mum’s, sipping tea and wondering where to go from here. My heart still aches when I recall James’s smile, his jokes, our walks. But I can’t go back. I won’t become a shadow in someone else’s life.
I’m sure of this: a grown man ought to stand on his own. If he still follows his mother’s orders, our future would’ve been doomed. Better to leave now than suffer for years. Yet somewhere deep, a whisper remains: *What if I was wrong?*