Why Aren’t You Opening the Door?” – “I Won’t! Guests Should Warn Before Visiting—And Stop Raiding My Fridge and Cabinets!” – “What Do You Mean You Won’t? That’s My Mother!” – “Then Greet Her Outside—Just Not in My House!

**Diary Entry 23rd April**

“Why wont you open the door?” he demanded.

“Because I dont want to! Guests should call aheadand they certainly shouldnt rummage through drawers, fridges, and wardrobes!”

“Youre seriously not going to open it? Thats my *mother*! She came to see *me*!”

“Then *you* go greet her. But not in *my* house.”

Honestly, its exhausting. His ex, Victoria, always seemed to get on better with his mum.

“You know,” I snapped, scrubbing the kitchen table harder than necessary, “if I started listing all the ways my ex was better than you, wed both be embarrassed.”

I hesitated, then added bitterly, “Though, Im not so sure about myself anymore. If you and Victoria were so perfect together, why did you break up?”

Victor turned away, glaring out the window.

“You already know how that ended.”

“Exactly. So spare me the tales of your precious Vicky,” I shot back. “Unless you want me to be your next ex.”

I meant it. I was ready to walk away.

Wed met nearly a year ago through mutual friendsironically, the same circle where he and Victoria had been an item. Shed even introduced him to the group before vanishing months later. One drunken night, he confessed theyd split because he caught her cheating. Hed even cried. At the time, I found it endearinga man unafraid of emotion, who valued love. Something in me *clicked*.

Now I realise that *something* was maternal instinct, not attraction.

Still, it was enough to start something. At first, it was lovely. Hed meet me after work, drive me home, send sweet texts, fuss over whether I was dressed warmly enough. I felt cared for.

Then Victoria messaged me.

*”Hey. I heard youre seeing Victor. Not my business, but be careful. He and his mum are a package deal.”*

I brushed it off. Love conquers all, right? If things went sour with one woman, it didnt mean they would with me.

*”Thanks, but well figure it out,”* I replied, keen to end the conversation. It felt disloyal.

Victor, however, had no such qualms about *my* comfort.

When his mother, Margaret, first turned up unannounced, I bit my tongue. Maybe they didnt realise how rude it was. Maybe she was just worried about her son.

I sent Victor to greet her, threw on clothes, and stumbled outbleary-eyed, hair hastily tiedonly to find her rifling through our living room drawers.

*”Ah, chaos as usual,”* she sighed, smirking. *”Socks never paired. Natalie, after breakfast, Ill teach you how to fold clothes properly.”*

No *hello*. Just criticism. The audacity of a stranger handling my underwear *in my own home* left me speechless. But retaliating felt petty, so I endured it.

*”Oh, darling, those bags under your eyes!”* she tutted. *”Cucumber slices, or better yetget your kidneys checked. My friend Margaret”*

I nodded, smiling vacantly, while fantasising about returning to bed. It was *8 a.m.* on a *Saturday*.

Margaret stayed until evening, dispensing unsolicited advice on flower care, bathroom scrubbing, and cutlery polishing. By then, I was drained, and Victor hadnt once intervened.

*”Is your mum always this *hands-on*?”* I ventured that night.

*”Of course. She just wants to bond,”* he shrugged. *”Victoria and I lived with herit was fun. Now shes lonely.”*

*”Please tell me we wont be a trio.”*

*”Whats your problem? You hate my mum now?”* His voice turned sharp. *”Victoria got on with her perfectly.”*

I bit my tongue. Victoria was eight years younger, a people-pleaser who probably memorised Margarets friends medical histories and starched bedsheets like a pro.

But *I* hadnt signed up for that.

It got worse. Margaret returned the next weekend*early*to inspect the fridge.

*”Chicken eggs? I only ever cooked quail eggs for Victor. Much better for men.”* She wrinkled her nose. *”These shelves are filthy. Youre eating off them, Natalie.”*

*”I dont lick the shelves,”* I nearly said. Instead: *”Ill clean them later. We were hoping to relax todayits the weekend.”*

Victor, of course, was still asleep.

*”Weekends are for chores!”* she declared. *”Fetch the sponge. Next Saturday, Ill teach you steak-and-kidney pieVictors favourite!”*

I crossed my arms. *”Margaret, maybe text before visiting? I might have plans.”*

*”Text? I need permission to see my own son?”*

*”He lives with a partner now. Common courtesy wouldnt hurt.”*

*”Victoria never minded.”*

*”Well, *my* exs mum never showed up at dawn. She *did* bring cherry scones, though. Want the recipe?”*

Margarets face darkened. *”Think carefully, dear. The nightingale wont outsing the lark.”*

She left, but the tension lingered. Victor didnt see the issue. Worse, Victorias ghost haunted us*”Her meatloaf was better. Her mum taught her.”*

*”Get her to teach you, then,”* Id snap.

A month of peace followed, then*ding-dong*Margaret was back. This time, I didnt budge.

Victor stormed out, furious. *”Why wont you open the door?!”*

*”Because I *wont*. Guests call first. And they dont snoop!”*

*”Shes my *mother*!”*

*”Then *you* greet her. *Not in my home.*”*

The row was epic. He accused me of rejecting *him*; Margaret shrieked through the door. Finally, I snapped: *”Either explain what guest means to your mum, or were done.”*

He chose the latter.

Honestly? Good riddance. We werent even married. No one needs a man wedded to his motheror his ex.

Months later, a friend mentioned Victors new girlfriend had moved in with Margaret. *”She wants to meet you,”* my friend laughed. *”Apparently, Margaret now calls you the ideal woman.”*

*”*Margaret* said that?”*

*”Guess you only earn her praise once youve escaped.”*

Since then, Ive listened more carefullyto gossip, to red flags. Men overly attached to their mothers? Men who idolise exes?

Hard pass. A mans first love should *never* be his mum.

Agree? Disagree? Let me know.