I know I’d be doing his mother wrong this way, but I still did it. It would be better for all of us.
I moved out. I left his mother’s home.
Of course, it was the same home he had been living for the last 20 years.
Before you hear my side of the story, please do not accuse me of being a bad daughter-in-law. To tell the truth, ever since we were newly weds, I have wanted to move out. Well, I wanted to escape, to be more exact.
During our first night, after a long, tiring wedding dinner party, we went into our room, readily decorated in red to welcome our arrival. Though tired, we were glad and couldn’t wait to ‘get it on’ in our new home.
Just when we’re high in the mood and have undressed all the way to our undies, there came a sudden loud knocking on the door. The handle was turning vigorously and the whole door seemed like it was going to be knocked over. I was shocked off my wits and my brain went all lofty, thinking it was some burglar or something.
My husband pulled up his boxers and muttered as he answered the door, “Alright, alright. I accidentally locked it.”
When I was still figuring out what was going on, he opened the door and his mother rushed in, touched his face and asked, “Are you alright? Why did you lock the door? You scared me half to death! What if I can’t see you?”
I was speechless, not understanding what I was witnessing.
Finally my husband told me that since he was a child, his mother never allowed him to lock his door, because at night, she wanted to make sure he slept well or was tucked in well, stuff like that.
He said his mother took care of his every whim and fancy, and I soon understood what he meant. When he’s thirsty, he would not get his own drink, but call for his mother, who was only too happy to oblige, and after drinking he’d leave it at the window, table and even in the toilet or just about anywhere else and wait for someone to clear it. So don’t even expect him to help out with the housework or even dream of asking him to.
There was once when I asked him to help wipe the dishes after I washed them, his mother immediately scolded me, “Are you trying to work my son to death? Does your family teach you these things? Are men supposed to do such menial chores?” then cried at a corner, saying, “God, how could my son stoop this low?”
Sometimes in the middle of the night, I would be suddenly awakened by his mother’s presence beside the bed, leaning over to examine her son, her face looking satisfied. Sometimes she would stroke his hair or kiss his forehead and even hum him a lullaby.
I would ask him, “Don’t you think you’re a little too old for this?”
“Not really,” he replied. “My mother cares for me, and I think it’s nice.”
“Then how did you further your studies?”
“I studied local, never went overseas.”
Soon I became very agitated. Every evening after work, the closer I am to the front door, the more anxious I get. Nights were even more restless, and it got to the point where I didn’t want to make love with him at all. He said I was cold, but I said, “What if your mother comes in halfway through our business?”
“So what? She had always wanted a grandchild; I bet she’d be thrilled!”
That’s enough. Any more of this I’ll go mad.
I told him he had to make a choice between us, or else I’d gladly divorce him.
After much struggle, when I showed him the divorce papers, he finally relented.
On the day we moved, his mother went into fits, banging on the neighbour’s door complaining about me, spitting every dirty word I’ve either heard or never heard of. I turned a deaf ear, ignoring her and quietly continued moving, telling him to handle his hysterical mother.
Half a year later, probably due to depression, his mother passed away. I heard that when she died, her weight had gone down to half.
I can’t say I did not feel sorry for her, but my guilt was immediately replaced with anxiety.
For every night, she started appearing in our new home.
Sometimes late at night, I would be suddenly awakened by his mother’s presence beside the bed, leaning over to examine her son, her face looking satisfied. Sometimes she would stroke his hair or kiss his forehead and even hum him a lullaby. The only difference was that the door was locked and her appearance was as blur as mist.
I dare not say a word. I could only fiegned ignorance and force myself to sleep.
I even began to suspect that she had planned her death all along in order to see her son, regardless the obstacles.
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