I had always recognized that my husband, Jake, was a man whose world revolved around his mother, Lorraine. Whenever her name flashed on his phone screen, his posture would stiffen instinctively, as if she could sense his lack of composure through the cellular signal. For years, the fragile peace of our marriage was maintained by a comfortable two-hour cushion of geography. Lorraine remained in her town, we remained in ours, and the distance acted as a much-needed buffer against her unrelenting scrutiny. However, geography is a fickle ally, and the day eventually came when the miles between us evaporated.Relationship counseling services
Lorraine’s visits were rare and mercifully brief, but they were always surgical. She would cross the threshold of our home not with a greeting, but with a scan. Her eyes were like high-resolution sensors calibrated to detect the slightest imperfection. She would comment on the “drafty” nature of the house while clutching her cardigan, or tap a loose cabinet hinge with a judgmental, manicured fingernail. Her barbs were wrapped in a thin veil of civility, such as when she’d look at my outfit and remark on how “giving” it was of me to support local thrift stores. Once, I watched her run a finger along a windowsill and examine the resulting dust like a prosecutor presenting a smoking gun to a jury. Jake would merely laugh nervously, his “Mom, come on” serving as a pathetic white flag in the face of her domestic warfare.
The real crisis began with a phone call that filled our kitchen with the cold weight of an unwanted guest. Lorraine announced she would be in town for an entire week for business meetings and intended to stay with us. My stomach dropped at the prospect of seven days of passive-aggressive commentary, but the true insult was yet to come. With a voice lowered to a conspiratorial hiss, she told Jake that she didn’t feel “comfortable” around me. Her solution was as absurd as it was cruel: I was to stay in the garage. She reminded him, with a sharpness that left no room for debate, that she had gifted us the house and refused to share it with his “slovenly” wife.
I waited for Jake to defend me. I waited for the man I married to stand up for the sanctity of our partnership. Instead, he retreated into the other room to whisper with her. An hour later, he approached me with shifting eyes and a voice hollow with cowardice. He asked me to consider his mother’s “stubbornness” and suggested that a week in the garage could be quite nice if we moved the cars and lit a few scented candles. I stared at him, realizing he expected me to shiver on a concrete floor and sneak through my own hallways to use the restroom just so his mother wouldn’t have to catch my eye.
