**Diary Entry: A Lesson in Independence**
*”Still asleep? Time to make breakfast for James!”*—my boyfriend’s mother rang through the phone. I packed my bags and left, certain you can’t change a grown man.
We met at a mutual friend’s birthday in a cosy café in Manchester. James caught my eye straight away. We chatted nonstop all evening, and I couldn’t get enough of his quick wit and charm. He seemed so clever, so sharp—I’ve always had a soft spot 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 five minutes. Finally, he rang, and we arranged to meet at a bistro.
When I arrived, he was already there—smartly dressed, holding a lavish bouquet of red roses. We shared a romantic dinner, then strolled through the park, breathing in the crisp evening air. I was over the moon, and—I think—so was he. It felt like love at first sight—or so I believed.
From then on, we were inseparable. James showered me with flowers and gifts, and I couldn’t get enough of our conversations. After two blissful months, we decided to move in together. Since I was sharing a cramped flat with my mum on the outskirts of town, and James had his own studio in the city centre, he suggested I move in with him. Full of hope, I packed my bags that Saturday and started what I thought would be our next chapter.
His flat turned out to be a shoebox—barely enough room for one, let alone two. I quickly realised finding a quiet moment to myself, something I cherished, would be a struggle. I love people, but I need time to unwind. Now, everything would be halved: space, time, even the air. Still, I told myself love was worth the sacrifice. That Sunday, I planned to sleep in before the workweek began, savouring this new beginning.
But Sunday morning was a nightmare.
At dawn, James’s phone erupted with a call, ripping me from sleep. He passed it to me—*”It’s Mum.”* Half-asleep, I fumbled with the phone. *”Hello? Still in bed? Up you get—James needs breakfast!”* His mother’s sharp tone jolted me awake. I mumbled something indistinct, ended the call, and stared at James.
He lay there, grinning as if nothing were wrong. My blood boiled. Without a word, I jotted down a grocery list for him, then began stuffing my things back into bags. Suitcase, duffel, another tote—everything I’d brought, I took. I called a cab, stepped out, and slammed the door. Back at Mum’s, I wrapped myself in a blanket, refusing to let this absurdity ruin my day.
James rang nonstop, but I ignored him. Texts piled up—pleas to talk—but I didn’t budge. After a few days, he gave up. My girlfriends, hearing what happened, tried convincing me otherwise. *”He’s clever, ambitious, owns his flat!”* they insisted. But I stood my ground.
A grown man can’t be remade. If he still takes orders from his mum like a schoolboy, what next? If our future began with her dictating when I cooked his breakfast, where would it end? Would she decide how we raised kids? Spent money? Lived?
I imagined my mornings starting with her calls. *”Did you iron James’s shirts? Made his favourite roast?”* The thought made me shudder. I wanted a partner, not a man who waited for Mummy’s approval.
Looking back, maybe I acted too fast. Maybe I should’ve talked to him, given him a chance. But every time I remember that call—the entitlement in her voice—I know I did right. I won’t live by someone else’s rules.
My friends still say I let a *”good one”* slip away. But a good man wouldn’t let his mother meddle from day one. I wanted equality, partnership—love without outsiders’ voices. Instead, I felt like hired help.
Now, back in my old room at Mum’s, sipping tea, I wonder where to go from here. My heart still aches when I think of James’s smile, his jokes, our walks. But I can’t go back. I won’t shrink into someone else’s shadow.
A man should stand on his own. If he’s still taking orders, our future was doomed. Better to walk away now than suffer for years. Still, a quiet doubt lingers: *What if I was wrong?*
