My Husband's Wife Is His Mother (EPISODE 1)
If someone had told me that I wouldn’t get to spend my wedding night alone with my husband, I would have laughed in disbelief. But that night—my wedding night—was the first time I realized something was very wrong. And it all started with the sound of her slippers.
Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop.
I was in the bathroom, changing into my silk nightgown. I had planned this night down to the details. Candles. Perfume. The perfect playlist. After all the stress of wedding planning, I just wanted to hold the man I loved and breathe in the beginning of forever.
But the knock came.
It was soft at first. Then firmer. Then the voice.
“Oya open the door jare, make I lie down small. My waist is paining me.”
My husband laughed. Laughed.
“Shey I told you my mama doesn’t like hard beds,” he said, already heading for the door.
I peeked out from behind the bathroom door, confused. “What do you mean lie down?”
“She’ll just rest a bit. Don’t worry,” he said, brushing it off like it was normal. “She does this when she travels. The bed in the guest room is too small.”
“But... this is our wedding night,” I whispered, heart sinking.
He looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “Babe, it’s just for a bit. You know she’s old.”
Old? His mother was barely 60. Active. Loud. Controlling. She ran a shop, led the women’s group in church, and made sure to remind everyone that she raised her son "without a single coin from any useless man."
Still in disbelief, I watched as he opened the door and let her in.
She entered like she owned the room. Like she built it with her hands. She didn’t even look at me. Just removed her wrapper, fluffed a pillow, and slid into the middle of our bed.
My side.
“Put off that candle abeg,” she said, fanning herself. “You want to burn this house?”
I stood there frozen. My chest tightened. I looked at my husband, silently begging for support.
He sat beside her and smiled. “She’s just tired. Tomorrow, everything will be normal.”
But it wasn’t.
I barely slept that night. The three of us lay in that bed like sardines in a can. Every time I shifted, her leg brushed mine. At one point, she even snored. Loudly. I turned to face the wall, hot tears forming in my eyes.
This wasn’t what I signed up for.
---
The next morning, she woke before us and clapped her hands loudly.
“Wake up, wake up! This is not honeymoon o, this is my son’s house. I want to boil water.”
I sat up, dazed. My husband stretched lazily and gave her the same smile he gave me during our vows.
“Mama, you want me to carry the pot?”
“Ehen, now you’re talking.”
And just like that, they left me in the room. Alone. In my own marriage.
---
Later that day, I tried to talk to him.
“Why did she sleep in our room?” I asked gently, not wanting to seem disrespectful.
He sighed. “Babe, you know how close I am to my mom. It’s just for a while. She said she wants to be around until you're strong enough to manage things.”
“I’m not sick,” I replied, trying to control my voice. “And we just got married. Shouldn’t we be alone?”
He shrugged. “Just give her time. She’s adjusting too.”
Adjusting? She was adjusting?
What about me?
---
That evening, it happened again. She brought her wrapper, pillow, and blanket. No questions asked. She even had the audacity to say, “Ah, I like this mattress. Very firm. Good for my back.”
I stood by the bed, still in my wrapper, and didn’t know what to do.
“Mama,” I tried to speak, “maybe you can try the guest room again? We just—”
She turned her head sharply. “You want to chase me away from my son’s room? Is it now a sin for a mother to sleep beside her child?”
My husband kept quiet.
Dead silence.
I looked at him, pleading with my eyes.
He avoided my gaze and said, “Let’s not make this a big issue tonight. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
But tomorrow never came.
---
I started noticing little things. How she always sat between us when we watched TV. How she would call him to come lie down beside her during the day and rub her back. How she took over my kitchen and rearranged everything without asking. How she spoke to me like I was the house girl.
I wanted to be respectful. I was raised to honor elders. But this? This was not honor. This was intrusion. This was something else entirely.
A twisted triangle. A marriage with three corners.
And somehow, I was the outsider.
---
That night, I called my elder sister.
“Sis, she sleeps between us. Every night. She won’t leave.”
She paused. “What does your husband say?”
“Nothing. He acts like it’s normal. Like I’m overreacting.”
She hissed. “That’s witchcraft. Or madness. Or both.”
I laughed bitterly. “It’s not funny.”
“No, I know. But you need to take control before it gets worse.”
“How?” I whispered. “How do I fight a mother-in-law on her son’s bed?”
There was silence. And then her voice was firm. “You’re the wife. Start acting like it. Don’t let her settle.”
But it was already too late.
She had settled.
She had brought her pillow. Her slippers. Her authority.
And on the first night of my marriage, I learned that love is not always a fairytale.
Sometimes, it’s a bed with three people—and one of them isn’t going anywhere.
End of Episode 1
To Be Continue in Episode 2
Mummy Moreni
If someone had told me that I wouldn’t get to spend my wedding night alone with my husband, I would have laughed in disbelief. But that night—my wedding night—was the first time I realized something was very wrong. And it all started with the sound of her slippers.
Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop.
I was in the bathroom, changing into my silk nightgown. I had planned this night down to the details. Candles. Perfume. The perfect playlist. After all the stress of wedding planning, I just wanted to hold the man I loved and breathe in the beginning of forever.
But the knock came.
It was soft at first. Then firmer. Then the voice.
“Oya open the door jare, make I lie down small. My waist is paining me.”
My husband laughed. Laughed.
“Shey I told you my mama doesn’t like hard beds,” he said, already heading for the door.
I peeked out from behind the bathroom door, confused. “What do you mean lie down?”
“She’ll just rest a bit. Don’t worry,” he said, brushing it off like it was normal. “She does this when she travels. The bed in the guest room is too small.”
“But... this is our wedding night,” I whispered, heart sinking.
He looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “Babe, it’s just for a bit. You know she’s old.”
Old? His mother was barely 60. Active. Loud. Controlling. She ran a shop, led the women’s group in church, and made sure to remind everyone that she raised her son "without a single coin from any useless man."
Still in disbelief, I watched as he opened the door and let her in.
She entered like she owned the room. Like she built it with her hands. She didn’t even look at me. Just removed her wrapper, fluffed a pillow, and slid into the middle of our bed.
My side.
“Put off that candle abeg,” she said, fanning herself. “You want to burn this house?”
I stood there frozen. My chest tightened. I looked at my husband, silently begging for support.
He sat beside her and smiled. “She’s just tired. Tomorrow, everything will be normal.”
But it wasn’t.
I barely slept that night. The three of us lay in that bed like sardines in a can. Every time I shifted, her leg brushed mine. At one point, she even snored. Loudly. I turned to face the wall, hot tears forming in my eyes.
This wasn’t what I signed up for.
---
The next morning, she woke before us and clapped her hands loudly.
“Wake up, wake up! This is not honeymoon o, this is my son’s house. I want to boil water.”
I sat up, dazed. My husband stretched lazily and gave her the same smile he gave me during our vows.
“Mama, you want me to carry the pot?”
“Ehen, now you’re talking.”
And just like that, they left me in the room. Alone. In my own marriage.
---
Later that day, I tried to talk to him.
“Why did she sleep in our room?” I asked gently, not wanting to seem disrespectful.
He sighed. “Babe, you know how close I am to my mom. It’s just for a while. She said she wants to be around until you're strong enough to manage things.”
“I’m not sick,” I replied, trying to control my voice. “And we just got married. Shouldn’t we be alone?”
He shrugged. “Just give her time. She’s adjusting too.”
Adjusting? She was adjusting?
What about me?
---
That evening, it happened again. She brought her wrapper, pillow, and blanket. No questions asked. She even had the audacity to say, “Ah, I like this mattress. Very firm. Good for my back.”
I stood by the bed, still in my wrapper, and didn’t know what to do.
“Mama,” I tried to speak, “maybe you can try the guest room again? We just—”
She turned her head sharply. “You want to chase me away from my son’s room? Is it now a sin for a mother to sleep beside her child?”
My husband kept quiet.
Dead silence.
I looked at him, pleading with my eyes.
He avoided my gaze and said, “Let’s not make this a big issue tonight. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
But tomorrow never came.
---
I started noticing little things. How she always sat between us when we watched TV. How she would call him to come lie down beside her during the day and rub her back. How she took over my kitchen and rearranged everything without asking. How she spoke to me like I was the house girl.
I wanted to be respectful. I was raised to honor elders. But this? This was not honor. This was intrusion. This was something else entirely.
A twisted triangle. A marriage with three corners.
And somehow, I was the outsider.
---
That night, I called my elder sister.
“Sis, she sleeps between us. Every night. She won’t leave.”
She paused. “What does your husband say?”
“Nothing. He acts like it’s normal. Like I’m overreacting.”
She hissed. “That’s witchcraft. Or madness. Or both.”
I laughed bitterly. “It’s not funny.”
“No, I know. But you need to take control before it gets worse.”
“How?” I whispered. “How do I fight a mother-in-law on her son’s bed?”
There was silence. And then her voice was firm. “You’re the wife. Start acting like it. Don’t let her settle.”
But it was already too late.
She had settled.
She had brought her pillow. Her slippers. Her authority.
And on the first night of my marriage, I learned that love is not always a fairytale.
Sometimes, it’s a bed with three people—and one of them isn’t going anywhere.
End of Episode 1
To Be Continue in Episode 2
Mummy Moreni
My Husband's Wife Is His Mother (EPISODE 1)
If someone had told me that I wouldn’t get to spend my wedding night alone with my husband, I would have laughed in disbelief. But that night—my wedding night—was the first time I realized something was very wrong. And it all started with the sound of her slippers.
Flip. Flop. Flip. Flop.
I was in the bathroom, changing into my silk nightgown. I had planned this night down to the details. Candles. Perfume. The perfect playlist. After all the stress of wedding planning, I just wanted to hold the man I loved and breathe in the beginning of forever.
But the knock came.
It was soft at first. Then firmer. Then the voice.
“Oya open the door jare, make I lie down small. My waist is paining me.”
My husband laughed. Laughed.
“Shey I told you my mama doesn’t like hard beds,” he said, already heading for the door.
I peeked out from behind the bathroom door, confused. “What do you mean lie down?”
“She’ll just rest a bit. Don’t worry,” he said, brushing it off like it was normal. “She does this when she travels. The bed in the guest room is too small.”
“But... this is our wedding night,” I whispered, heart sinking.
He looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “Babe, it’s just for a bit. You know she’s old.”
Old? His mother was barely 60. Active. Loud. Controlling. She ran a shop, led the women’s group in church, and made sure to remind everyone that she raised her son "without a single coin from any useless man."
Still in disbelief, I watched as he opened the door and let her in.
She entered like she owned the room. Like she built it with her hands. She didn’t even look at me. Just removed her wrapper, fluffed a pillow, and slid into the middle of our bed.
My side.
“Put off that candle abeg,” she said, fanning herself. “You want to burn this house?”
I stood there frozen. My chest tightened. I looked at my husband, silently begging for support.
He sat beside her and smiled. “She’s just tired. Tomorrow, everything will be normal.”
But it wasn’t.
I barely slept that night. The three of us lay in that bed like sardines in a can. Every time I shifted, her leg brushed mine. At one point, she even snored. Loudly. I turned to face the wall, hot tears forming in my eyes.
This wasn’t what I signed up for.
---
The next morning, she woke before us and clapped her hands loudly.
“Wake up, wake up! This is not honeymoon o, this is my son’s house. I want to boil water.”
I sat up, dazed. My husband stretched lazily and gave her the same smile he gave me during our vows.
“Mama, you want me to carry the pot?”
“Ehen, now you’re talking.”
And just like that, they left me in the room. Alone. In my own marriage.
---
Later that day, I tried to talk to him.
“Why did she sleep in our room?” I asked gently, not wanting to seem disrespectful.
He sighed. “Babe, you know how close I am to my mom. It’s just for a while. She said she wants to be around until you're strong enough to manage things.”
“I’m not sick,” I replied, trying to control my voice. “And we just got married. Shouldn’t we be alone?”
He shrugged. “Just give her time. She’s adjusting too.”
Adjusting? She was adjusting?
What about me?
---
That evening, it happened again. She brought her wrapper, pillow, and blanket. No questions asked. She even had the audacity to say, “Ah, I like this mattress. Very firm. Good for my back.”
I stood by the bed, still in my wrapper, and didn’t know what to do.
“Mama,” I tried to speak, “maybe you can try the guest room again? We just—”
She turned her head sharply. “You want to chase me away from my son’s room? Is it now a sin for a mother to sleep beside her child?”
My husband kept quiet.
Dead silence.
I looked at him, pleading with my eyes.
He avoided my gaze and said, “Let’s not make this a big issue tonight. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
But tomorrow never came.
---
I started noticing little things. How she always sat between us when we watched TV. How she would call him to come lie down beside her during the day and rub her back. How she took over my kitchen and rearranged everything without asking. How she spoke to me like I was the house girl.
I wanted to be respectful. I was raised to honor elders. But this? This was not honor. This was intrusion. This was something else entirely.
A twisted triangle. A marriage with three corners.
And somehow, I was the outsider.
---
That night, I called my elder sister.
“Sis, she sleeps between us. Every night. She won’t leave.”
She paused. “What does your husband say?”
“Nothing. He acts like it’s normal. Like I’m overreacting.”
She hissed. “That’s witchcraft. Or madness. Or both.”
I laughed bitterly. “It’s not funny.”
“No, I know. But you need to take control before it gets worse.”
“How?” I whispered. “How do I fight a mother-in-law on her son’s bed?”
There was silence. And then her voice was firm. “You’re the wife. Start acting like it. Don’t let her settle.”
But it was already too late.
She had settled.
She had brought her pillow. Her slippers. Her authority.
And on the first night of my marriage, I learned that love is not always a fairytale.
Sometimes, it’s a bed with three people—and one of them isn’t going anywhere.
End of Episode 1
To Be Continue in Episode 2
©️ Mummy Moreni
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