Thirty and Still Under His Mother’s Wing: A Threat to Our Family.

My husband is just a few months away from turning thirty… and he’s still living under his mother’s wing. And it’s tearing our family apart.

When I married Javier, we didn’t have our own place or the money to rent one. His parents, who are well-off, live in a spacious penthouse in Valencia and offered to let us stay with them for a while. At the time, it seemed like a reasonable idea — his mother had always been kind, and my relationship with his father was cordial.

Then our daughter, Lucía, was born. And everything started to fall apart. Slowly. Quietly. Like a slow-acting poison. Now I see it clearly: living with your husband’s parents isn’t support — it’s a trap. Especially when your husband is a thirty-year-old “mama’s boy” who can’t find his own socks unless his mother points them out.

Javier is a surgeon. He works night shifts, long hours. I respect that. But what suffocates me is his complete indifference toward Lucía. He doesn’t spend time with her. Not even on Sundays. He prefers to lock himself in his study, scroll through his phone, or make up errands rather than rock her, play with her, or give her a bottle.

When I ask him to do something basic — buy milk, watch the baby while I shower — he turns to his mother and says: — Mom, could you handle that, please?

And she rushes in like it’s her sacred duty: — Of course, darling. You rest. You must be exhausted after the hospital…

He’s exhausted. And I’m not? Even though I’m the one waking up every night when Lucía cries, feeding her, walking her, cleaning, cooking, doing laundry. And he doesn’t even hear her. Because he sleeps in another room. Because “the noise stresses him out.” And when he grumbles without opening his eyes: — Make her shut up already! — I bite my lip to keep from screaming.

So I stay silent. For my daughter. Because I no longer have the strength to argue.

The worst part isn’t his passiveness — it’s how my mother-in-law justifies everything. To her, Javier is a saint: a devoted father, a hardworking husband. “He works so much! You need to understand him!” And me? Not a word. As if I were just the nanny.

I tried to reason with her: — María Dolores, if you didn’t come running every time he snapped his fingers, maybe he’d learn to take some responsibility.

— What a thing to say — she replied, offended. — He’s a golden boy! You just don’t appreciate him.

I looked at her and no longer recognized the woman I once admired. Now I saw a mother who refuses to let go, keeping her son from growing up.

And he doesn’t change. Why would he? His mom handles everything. His wife puts up with it.

I’m sure of one thing: if we had lived on our own from the beginning, things would be different. Even in a tiny studio apartment. Without help, but with honesty. We’d share responsibilities, we’d grow together. He’d know that being a family is more than just bringing home a paycheck. But now… he doesn’t even understand why I’m upset.

I feel invisible in this house. Like an intruder. A caretaker. They are the real family: mother and son. And Lucía? Just their doll.

I don’t want this. I can’t take it anymore. I’m tired of watching him avoid his daughter. Of being replaced by my mother-in-law. Of fading away without anyone noticing.

The only solution is to leave. Rent an apartment, even if it’s tiny. Even if it’s hard. It will be our chance to be a real team — not “mama’s boy” and his shadow.

All that’s left is to take the step. To say, “We’re moving.” And see how he reacts. If he chooses his mother, it will confirm that he was never ready to be a father or a husband.

As for me… I’m ready to fight. For myself. For Lucía. For a real life, without lies or “help” that suffocates. And I will do it. Very soon.