I Can’t Be With You Because You Live With Your Mother

I should have seen all the signs, but perhaps the universe was trying to force me to learn a lesson within myself.

It started out several years back, when we had our very first date. We met on an online dating site, and you proposed that we hang out at your place in West LA.

I reluctantly agreed.

I drove over 50 miles to see you that day, and as soon as I came over, your first response was, “My mom’s not home right now. Do you want to come in?”

At first, I was a bit alarmed. But even I was living with my parents at the time while sleeping at my grandparents throughout that year in college, so I couldn’t judge you whatsoever. I thought, “Well, maybe we’re going through the same transition right now.”

We’ll just say that the first date didn’t work out. I had a friend call my phone halfway through the date as a “buffer” in case I wanted to have a reason to go home early. It was a bad move on my end, but at 20 years old, I didn’t have the guts to just say I wasn’t having any fun.

At that time, I don’t think you had anything to do with it. I just stopped dating someone I really liked, I was going through a lot of depression, and I was struggling with figuring out what I personally needed. 2012 just wasn’t the time for me to be with you.

Fast forward two years later.

You had just gotten out of a relationship with a girl you went to college with. I had just moved into a bigger apartment and was working full-time in Orange County. You invited me over to your house once again for a holiday party with your mother. This time, I had fun. I enjoyed talking to her, and I met your amazing friends. We joked for a bit, and then you asked if we wanted to go to your room and watch Monty Python.

Then another flag went through my mind as we walked into the Master Bedroom.

“Is this your mom’s room?” I asked.

“No, it’s mine.”

Looking back, maybe that should have been a sign to head home. But, alas, I stayed longer that night. I stayed after your friends left. I stayed after everyone else in the party left. I almost stayed the night. Your mother even encouraged me to stay, which I found extremely nerve-wrecking — I grew up in a strict Latino home where friends of the opposite sex were not allowed to stay in the house, let alone in the same room with me (no matter how old I am).

Fast forward three years.

Same holiday party. Same night. Only I wasn’t there. I wasn’t allowed to go. We had been dating for 3 years, and I was finally at wits end. I called you and broke up over the phone.

You were 30 years old, living in the Master Bedroom of your mother’s home. You paid her $150 for the biggest room in a $2 million Brentwood home, while I was struggling to pay $1600 for a small 2-bedroom apartment in Fullerton. Several times, I asked you to move in with me, and you wouldn’t. You kept telling me that you were afraid of change, that you were comfortable where you were. I gave up my job and became a freelancer in hopes of having more free time to be with you, but you wouldn’t even ask your boss about the possibility of working from home (even though many times you already were).

There were several red flags, but you can often be colorblind when you’re in love.

I should have seen them. When you’d have your mother serve you food in bed, when you walked around your home in your underwear (no matter who was there), when she’d remind you every day to take a shower or brush your teeth, or even when you commented on how “the maid will pick that up”.

When you stayed at my place, you were always hungry. I’d easily spend $100 to feed you for an entire weekend, with little to no food left for me. You’d drink beer for breakfast. You never wanted to go for a walk or workout with me. You constantly sat on the couch and watched YouTube (unless you wanted to have sex). When I asked you to put clothes on (because we had guests coming over), you would act as though I just asked you to run a half marathon.

We are extremely blind (and deaf) when we’re in love.

The first major shift in our relationship was on your 30th birthday. By this time, your mother would not allow me into your house because you told her that I was polyamorous (which was something we had planned to tell her together), and she refused to support it. Your friends came over and celebrated your birthday with you and your mother. I was in my bed in Orange County, crying and contemplating hurting myself.

Things started to get a little better until our 3-year anniversary a couple of months later. We went out to Clifton’s for dinner with your friends from work, and then I heard it:

“A, that pool party in October that you threw for all of us! What was that for again?”

“My 30th birthday.”

Several emotions passed through me because (1) You told me that you only had two friends come over for your birthday and (2) It was definitely not a pool party.

You had decided not to tell me that you threw a pool party at your house for your 30th and invited all of your friends, including a girl you used to go out with. When I confronted you about it, you said, “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d flip out.”

You would think that I would have ended it after that, but alas, I stayed with you for another 2 weeks until finally breaking up at the next party that you wouldn’t invite me to. Although a huge part of me would have loved to blame your mother for everything that happened, I know that it wasn’t just her that helped end our relationship.

I admit, I’m not an angel, and I wasn’t the perfect girlfriend. I had asked you to be in a polyamorous relationship, something that involved a major commitment that most people wouldn’t do. When expectations weren’t met, I yelled or threw fits myself, or I’d say things to you that I couldn’t take back. Even now, I still can’t look at you without recounting every single fuck up you made. But I wouldn’t have done what you did.

The sad part? Even after you and I were broken up, I tried to get back together. I wanted to try to make things right. And you told me that I was too convenient for you.

For three months, I tried not to hurt myself. I felt like three years of my life were ultimately wasted. I could have done something more. I could have spent my weekends reading or seeing other people instead of driving over an hour to sit around and watch YouTube with you. I can’t take any of that time back.

I just wanted you to grow up and be more independent.

I wanted to know that you’d drop everything for us if we were to commit to spending the rest of our lives together. I wanted you to take the silver spoon out of your mouth. I wanted you to learn the difference between being given something and having to work hard and earn something. I wanted to know that I could trust you and depend on you. I wanted to prove to myself that I didn’t waste my time. I wanted to prove to myself that I made the right choice by being with you.

When your mother passes away (God hope it’s not any time soon — I’m still a decent human being), I hope that you get the house debt-free. I hope that you find someone who loved you as much as I did, and who meets your expectations. I hope that you spend the rest of your life doing what you love. But at this time, I hope I did make the right choice.