I Caught My Mother Wearing My Husband’s Boxer – What Happened Next Will Shock You

If someone had told me that my marriage would one day be tested not by another woman outside, but by my own mother, I would have laughed in their face. But life has a way of turning your worst fears into reality.

It all began one rainy Friday evening. I had just returned from work, soaked and exhausted, when I heard that sharp, impatient knock on my door—the kind that echoed with authority. I didn’t need a prophet to tell me who it was.

“Mama…” I muttered under my breath.

I opened the door, and there she was—my mother, standing proudly with her wrapper tied firmly, her handbag tucked under her arm, and a scowl already forming on her face.

“Amaka, so you’re now too big to call your mother, eh? I had to leave my own house and come here unannounced,” she barked, brushing past me without waiting for an invitation.

“Mama, good evening,” I said, forcing a smile, though my stomach tightened. I already knew what her presence meant—trouble.

The living room was still warm from the food I had been preparing earlier, but Mama’s eyes weren’t on the food. They darted everywhere—at the curtains, the new TV stand, the flowers in the corner—scanning the house like an inspector searching for faults.

Then, without warning, she shouted, “Chike! Where is he? Hiding as usual? Eh? My daughter married you, but you can’t even greet your in-law properly?”

I froze. My husband, Chike, was inside the bedroom. He had been lying down, scrolling through football news when Mama arrived. He dreaded her visits as much as I did.

Seconds later, he emerged, polite but visibly uncomfortable. “Good evening, Mama. You didn’t tell us you were coming.”

Mama hissed loudly, waving her hand in dismissal. “Do I need to tell you before visiting my own daughter? Na wa o.”

I quickly served food to diffuse the tension. But instead of peace, the evening only grew worse. Mama complained about the rice—too much oil. She frowned at the chicken—too small. She even asked if this was how Chike was feeding me.

Chike kept quiet the whole time, his jaw clenched, his patience tested. I felt torn between both of them, sitting at the table like a referee in a match I didn’t want to watch.

By nightfall, Mama announced she would be sleeping over. I wanted to protest, but the words died in my throat. My husband glanced at me with eyes that said “again?” but I only lowered my gaze.

That night was tense. Chike and I barely spoke before bed. Mama occupied the couch in the living room, but I couldn’t shake the uneasiness in my chest.

The next morning, I left early to buy foodstuff. The rain had cleared, and I thought maybe things would calm down. I spent almost an hour outside before returning.

But when I entered the house, a strange silence greeted me. The living room was empty. I called out for Mama—no answer. I called for Chike—nothing. Then I heard faint humming coming from the bedroom.

I tiptoed closer. The door was slightly open, and what I saw nearly stopped my heart.

My mother. Yes, my own mother. Standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom… wearing Chike’s boxer shorts.

Her wrapper was tossed carelessly on the bed, and she was admiring herself, turning from side to side, adjusting the waistband as though she were trying on a new outfit. And she was humming—an old Igbo lullaby she used to sing when I was a child.

My heart pounded so loudly I thought she would hear it. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming. But then the bathroom door creaked open, and Chike stepped out, wearing only a towel.

He froze when he saw me at the door. Our eyes locked. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Mama, on the other hand, only laughed. A slow, mocking laugh that sent chills down my spine. “Ah, Amaka… you’re back,” she said casually, as if nothing strange was happening.

I felt the blood drain from my face. My whole body trembled. Questions stormed my mind—
Why was Mama wearing his boxer?
Why was Chike silent?
What exactly was going on behind my back?

In that moment, I realized this wasn’t just about my mother’s constant interference in my marriage. Something darker was unfolding in my own home.

And my nightmare had only just begun.

TO BE CONTINUED…