She called him sache, thing.
He called her Patroa, female boss.
Out in the world, sache presented the same as any other man did around him. He had a job, a car, nice clothes, pocket money… and a swanky address. He belonged to all the right clubs. They were good for business contacts. He played racket ball and golf. Those were the games successful people, esp men, played.
He walked with confidence and a macho swagger.
You would never know, unless you were his secretary or ISP that he called or texted his mother every time he had to make a decision.
You wouldn’t know that she shopped for his clothes, his food, every need he had in his life.
It wasn’t because he lacked intelligence or drive. It was because he had always had it that way. Or else.
Patroa collected his pay packet, paid his bills, and gave him a small allowance. I’m talking about a bubble gum or two a week. Yet he had a six figure income. He had a credit card to pay for any wandering needs, like taxis or town cars, when he had to entertain for work and drink. . Or to pick up lunch if he had a business lunch. But he had to call her to use it. If there was ever a bill on the account that she didn’t know about, he lost privileges the following week.
She also paid for an escort agency to send a hostess or date if he needed a woman for business dealings. Someone to play his girlfriend when he needed to entertain. He looked them over and sighed. They didn’t much interest him. They were his mother’s idea of what a woman should be, not his. They were svelt and wore a tea dress or a power suit well. He liked curves on a woman. They had shoulder length hair that they could easily put into a chignon. He hated chignons. They wore pearl chokers. He hated pearl chokers on a woman. And they made up their faces in the latest fashion. He didn’t like make up on a woman.
He was given no money to date women he liked.
Every week, he went to his mother’s house. They had a meeting in which he was called to the carpet for the length of his hair, fingernails, whether he was shaved properly. In otherwords, he was inspected. If he passed muster, he got dessert. If he did not, he barely got soup and toast. He learned to eat before he got there, because he hardly ever passed muster.
If he ever disagreed or second-guessed her decision, his brother suddenly showed up and took over his day’s bookings and told him to go home to Patroa. She was waiting.
He was barely in the door when she was already hitting him. She was smart enough to hit him where his clothes covered. It was the same treatment he got every time he got a bad grade in school, which to her was anything lower than an A-.
Patroa controlled sache’s life. She always had.
He had no way of breaking free of her. Or so he thought. And that is all that counts. It was the life he knew. He was sache after all.
Where was dad in all this? Long gone. He had knocked up a one night stand, or at least that was his POV. And all his life, sache paid for that. His mother wanted him brought up “right”. So she made all his decisions for him. And he mostly complied. What was the option? He didn’t know anything else.
She called him sache, thing.