“Go ahead,” said my friend to his wife. “You decide.” She did.

His expression suggested she had just declared war on a neighbouring country. “Why ask me if you’ve already decided?” she demanded.

“I wanted your opinion!” he protested.

Apparently, her opinion was welcome, provided it arrived wearing his clothes and carrying his briefcase.

Ah, control freaks! Those wonderful people who give you complete freedom to do exactly what they want.

They supervise the cook’s onions, the driver’s route, the daughter’s career and the gardener’s relationship with a hibiscus. “Why hasn’t it flowered?”

“It needs time, sir.”

“Tell it I’m waiting.” Even nature must submit a progress report before taking the afternoon off.

But beneath all that bossing and correcting often hides a frightened question: What if they discover they can manage without me? Imagine spending twenty years as the family’s chief decision maker, then discovering your wife can buy a refrigerator without your lecture on compressors. Worse, she gets a better discount. The refrigerator is cooling beautifully, but somebody’s importance is overheating.

I know parents who complain their children cannot do anything independently, then interrupt every independent attempt. “Let me book the tickets, Dad.” “Give me the phone.” “I can cook, Mum.” “Move aside.” Later, they sigh, “What will these children do without us?”

Probably finish something, I suspect, and perhaps even enjoy doing it.

That possibility frightens the controller. We become so attached to being indispensable that we quietly prevent others from becoming capable. We call it concern, experience or love. But love ought to feel pleased when someone grows.

If your daughter handles a crisis without calling you, perhaps you raised her well. You could celebrate instead of investigating why headquarters was bypassed.

The same insecurity wears a tie at work. Some bosses return from holiday visibly disappointed that the office is still standing. “Nobody called me?” “Everything went smoothly, sir.” “Nothing needed my attention?” “Nothing.” What a dreadful holiday! All that money spent travelling, only to discover that twelve adults could survive five working days without asking where to put a stapler.

There is a difference between enjoying helping people and needing them to remain helpless. The second eventually exhausts everybody. They stop sharing plans because every conversation becomes an inspection.

Feeling excluded, the controller grips harder, never recognising that people are avoiding the supervision, not rejecting the person. Affection struggles when every visit comes with corrections.

Perhaps we should occasionally let someone choose the restaurant, make the booking or move the vase. They might manage splendidly.

Then, wonderfully, they might still pull up a chair beside us, with nothing broken and no problem requiring our expertise. They simply want our company. What a relief that could be, if we allowed it. For beneath the control often lies the fear that being needed is our only claim to being loved.

We keep issuing instructions because silence might expose our uselessness. Yet surely the sweetest words are, “We managed perfectly well. We came because we missed you..!.”

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