My husband, Simon, keeps criticising me for not preparing elaborate meals like his friend Oliver’s wife does. Emily—she’s a wonderful woman and a proper culinary genius. I won’t argue, her cooking is incredible, but it takes her ages. The kitchen is her passion, a place where she creates from morning till night. And me? I’m juggling work, our child, and the house, and his jabs cut deep.
Emily is on maternity leave at the moment, living the dream of any mother. Her parents, though divorced, adore their grandson and happily take him early in the morning. The grandparents practically queue up to push the pram, feed the little one, and drop him back home by evening. Emily wakes up, hands the baby over to her delighted family, goes back to bed, then tidies up at her leisure. She has all day to craft her culinary masterpieces—no distractions, no interruptions, complete freedom. She experiments, tries new recipes, and every evening there’s something extraordinary on their table. Her family gives her that chance, and I’m genuinely happy for her.
But Simon doesn’t see it that way. He looks at Emily and sees perfection—something he thinks I should strive for. *She’s on maternity leave, with a baby, and still manages everything!* he snaps at me. *You just throw together the same quick meals.* His words hit like a slap. Where am I supposed to find five or six hours a day for cooking? I work full-time, and by evening, I’m rushing to pick up our daughter, Charlotte, from nursery. We don’t get home until after seven. I try to make something simple—roast potatoes, oven-baked chicken, pasta with tomato and cucumber salad. It’s food that keeps us fed, but to Simon, it’s just ammunition for his digs.
If I started making complicated dishes like Emily’s, dinner wouldn’t be ready until midnight, and we’d all go to bed hungry. But Simon doesn’t get it. All he says is, *Emily always surprises Oliver with something new—seems like you can’t be bothered.* His admiration for her cooking feels like an accusation of my own failure. I’m tired of justifying myself. If Emily’s maternity leave were like most—where you hardly get time for a shower—she’d be boiling frozen dumplings too, and Oliver would eat them without complaint.
I’m happy for Emily and Oliver. She’s brilliant, not just lounging on the sofa but creating in the kitchen, keeping her husband pleased. But it hurts that Simon constantly compares me to her. He acts blind to how different our lives are. I work full-time, then sprint to collect Charlotte by evening. Emily’s on leave, and thanks to her parents, she has entire days to herself. Of course she has more time! I’d love a maternity leave like hers, but our parents aren’t exactly queuing up to babysit. They adore Charlotte, but spending all day with her? Not likely.
Simon won’t drop it. *At least on weekends you could make an effort,* he grumbles. Am I not human? Don’t I deserve a break? Five days a week I’m working my socks off, and now I’m supposed to spend the entire weekend at the stove to satisfy his whims? Sometimes I wonder if he’s just looking for an excuse to leave. Does he really not see how unfair he’s being? Or is he trying to hurt me on purpose? I’m exhausted from proving I’m doing my best. I just want him to finally see *me*—not Emily, but his own wife, trying her hardest to keep this family afloat.
