The Right to Be Tired
Andrew came home late. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes in the hallway, hung up his coat, and silently headed to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he sat at the kitchen table, where a plate of chicken stew with green peas—his wife Charlotte’s signature dish—was waiting for him. Beside it stood a seafood salad. He picked up his fork, poked at the salad for a moment, then suddenly turned to her.
“Tell me the truth… Where did you get this?” he asked quietly but firmly.
Charlotte froze, the teapot hovering just above her cup. Something uneasy flickered in her eyes.
They’d been married for over thirty years. If asked to rate their marriage on a scale of one to a hundred, Charlotte would’ve given it a solid fifty. Because they’d had it all—love and frustration, joy and exhaustion, bright moments and gruelling routines. A normal life. And Andrew—though stubborn, though difficult—was a good man. Loyal, dependable, hardworking.
The turning point came last spring when Charlotte fell ill. The doctor called it simple exhaustion, built up over years. Andrew took her home in a taxi—their own car had long been neglected, every spare penny going toward their daughter Emily’s wedding loan.
Emily had just gotten married, and she wanted a wedding “straight out of a film.” Even though the dress was odd and the cake “tasted like chewing gum,” in Andrew’s words, her parents endured it. They just wanted her to be happy.
After the wedding, the newlyweds moved into a flat left to Emily’s husband by his grandfather, while Andrew and Charlotte kept repaying the loan, scraping by with their battered car, worn-out appliances, and endless fatigue.
Charlotte taught English and took private lessons. Andrew worked as a machinist at the factory. He refused canteen food, burgers, takeaways—only home-cooked meals! Hot, fresh, varied.
Charlotte never argued, though by evening she could barely stand. One day, she snapped:
“How am I supposed to make you a full dinner with starters, mains, and dessert? I’m not a machine.”
But Andrew would lecture her with stories about his great-grandmother, who worked the fields, fed a family of eight, and still found time for village plays.
Charlotte was just tired. One day, stopping by a new deli near their house for fresh bread, she spotted a display of salads. Suddenly, she heard herself say:
“I’ll take the ‘Ocean Treasures,’ the large one…”
That evening, dinner was cottage pie, a apple crumble… and the salad.
“Blimey, something new! Tastes homemade,” Andrew praised.
Charlotte said nothing. And so began her secret: when she couldn’t manage, she bought ready-made. A little pricier—but at least she could breathe.
It might’ve stayed that way, if not for chance. At work, Andrew shared lunch with a young apprentice, who was eating meatballs and a salad suspiciously like his own.
“Where’d you get those?”
“From the deli round the corner. Better than my mum’s!” the lad chuckled.
Andrew grew suspicious. Too many coincidences. And that’s when doubt took root…
That evening, he ate in silence before asking the question. Charlotte looked down.
“I… I was just tired. I thought you wouldn’t mind, as long as it tasted good…”
Andrew stood. He walked over. Held her.
“I do mind. But you’re human, Lottie. You’re allowed to be tired.”
She sniffed. He smiled.
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
And that night, instead of the usual spread, they ordered takeaway pizza, put on an old film, and for the first time in ages, they didn’t just feel like husband and wife—but like two people who still mattered to each other. And that, as it turned out, changed everything.
