**Part-Time Husband**
“Marvellous. You made your wife a baby, then ran back to Mummy’s skirts? No, son, that won’t fly. I won’t hide you.”
“It’s not about hiding! I’m not leaving for good—just need a bloody breather, alright? She screams, she cries, apologises, then screams again. My nerves are so shot, even someone else’s breathing annoys me!”
“You’ll get your breather in the afterlife,” Tamara hissed, stepping forward. “You married her—deal with it. This isn’t summer camp; it’s a family. Did you think you’d spend your life clubbing and watching films?”
Matthew looked away, shrugging helplessly. He wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. His grip tightened on his bag, as if he still meant to push past her into the flat, protests be damned.
Tamara squared her shoulders.
“No. No sleepovers. No dinners. Leave now, or I’ll ring the police. I mean it. Oh, poor tired lamb…”
Matthew had always been like this. All wide-eyed guilt, but with sparks of resentment flickering beneath.
…Even as a boy, he’d been an expert dodger. While his brother toiled in the garden, Matthew would clutch his stomach, moaning about a fever. Tamara dragged him to doctors until she realised her youngest was just a brilliant little actor.
Once, when he “fell ill” before a maths test, she yanked him out of bed by his collar. He sniffled, whined, and threatened—
“If I die at school, it’ll be your fault! Miss Wilkinson will have your head, not mine!”
Tamara laughed, though even then, she knew it wasn’t funny. He’d spend hours building Lego castles, but washing a single plate was a cosmic tragedy. Homework only happened after shouting matches. Every crisis sent him scurrying to her, puppy-eyed and helpless.
She’d tried to break the habit, but the shirking never stopped.
Katie, his wife, had a temper. At first, she’d been sweet—dotting on him, bringing coffee to bed.
“Mum, she’s perfect. Exactly what I wanted,” Matthew had gushed.
Tamara wasn’t fooled. New love always puts on a show. And Katie was only twenty-one—more eagerness to please than sense.
One dinner revealed the truth. When Matthew asked for a fork instead of a spoon, Katie exhaled sharply. When he teased her for being fussy, she smiled—but her eyebrow twitched. Then Tamara’s niece criticised the salad, and Katie bolted from the table.
“Forgot to call my mum!” she lied, vanishing into the kitchen. The phone never rang.
“You sure she’s the one?” Tamara whispered later.
“Mum, she’s fine. A bit emotional, but that’s not a crime.”
Not a crime… Tamara saw the upside. Katie had spine. She’d push Matthew to grow up.
But was he ready?
Six months after the wedding, they arrived with cake and grins.
“Mum, you’ll be a grandma!”
Tamara nearly choked. Her throat clenched; her palms slicked. She adjusted her glasses, studying them. They glowed like lottery winners.
“Are you mad? You’ve not even been married a year!”
Matthew blinked, baffled. Katie scowled. Too late for talk.
“What’s the issue? We’re a family,” he muttered.
Tamara sighed. They were children themselves! But she bit her tongue. If it was done, it was done.
“I’ve no say anyway,” she thought.
She was wrong. Fate handed her the wheel.
It started small. Matthew came for lunches. Said he missed her. Then admitted:
“Katie can’t stand the smell of meat, fish, even eggs. Lives on salad. I just want a proper meal.”
Soon, he stayed for dinners. Tamara didn’t mind. Fed husband, happy life.
But he pushed further.
“She’s driving me mad. Cried over a broken nail before her mate’s birthday do. Kept asking if it was embarrassing. Like I care!”
Tamara listened, nodding as he unspooled grievances. Work stress. Katie waking him to chat at 3 AM. Hunting down dragon fruit because she craved it.
Then—anger. Not at Katie. At him. She remembered pregnancy. The need for support. Yet Matthew withdrew, escaping to her flat for films, games, “quiet time.”
“Yesterday she lost it because I bought peach yoghurt, not strawberry. Says I never listen.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Tamara arched a brow.
He waved her off. A week later, he arrived with a bag.
“She’s gone to her mum’s. We need space, or we’ll divorce.”
Tamara’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ll divorce if you keep running. Go back. She needs you, even if she’s prickly. You’re her husband—act like it!”
The floodgates opened. Whinging about her fears. Moaning about daily scans. Admitting he wanted out…
Tamara saw it. He wanted her blessing to flee. No. She’d never coddle cowardice.
“Did you think it’d be all roses? There’s a whole human growing in her! When I was pregnant with you, I sobbed at shampoo ads! But your dad stayed. Because he loved me. Because I was scared!”
“Mum, you don’t get it—”
“I get it fine! You chose her. You wanted the baby. Man up.”
“Just till the birth—”
“First ‘just till birth,’ then ‘just till teething.’ No. You won’t be a part-time husband. I’ll boot you out with a broom if I must.”
They argued, but she shoved him out. Then texted Katie:
“He’ll be back in an hour. Love, stand your ground. He’s a useless goose, but don’t let him off easy.”
Katie read it. Ten minutes later: “Thanks. ❤”
…Matthew stopped visiting. At first, he vanished—not even a Mother’s Day card. Slowly, contact returned, though stiff and distant. Tamara didn’t fret. Pain was part of growing up.
And if she let him hide under her skirts—he’d never grow at all.
