**The Part-Time Husband**
“Brilliant. You made your wife a baby, then scurried back under Muv’s skirts? No, son, that won’t fly. I won’t hide you.”
“Who said anything about hiding? It’s not forever—just need a breather, yeah? She’s screaming one minute, sobbing the next, then apologising before starting all over again. My nerves are so shot, even strangers breathing too loud sets me off!”
“You’ll be breathing your last if you don’t sort it,” Tamara hissed, stepping forward. “You married her—put up with it. This isn’t summer camp, it’s family life. Did you think you’d be gallivanting round pubs and cinemas forever?”
Matthew looked away, shoulders twitching helplessly. Words failed him. He dropped his bag, as if he still meant to push past his mother into the flat, protests be damned.
Tamara leaned in.
“No. No sleepovers. No dinners. If you won’t leave, I’ll ring the police. Dead serious. Look at you—oh, poor tired boy.”
He’d always been like this. Eyes wide and guilty, but with that flicker of wounded pride.
…Her son had been an expert at skiving since childhood. While his older brother broke his back in the garden, Matthew would moan about stomachaches and lie in bed ‘feverish.’ Tamara dragged him to doctors until she realised her youngest was just a crafty little actor.
Once, when he ‘fell ill’ before a maths test, she yanked him up by the collar. He whined, sniffled, and threatened—”I’ll die right there, then you’ll be sorry! Mrs. Thompson’ll have your head for sending me off sick!”
Tamara laughed, though even then, she knew it wasn’t funny. He’d spend hours building Lego castles, but washing his plate was a tragedy. Homework only got done after shouting. Every hiccup sent him scurrying to her, eyes like a kicked spaniel’s.
And though she tried to stamp it out, that habit of dodging blame never left.
Katie, his wife, had a temper. At first, she’d been all sugar—soft-spoken, doting, hanging on his every word.
“She even brought me coffee in bed a few times. Mum, this is the wife I wanted,” he’d gushed.
Tamara wasn’t fooled. She knew newlyweds put on their best faces. Katie was only twenty-one—no real experience, just desperate to please.
One dinner party was all it took to spot the volcano beneath. When Matthew asked for a fork instead of a spoon, Katie stood—but exhaled sharply. When he teased her for being fussy, she smiled, but her brow twitched.
Then Tamara’s niece made an offhand comment about the salad. Katie shot up, lips pinched.
“Oops—forgot to call Mum!” she chirped, vanishing into the kitchen.
Tamara doubted any call was made. Silence lingered behind her.
“Be careful with that one, son. Sure she’s your type?” she whispered later. “Not a bad girl—you need someone to keep you sharp—but…”
*But you’ve no idea what you’ve signed up for*, she thought but didn’t say.
“Mum, we’re fine. You’re too hard on her. She’s emotional, so what?”
So what? Tamara saw the upside—Katie was driven, wouldn’t let him mope. But was Matthew ready?
Spoiler: he wasn’t.
Six months after the wedding, they arrived with a cake, beaming.
“Mum, you’re gonna be a gran!”
Tamara nearly choked. Her throat tightened; her palms went slick. She adjusted her glasses, studying them. They glowed like lottery winners.
“Are you mad?” she blurted. “Not even a year in, and already kids?”
Matthew blinked, thrown. Katie’s smile faltered. Too late for objections.
“What’s the issue? We’re married—it’s family,” he mumbled.
Tamara sighed. *They’re children themselves!* But she held her tongue.
*Nothing I say will change it.*
She was wrong. Fate handed her the wheel.
It crept in slowly. Matthew started popping round for lunch—missing her, he said, appreciating her care now he was grown. Then the truth slipped.
“Katie’s sick at everything—meat, fish, even eggs. Lives on salad. I just want a proper meal.”
Soon, he came for dinners too.
Tamara didn’t mind. She was helping, wasn’t she? Less cooking for Katie. A fed man’s a happy man.
But then—
“She’s doing my head in,” he griped. “Broke a nail before her mate’s birthday do. Kept asking if it’d look rubbish. Like I care? I wouldn’t even notice.”
Tamara listened, nodding. He moaned about work, about Katie waking him to chat, about scouring shops for dragon fruit because she craved it.
Then—anger. Not at Katie. At *him*. She remembered pregnancy well. The nausea, the fear. Matthew just… checked out. Evenings at hers, glued to the telly or his Xbox, ‘just for quiet.’
“Last night was mental. She lost it ’cause 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 at her mum’s. We need space—might divorce otherwise.”
Tamara glared.
“You’ll divorce if you keep running. Turn around. Go home. She needs you, even if she’s snappy. You’re her *husband*.”
Then it spilled—how Katie’s fears exhausted him, how he hated the scans, how he’d started eyeing divorce…
Tamara saw it. He wanted her to coddle him, let him hide. No. She’d never enable this.
“Did you think it’d be all roses? There’s a *person* growing in her! When I carried you, I cried at shampoo ads! Your dad came home every night, even when he wanted to bolt. Because he *loved* me. Because I was scared!”
“Mum, you don’t get it—”
“I *do*. You chose her. You wanted the baby. Now *be a man*.”
“Just till the birth—”
“First ‘just till birth,’ then ‘just till teeth.’ No. You won’t be a part-time husband here. I’ll shove you out with a broom if I must.”
They argued, but she turfed him out. Then texted Katie:
“He’ll be back in an hour. Love, don’t nag—but don’t let him off easy. He’s a selfish git, never had to care for anyone.”
Katie read it instantly. Ten minutes later: *Thanks. ♡*
…Matthew stopped coming round. At first, he vanished—not even a Mother’s Day card. Later, they spoke, but stiffly. Tamara didn’t mind. Pain was part of growing up.
Let him hide under her skirts? He’d never learn.
