You dont need a wife; you need a housekeeper.
Mum, Millies chewed up my colouring pencil again!
Little Sophie burst into the kitchen, waving the stub of a coloured pencil, followed closely by their guilty-looking Labrador, vigorously wagging her tail. Jane paused from her double task at the cooker; the soup simmered, sausages hissed, and she sighed. That was the third pencil today.
Pop it in the bin and grab a new one from the drawer. William, have you finished your maths homework?
Almost! came a distracted shout from the lounge.
Almost, in her twelve-year-old sons vocabulary, meant he was glued to his mobile while his workbook sat untouched. Jane knew this, but for now, she needed to flip the sausages, stir the soup, retrieve four-year-old Timothy before he made it to the dogs bowl, and not forget the laundry spinning in the machine.
Thirty-two years old. Three children. One husband. One mother-in-law. One Labrador. And herself the only cog keeping the whole machine running.
Jane rarely fell ill. Not for want of iron health, but because she simply couldnt afford to. Who would feed the family? Whod pack the schoolbags? Who would walk Millie? The answer was always nobody.
Jane, is supper nearly ready?
Mrs. Margaret appeared in the kitchen doorway, bracing herself with a stick. Eighty-five, sharp as a tack, hearty appetite.
In five years of living together, Jane could count on one hand the moments her mother-in-law had lifted a finger around the house.
Ten minutes, Mrs. Margaret.
The old lady nodded in approval and shuffled to the sitting room. At times, though rarely, shed tell Timothy a bedtime story something like Jack and the Beanstalk or The Gingerbread Man. The repertoire was thin, but Timothy listened, enchanted. The rest of the time, Mrs. Margaret watched TV dramas or waited for her next meal.
The mantel clock was chiming half five when the key turned in the lock. David stepped through the door, looking like a man just finishing a punishing marathon.
Is supper on?
Not even a hello. Jane silently gestured at the set table. Her husband went to wash his hands, sat in his usual place, and the television flicked on instantly the remote felt a part of his palm.
Sophie got top marks in reading today, Jane ventured.
Hmm.
And William needs help with his science project.
Hmm.
Hmm was the most she ever got. After supper, David took root on the sofa. His workday done, his mission accomplished. Hed brought in the money the rest, not his concern.
After the children settled to sleep, Jane would open her laptop for her remote job with an online shop processing orders, answering clients, arranging deliveries. Not a fortune, but her own money all the same. Plus, the rent from a flat shed let for four years.
She often thought, We ought to move. But the usual reasons stopped her: William was happy at his school, Sophie settled at nursery, loss of the rental income Jane shut the laptop. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
December swept in with not only Christmas fuss but the flu. Her temperature leapt to 102 in hours. Bones throbbing, throat burning, head pounding Jane barely made it to bed.
Mum, youre ill, observed William, popping in.
David followed, with a flicker of concern but clearly not for Jane.
Just dont pass it to Mums mum. At her age, flus serious.
Jane closed her eyes. Of course. Mrs. Margaret. How could she have forgotten the main thing?
The next three days dissolved into feverish delirium. A hot, soaked pillow, parched lips. No-one neither David, nor her mother-in-law, nor the children brought her so much as a glass of water. Ten paces to the kitchen kettle felt an epic trek, but Jane made it herself, steadying against the wall.
Everyone worried only about the elderly: Dont go in there, Mums ill. Put on a mask if you pass the bedroom. Shouldnt she sleep somewhere else?
Her Jane. In her own home, she became a source of infection, to be shielded from the truly important family members.
Within a week, the bug made its way round: first Timothy, sniffling and cranky; then Sophie. David took to his bed, temperature at barely 99, in grand demonstration. Mrs. Margaret succumbed in the end, with the most drama.
Jane, still barely recovered, stood up. Chicken broth, pharmacy run, thermometers, damp cloths, laundry. Her usual route, now on trembling legs.
David, can you take Timothy for an hour? I need the chemist.
David rolled his eyes but agreed. Exactly sixty minutes later Jane had timed it he returned with Timothy.
Im tired. Ive still got a temperature, remember.
It was 98. Jane checked.
Spring fared no better. A new virus, fresh fevers, sleepless nights. Timothy whimpered, Sophie refused her medicine, Mrs. Margaret demanded special meals. Amid it all David, healthy as ever.
David, please help with the children.
Jane, I did my bit last time. But now, Im working. The days wear me out.
He shrugged, a simple gesture that explained everything. Every evening hed return, sit at the table, wait for dinner. Sick children, exhausted wife, chaos at home not his worry.
One evening, with Timothy finally asleep and the older two on homework, Jane approached her husband. The telly muttered about the football.
Why dont you help me? Why do you never help?
David didnt turn. Didnt answer. Simply upped the volume.
Jane stood another minute, gazing at the back of his head. It was all suddenly clear without a word.
Next day, she pulled the big duffel bags from the cupboard. Childrens clothes, toys, paperwork. William halted in the doorway:
Mum, are we going somewhere?
To Grandma Irenes.
For long?
Well see.
Sophie danced about Granny Irene always baked her favourite fairy cakes. Timothy, bemused, dragged his cuddly rabbit along just in case.
Last minute, Jane remembered Millie, the Labrador, another treasured family member. She would come too.
David lay sprawled on the sofa. The packed bags, children ready in coats, nothing roused him from the screen. As Jane closed the front door behind her, she knew he would simply change channels
Irene welcomed her daughter and grandchildren without fuss. She fed them, hugged them. Fifty-eight, a schoolteacher with thirty years service no explanations were needed.
Stay as long as you need.
The phone didnt ring until the third day. David.
Jane, come back. Its a tip here. Nothing to eat. Mums always asking for something.
Not I miss you. Not I cant manage without you. Just domestic inconvenience that was all he cared for.
David, you dont need a wife you need a housekeeper.
What? What’s that supposed to mean…
Have you even once said you miss the children?
Silence. Long. Telling.
I bring money in, he blurted at last. What more do you want?
Jane ended the call. It was over, and the relief felt strange.
Within two weeks, Janes tenants moved out of her flat. The move took one day. A new school for William, a new nursery for Sophie everything sorted far more easily than shed imagined.
Their last conversation cleared the air. All the unspoken grievances, all the swallowed tears, sleepless nights tending sick children alone Jane let it all out.
Twelve years I was an unpaid servant! she cried into the phone. Not once do you hear, not once! did you ask how I was! How I even lived! You Enough, Im done!
She blocked his number. And filed for divorce.
The hearing was over in twenty minutes. David didnt argue. He signed the paperwork for maintenance, nodded wearily at the judge, and left. Perhaps something dawned on him. More likely, he was simply tired of it all.
That evening, Jane sat in the kitchen of her new-old flat. William read in his room. Sophie coloured at the table, tongue out in concentration. Timothy played with his building blocks on the rug.
Quiet. Peaceful. Millie slept at her feet, muzzle on her paws.
There were still meals to cook, rooms to clean, work to do after bedtime. But now, it was for those who truly made up her family. And she could see to their upbringing, to make sure theyd never grow up like their father.
Mum, Sophie looked up from her drawing, you smile more now.
Jane smiled again. Sophie was right.
