June 11, 2025
I still can taste the metallic aftertaste of anger that lingered in my mouth this afternoon. James burst through the front door, shoulders still smelling of the office, and with a grin as smug as a cat with a fresh fish. Before I could even set my handbag down, he shouted, Emily, look who’s here!
A petite woman with a bob cut and a flourdusted apron stepped into the kitchen, clutching a tray of raw minced meat. Molly! James announced, as if introducing a longlost sister.
What on earth is she doing in my flat? I snapped, dropping my bag and bracing for a fight.
Hes just frying up some meatballs, James replied, inhaling the savoury scent that began to fill the whole flat. Thought itd be nice to have a proper dinner.
Did you go a little nutty on the whitebread? I shouted back, eyes flashing. You bring a stranger into my kitchen to cook for you?
Exactly, James said, nodding. I got a sudden craving after the meeting.
Molly peered from behind the stove, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. Well, look who showed up! My own host! Cant even manage a simple meatball for my husband.
Excuse me? I snapped, feeling my cheeks flush. I can manage just fine!
She chuckled, a thin, mocking laugh. I didnt notice you were the one who turned down my offer to cook for you. Perhaps I should tempt him with something else, eh? Maybe hell finally say yes.
My hands clenched so hard I thought Id break a bone. Ill cut you into little pieces with my own hands, I hissed, the words tasting like bile.
She waved a manicured hand. With those dainty fingers? Youll never scare me. You look more like you belong in a beauty salon than a kitchen.
Go on then, lady, I muttered, stepping past James. Ill deal with you later, then you can get back to your business.
James called after me, Dont ruin my meatballs, love!
Into the kitchen I marched, heart hammering, ready to throw this brazen intruder out. But there she was, sitting at the kitchen table, pouring tea into delicate cups, as if nothing was amiss.
Would you like a soothing balm? she offered, still smiling.
Leave me alone, I snarled, teeth clenched.
She shrugged. Suit yourself, dear. Ill have a splash of tea for me.
I lost the words, the fury choking me. Youve got my husband wandering the streets looking for someone to fry his meatballs for him? she teased, leaning back as if she owned the room.
Its not a disaster to feed a man if hes promised to lose a few stones, she said, smirking. Otherwise, a man should be wellfed, clean, and loved.
I could barely form a reply. Well thats good, I suppose.
She leaned forward, eyes glittering. I work at the butchers down the road, you know. You and James are regulars. Youve always bought the best cuts from me.
A flash of recognition hit me. Ah, yes! I remember now, I said, the memory of countless shopping trips tugging at my mind.
She laughed, Your pockets always full of cash, isnt it? No wonder you let a stranger into your kitchen for a meatball.
Our family used to be the pictureperfect British middleclass household. James was a lecturer at the university, earning a modest but comfortable salary, while I was on maternity leave after three lovely children. Id spent eight years at home, proud of the fact that Id raised them without ever needing to work outside.
James, an only child, often recalled how lonely he felt when his parents were away at work. Hed once dreamed of having a sibling to play with. Determined that his children never faced that solitude, he made sure we had everything we needed.
People often wondered how we managed such a large brood on a lecturers pay. The truth was simple: a bit of luck and a shrewd investment early on. When James turned eighteen, his parents gifted him a small cottage in the countrysidemore of a curiosity than a necessity. He never cared for it, preferring his academic life.
Two years before his twentieth birthday, the cottage sat empty. James sold it for a tidy sum, which he handed over to a friend, Mark, to kickstart a small tech venture. Mark proved clever with the money; the business grew, and James became a silent partner, receiving a modest share of the profits each month.
Put it away for something big, James would say, eyes twinkling. So the kids can have a house, a car, maybe a wedding someday.
Thus we lived comfortably, our finances enough for holidays abroad and occasional splurges, until our youngest, Tom, turned ten. That milestone brought an unexpected emptiness. My days, once filled with school runs and bedtime stories, now felt like a hollow echo. The children, growing more independent, started demanding privacy, leaving me with a quiet house and a lingering sense of purposelessness.
One evening, after the kids had gone to bed, I finally voiced the storm inside me. James, Im scared Im losing myself. I love you, I love our family, but I feel like Im fading away.
He looked taken aback. Thats serious, he replied. What do you want to do?
I hesitated, then blurted out, I want to start my own business. Weve saved a decent amount in our joint account; it earns a little interest, but if I invest it, I could either double it or lose it. Either way, it wont destroy us.
James nodded slowly. If it works, youll be more than a wife and motheryoull be a businesswoman.
If it fails, at least Ill know I tried.
Do what you think is right, he said finally, his voice soft.
And so I plunged into the world of entrepreneurship, often forgetting that I still had a husband, children, and a home to return to. James, still a lecturer, was no stranger to the occasional domestic disaster. He could tidy a room with a halfhearted shrug, sweep crumbs under the rug, and rely on the old British maxim, Out of sight, out of mind.
Cooking, however, was another story. He could heat a readymade roast or fry frozen meatballs, but anything beyond that was a challenge. Hed often lament to the supermarket clerk, I wish I could have a proper homecooked meal, not just the frozen stuff.
One day, a chatty shopper offered to make me a fresh mince pie. Ive been coming here for years, you always buy your meatballs from me. Want a proper one? she said, pointing to the freezer aisle.
James, desperate, agreed to meet at seven in the evening. He arrived just as Molly was finishing the meatballs for him, laughing at the thought of his real wife arriving later. We bought bread, milk, and onions from the corner shop and set up a modest feast.
Mind your business, love, Molly chided later, wiping the counter. You almost had your husband whisked away by a stranger! You fed him meatballs, but next time itll be scones or bangers.
I managed a thin smile. Im not angry, I replied, though the words felt hollow.
She shrugged. Tomorrow hell be tempted by pastries, then by a full English. Youll be left without a man.
I forced a thankyou, my pride bruised.
My venture never became a fairytale success, but it didnt collapse either. I earned enough to cover the costs and put a modest profit back into our savings. If I had kept pushing without regard for family, perhaps the numbers would have grown, but Mollys warning forced me to reevaluate my priorities.
Now I work a regular eighthour day, with Saturdays and Sundays off, and I still have time for James and the kids. He no longer roams the streets looking for a strangers meatballs; his appetite is satisfied at home.
Writing this, I realise that the greatest achievement isnt a booming balance sheet, but finding a balance that lets me be a wife, a mother, and still a person with ambitions of her own. The kitchen incident with Molly reminded me that some battles are best fought with a cup of tea and a steady heart, not with fury and knives.
