My husband compared me to his mother, not in my favour, so I suggested he return to live with his parents
Why are the burgers so dry? Did you soak the bread in milk? Or did you just splash some water into the mince again? Andrew was poking disdainfully at the crispy burger with his fork, as if he was looking for something hidden in the centre, not just the beef.
Margaret froze at the sink, tea towel in hand. Somewhere in her chest, right under her ribs, the familiar tight spring coiledready to snap. She had hoped, while scrubbing the frying pan, that dinner tonight would be peaceful. That hope fizzled out before it could even flicker.
Andrew, its beef. Good, lean beef, which I bought at the market after work. I added onion, herbs, an egg. Theyre not dry, theyre meaty, she replied as evenly as she could, not turning away from the sink.
Precisely, Andrew raised his finger as though delivering a moral lesson, chewing slowly. Lean. Mother always adds a bit of pork fat. And a slice of stale bread soaked in thick creamthe proper way. Then they melt in your mouth, light as clouds, juicy. But these… honestly, Maggie, these are more like shoe soles. Sorry, but after fifteen years of marriage, youd think youd have learnt the basics by now.
Margaret quietly set down the sponge, turned the tap, and dried her hands. Fifteen years. Indeed. For fifteen years she had heard his never-ending refrain: Mother would… At mums, it was… Mother did it differently. It started as shy remarks, then advice, now downright comparisons, where Margaret always lost ten-nil.
She turned at last. Andrew lounged at the table, suffering in the style of a connoisseur forced to eat slop. His shirt was perfectly ironedby Margaret. The tablecloth was spotlesswashed by her. The flat sparkledtidied by her. But it all counted for nothing since the burger was not like mothers.
If you dont like it, dont eat, she said quietly. There are some pork pies left in the fridge.
Oh, now youre sulking, Andrew sighed pointedly, dropping his fork. I just want you to progress as a homemaker. Critique is the engine of growth. Without honest feedback, youd think this was haute cuisine. Mother always says: truth is bitter medicine.
Your mum, Mrs Green, Margaret took a step closer, hasnt worked for thirty years. Shes free to soak bread and mince three kinds of meat and polish the floors all day. Im a senior accountant, Andrew. Today was quarter-end. I got home at half-seven, and by eight dinner was hot on the table. Maybe you could acknowledge that, just once, instead of searching for the missing fat in the burgers?
Here we go again, said Andrew with a grand wave. I work, I get tired. Everyone works. My mum did when I was a lad, and she still managed: we had starter, main, and pud. And starched shirts that stood on their own. She cared, she put heart in. You just do things to tick a box, Maggie. Theres no homely spark, no glow.
The words landed like stones on the kitchen tiles. No homely spark. Just ticking boxes. Margaret looked at the man shed shared her life withand suddenly saw not a husband, but a whiny, childish man perpetually in short trousers, demanding royal treatment from another woman just like his mother.
The cup of patience, filled to the rim over yearsby wrongly folded socks, faulty stews, dust detected with a white glove flourish (Andrew loved that little theatrics)finally overflowed.
So Im just a rubbish housewife? she asked. Calmly. Like after the storm, when only stillness remains.
Not rubbish, Andrew backed down a little at her tone, then couldnt resist, but average, lets say. Theres room for improvement. By your age, mother was already
Enough, Margaret raised her hand. I dont want to hear about your mother anymore. I get it. I dont measure up. I cant give you the level of comfort and rapture youre used to. I might never be able to. I have neither the strength nor the desire.
And what are you suggesting? Andrew curled his lip, dry amusement in his eyes. Divorce over a burger? Dont be ridiculous.
No, not divorce. Not yet. But lets try an experiment. Since Mrs Green is the gold standard, frankly, why should you put up with me? Its not fair on such a refined and discerning man.
Wheres this going, then? He eyed her warily.
I mean you should go live where youre truly appreciated and, most importantly, properly fed. Move in with your mother.
Andrew laughed, loud and brash.
Oh, very funny! Threatening me with exile, are you? Out of my own flat?
The flat, if you remember, was bought in marriage, but I paid off the mortgage with my bonuses and my parents gave the deposit, Margaret reminded him, voice cool. But Im not kicking you out. Im suggesting a sabbatical. A restful retreat in Hotel Mum. Go onlive in bliss. Take a month. Escape from my dry burgers and wrinkled sheets. Recharge. I Ill work on my bread-soaking skills.
Are you serious? The laughter fell flat.
Entirely. Im tired, Andrew. Tired to death of competing with your mothers ghost. I want to come home and not worry about whether the forks are lined up at the right angle. Time to pack up.
Andrew stood up so forcefully he made the chair screech.
Is that so? Brilliant! You think Ill be lost? Ill live like a lord there! Mum will be thrilledshes always said you dont appreciate me. Wait until you see how Ill bloom. Youll be lost on your own! Wont be able to change a bulb, fix a tapwholl you call?
Ill pay a handyman, Margaret shrugged. At least they dont lecture me.
He made a show of itflinging shirts into a suitcase, banging cupboards, muttering about thanklessness and female foolishness. Margaret sat in the lounge with a book she couldnt read, listening to the ruckus. She was frightened, but beneath it allsurfaced an astonishing sense of relief.
Im off! Andrew announced, standing in the hall, clutching two suitcases. Dont expect me back at the first sign of trouble! When you come crawling, youll have to grovel.
Leave the keys on the sideboard, Margaret didnt look up from the armchair.
The door slammed. Silence settled in the flatsoft, enveloping, not ringing nor pressing. Margaret walked to the kitchen, saw Andrews half-eaten burger, threw it in the bin. Then she took a bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured herself a glass. For the first time in years, she dined on what she fanciedcheddar and honeywithout worrying if it was proper mans food.
The first week unfurled like a blissful haze. No one woke her on Saturday morning demanding breakfast. No stray socks under the coffee table. No one switched her dramas to football. She came home, soaked in the bath as long as she pleased, with no moaning under the door: You asleep yet? I need the loo!
Meanwhile, Andrews paradise at Green Hall came with hidden thorns.
Mrs Green greeted her son rapturously.
Andy! Lovely boy! Finally! Did that trollop throw you out? I always said she wasnt right for you! Doesnt matter, come inMother will look after you, feed you up!
For two days, Andrew revelled. Breakfast was crepes filled with ricotta, lunch was blood-red beetroot soup and burgers stuffed with fat, supper cabbage rolls. Mother flitted about, plying him with treats, nodding solemnly as he aired his grievances.
But by day three, the cracks appeared.
Andrew, used to a certain liberty in marriage, planned a Saturday lie-in. At nine, his old bedroom door burst openuntouched since GCSEs, posters peeling on the walls.
Andy, up! Breakfast is going cold! Who sleeps so late? Waste your life, you will! Mrs Green flung back the curtains; the sun poured in.
Mum, its the weekend… let me sleep, Andrew groaned, hiding beneath the covers.
None of that! Routine is health! Ive made fresh sconeseat them hot. Besides, we need to clear the attic; mans touch is needed.
He dragged himself up. The scones delighted, true. But afterwards: Right, sort these old magazines, that lot to church jumble, these for the tip. Then pop to TescoI need five kilos of potatoes.
Mum, my back…
Ah, we all get aches! Exercise is key. And look at your belly, thats your wifes light cooking. Never mind, well get you back to strength.
By evening, when Andrew wanted to watch a thriller on telly
Andy! Turn that racket down! I have a migraine! Anyway, what rubbish are you watching? Violence, violence. Put on Antiques Roadshow or a nice opera.
Mum, its just a film! he protested.
When you have your own house, you can be king. Here, Im in charge. Show some respect. I raised you, lost a thousand nights sleep.
Andrew gritted his teeth, switching off the TV, sulking off to his room, fiddling with his phonealmost calling Margaret. But pride wouldnt allow it. She must be stewing, surely, he reassured himself.
Week two was worse. It transpired Mum ran not only a bountiful kitchen but a total regime.
Where are you going? she asked as he tried to slip out for a pint.
Down the pub with the lads.
No youre not! Its only Tuesday! Alcohol does no good. I lock up at ten; Im not getting up to let you in again.
Mum, Im forty-two! Andrew howled.
Youll always be a boy to me, and in my house its my rules. I wont have boozing and gallivanting! Your wife spoilt you. Thats why the marriage crumbled; I stand for disciplines and morals!
So, Andrew stayed in, listening to his mother gossiping to her friend about his failed marriage and wastrel wife.
Yes, Bridget, hes backthin, pale, jittery. She neglected him! Couldnt boil a potato. Poor man. Ill soon have him right…
Uncomfortable thoughts started stirring. Margaret had never forbidden him drinks with friendsin fact, shed say Go on, have a breakjust dont get too sozzled. No waking him up for nothing on weekends. Whatever food she made, though lacking secrets of the Green kitchen, was made with care, not admonition.
Food itself became a trial. Mothers hearty, fat-laden cuisine, swimming with lard and double cream, left Andrews stomach in rebellion. Used to lighter mealsMargarets roasts, grilled chicken, mountains of veghe now groaned with heartburn.
Mum, can you just boil some chicken? Without the fry-up? he pleaded.
Are you ill? Mrs Green looked stricken. Boiled food is for hospitals! A man needs calories! Eat up, I did your favourite stew with extra dripping.
By week three, Andrew was near breakdown. Living with the ideal had proved unbearable. The standard required absolute obedience, reporting every step, endless gratitude.
Meanwhile, Margaret flourished. She joined yoga at last, saw old friends, rearranged the bedroom to her likingremoving the ugly old recliner Andrew preferred. She realised: being alone wasnt frightening. It was peaceful.
The doorbell rang one Friday, just as Margaret was expecting a deliverynew bookshelves for her study. She opened, expecting the courier.
Andrew stood there, shoulders drooping, bags in hand, with a wilted bunch of chrysanthemums.
Hi, he muttered, hovering on the threshold.
Margaret leant on the doorframe, arms folded.
Hello. Forget something?
Maggie… Can we talk?
Thought everything was settled. Didnt your retreat last a whole month? Are you rested? Well-fed?
Andrew gave a twitchy smile.
Maggie, dont. I want to come home.
But this isnt your home, Andrew. Your home is with your ideal: burgers with dripping, starched sheets. Mewell, Im just ordinary. Why leave paradise for my culinary hell?
He dropped the suitcases and exhaled heavily.
Im sorry. I was a foolhonestly. I never appreciated what we had.
No, you didnt, Margaret agreed. Whats changed? Mummy throw you out?
No. I ran away. Maggie, its insane! She controls every breath. I cant watch telly, I get fed buckets of fat, I cant even clean my teeth right! I suddenly realisedyou must have been a saint to put up with my comparisons. Id give anything for your stew, just plain stew with no dripping!
Margaret eyed himthis shrivelled, chastened man. Clearly, he wasnt lying. Hed been steamrolled by the parental love train.
My burgers pass the test now? she grinned.
Best in Britain! Maggie, please let me home. I swear, never another word about my mother. I know the difference between visiting and livingwith you, I can just breathe. I… got too used to being pampered.
He stepped forward for a hug, but Margaret held up her hand.
Wait. An apology is nice. Realising whats what is even better. But were not going back to old ways. I dont want the lesson worn off in a month, with you scouring for dust under the sofa.
Never again! Andrew promised fervently. On my word!
Words come easy, Margaret shrugged. Heres the deal. Probationthree months. No comparisons. If youre unhappy with dinner, cook for yourself, no moaning. Dont like the ironing? Iron your own shirts. Im your partner, not your housekeeper or mother-substitute. We both work, we both get tiredso housework is shared, or at least respectfully acknowledged.
Andrew nodded fiercely.
Deal! Ill cook weekendsfull English, shepherds pie, you name it. Just let me in.
And one more thing, Margaret added. Once a week, you ring your mother and tell her how amazing your wife is. Let her know its a family, not a prison camp.
Thatll be hard, he grimaced. Shes convinced shes saving me.
Your problem, Andrew. You set her going, you clean it up. You let her think the worstnow fix it.
For the first time, he looked at her with real respectthe sort shed deserved years ago. Had she changed, or had he been blind to her inner mettle?
Done! Im lucky to have you, Maggie, truly.
She sighed, stepped aside.
Come in. But those bags are your problem. Dinners not on. Theres eggs and tomatoes in the fridge. Can you manage an omelette?
Absolutely! With tomatoes! Thats the spirit! Best meal there is.
That evening, they sat in the kitchen. Andrew devoured his own over-salted omelette but didnt complain, regaling tales of Mothers Regime while laughing at himself.
She made me wear a hat taking out the bins! Fifteen degrees out! Meningitis lurks, she said.
Margaret smiled. Her husband, at last, had learned a valuable lesson. Mrs Green had, unwittingly, been their salvationgiving her son a taste of perfection he would run from miles away.
At the weekend, Andrew vacuumed the flat, quietly, with no Mother does it better commentary. Margaret made soup; Andrew had seconds, murmuring his thanks.
A month later, the phone rang. Mrs Green.
Well, has the minx sobered up? came the tart voice. My silly boy accept you back yet?
I did the accepting, Mrs Green, Margaret replied coolly. He says hello, by the way. Misses you, but says things are better at home. Theres democracy here, not autocracy.
The line went dead. Margaret smiled. Mrs Green would call againAndrew was still her son. But now, between their little family and Mrs Greens iron will, stood a sturdy wallbuilt of hard-won respect and Andrews vivid education in so-called paradise.
Life found its rhythm. Andrew kept his word. Occasionally hed stumbleMum used to…then stop, catch Margarets look, and change course. He began to value the warmth she brought, understanding at last that it took work, not magic. And Margaret discovered that, sometimes, saving a marriage meant more than patience or smoothing rough edgesit meant drawing boundaries and giving a person a sharp taste of contrast. After all, everything is known by comparisonand the past isnt always as golden as we tell it.
If you made it to the end, thank you for reading. If this strange bedtime tale made your heart ring, do like and followthere are plenty more such curious pieces to come.
