Why are these burgers so dry? Did you bother soaking any bread in milk? Or did you just chuck some water in with the mince again? Andrew picks at the golden crust on his plate with distaste, as if expecting to unearth some culinary trap inside.
Sophie pauses mid-wipe with a tea towel, feeling a familiar tightening in her stomach, like a wind-up spring about to snap. Shes standing at the sink, scrubbing the frying pan, quietly hoping tonights dinner might pass without drama. That hope fizzles instantly.
Its beef, Andrew. Good, lean beef. I bought it fresh from the butcher after work. I added onion, spices, an egg. Theyre not dry, theyre just meaty, she says, keeping her voice level, her back turned to him.
Thats exactly the problem, Andrew declares, wagging his finger as he chews. Lean! Mum always puts in a bit of pork fat. And breadstale bread, mind, soaked in double cream. Her burgers melt in your mouth, so soft, so juicy. But this honestly, Soph, its like eating the sole of a shoe. No offence, but after fifteen years of marriage, youd think youd have mastered the basics.
Sophie lays the sponge down, switches off the tap and wipes her hands slowly. Fifteen years. In all that time, shes heard that relentless comparison: Well, Mum always or You know, my mum used to or Mum would have done it differently. At first it was gentle suggestions, then advice, then blunt comparisons where Sophie always came out second best.
She turns to face him. Andrew sits all hunched at the table, radiating martyrdom, like a culinary critic at a dodgy little cafe. His shirt is perfectly pressedby Sophie. The tablecloth is spotlesslaundered by Sophie. The entire flat glistenstidied by Sophie. Not that it matters, because the burger isnt like Mums.
If you dont like it, dont eat it, she says quietly. There are some pasties in the fridge.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, youre sulking again? Andrew rolls his eyes and drops his fork with a dramatic clatter. Im trying to be constructive. Criticism is how you get betteryou wouldnt want me to suffer in silence, would you? Mum always says, The truth hurts, but its good for you.
Your mum, Barbara, hasnt worked in thirty years. Her whole life revolves around soaking bread in cream and making three types of mince, and scrubbing her floors until they shine. I work as a senior accountant. Today, I had to close out the quarterly figures. I got home at half seven, and by eight you had a hot meal in front of you. Maybe, just once, you could appreciate that, instead of moaning about the lack of pork fat? Sophies voice is steady, but her hands tremble slightly.
Oh, here we go again, Andrew waves dismissively. We all work. Mum worked too when I was little, but she always managed. We always had a starter, a roast, and a crumble for pudding, weekends meant cakes, shirts were so starched they could stand up by themselves. She just cared more. You do everything just to tick a boxtheres no spark, no warmth.
His words drop heavily into silence. No spark. Just to tick a box. Sophie fights the urge to cry, looking at the man shes shared her life with, suddenly seeing not a partner but a sulking boy who never outgrew his mothers apron strings, yet expects royal service from someone elses wife.
The cup of patience, filled over the yearsa sock left in the wrong place, the wrong soup, him finding dust with a white cloth atop the wardrobe (yes, that really happened, he relished the drama)now sloshes over.
So, Im a rubbish wife? she asks, a strange calm settling over her, as if the storm has passed, leaving just a frosty stillness.
Well, not rubbish Andrew backtracks, sensing somethings shifted. Lets just say average. Theres always room for improvement. When Mum was your age
Stop. Sophie raises a hand to cut him off. No more. Ive got it. You want more, better, different. I clearly cant give you the culinary masterpiece you think you deserve. And you know what? I doubt I ever will. I just dont want to anymore.
So what are you suggesting? He gives a mocking little chuckle. Divorcing me over a couple of burgers? Dont be daft.
Not a divorce. Not yet, Sophie answers, her voice even. But I suggest a little experiment. Since Barbara is your gold standard, why should you have to suffer here with my lacklustre efforts? Thats hardly fair to you, a man with such refined expectations.
He narrows his eyes. What are you getting at?
I think youd be happier living somewhere youre appreciated andmost importantlyfed properly. At your mums.
Andrew bursts out laughing. Youre joking, right? Youre actually kicking me out of my own flat?
As you remember, this place was bought while we were married, but I paid off the mortgage with my bonuses, and my parents fronted the deposit, Sophie reminds him, cool as ice. But Im not kicking you out. Im offering a holiday. Full spa treatment for a month at Hotel Mum. Youre always saying how wonderful it is. Go and enjoy yourself. Recharge. Get some rest from my dry burgers and creased sheets. Ill have a good hard think about my skillsmaybe even learn to soak bread in cream.
His grin falters. Youre serious?
Perfectly. Im exhausted, Andrew. Im tired of competing with your mothers ghost in my own home. I want to come in at night without worrying which way the forks are lying. Go on, pack your suitcase.
Andrew shoves back his chair and stands, affronted.
Oh, right! Fine! You really think Ill fall apart? Ill be pampered at Mums! Shell be thrilledshe always said you never looked after me, that Id gone thin and worn out. Just you wait, youll be lost without me. Wholl fix the boiler? Wholl change a bulb?
Ill pay someone, Andrew, Sophie shrugs. Professionals dont give lectures while they work.
His packing is loud and theatricalshirts flung, drawers slammed, grumbling about ingratitude and foolishness. Sophie sits in the lounge with a book she cant actually read, listening to the performance. Fear prickles inside her, but louder still is a bubbling sense of relief she hasnt felt in years.
Im off! he announces grandly in the hallway, cases in hand. Dont think Ill come running back. When you see what youve lost, youll be begging for forgiveness!
Leave the keys on the table, Sophie replies, not looking up from her chair.
The door slams. Silence descends. Not a cold silence, but warm, gentle. Hugging herself, Sophie walks into the kitchen, glances at the half-eaten burger on his plate, and drops it in the bin. She opens the fridge, takes out a chilled bottle of white and pours herself a glass, finally having exactly what she wants for teacheese and honeywithout worrying about whether its real mans food.
The first week floats past in a haze of bliss. No one wakes her up at 8am on a Sunday demanding breakfast. No socks litter the sofa. No sudden switches from her dramas to endless football. She comes home, soaks in the bath for as long as she wants, and never hears, Have you fallen asleep in there? I need the loo!
Meanwhile, Andrews paradise at Mums quickly collides with reality.
Barbara greets her son with open arms. Andy! My precious boy! She threw you out, did she? I knew it! I always said she wasnt right for you. Never mind, come in, youre safe here. Mumll see you right!
For the first couple of days, Andrew revels in it. Pancakes for breakfast (paper-thin, just how he likes), that famous beetroot soup for lunch, porky burgers for tea. Mum fusses over him, agrees with all his grumbles, offers only sympathy.
Day three, however, brings the small print.
Used to his independence, Andy tries to have a lie-in on Saturday. Bang at 9am, Barbara sweeps in (his old bedroom, unchanged since GCSEs).
Andy, wake up! Your breakfasts getting cold; youll sleep your life away! I made you cheese scones, now eat them before they go soggy. After, you can help me clear the loftI need a mans hand.
He drags himself up and concedes, yes, the scones are lovely, but soon faces her activity list.
These old magazines? Sort them for the recycling, that pile there for the charity shop, and then well nip to Tescofive bags of spuds, I cant carry them myself.
But my back
Everyone has achesuse it or lose it! Anyway, you need exercise. Look at you, putting on weight. Sophie always fed you ready meals, thats your problem. Never mind, Ill soon get you sorted!
That evening, as he tries to watch a car chase on TV:
Andy, turn that down! Ive a migraine! Really, murder films? Put on Bake Off or Antiques Roadshow.
Mum, I just want to watch a film!
When youve got your own house, you can make the rules. Here, its my way. Show some respectwho nursed you through chickenpox and your exams?
Clenching his jaw, Andrew gives up and shuffles off to bed. He wants to ring Sophie, ask how she is. His pride stops himsurely shes missing him, moping endlessly? He likes to think so.
Week two is even harder. Turns out, Mums a brilliant cook, but shes also the worlds biggest micromanager.
Out tonight, are you? she probes as he puts on his coat midweek.
Just a pint at the pub with the guys.
No youre nottomorrows a workday. Beer is no good for you. Back by ten, mind, Ill lock the door. I wont be woken up letting you in at all hours.
Mum, Im forty-two!
Doesnt matter, youre my boy, and while youre under my roof, my rules. I dont tolerate drinking and carrying onso maybe thats why your marriage fell apart! Not in my house, thank you!
Andrew stays home, stewing, as Mum loudly gossips to her mate on the phone, analysing his failed marriage and rubbish wife.
Yes, Judith, hes back now. Looks pale as milk, skin and bone. Well of course she ruined him, cant cook or clean, let the poor boy waste away. But dont worry, Ill fatten him up
Andrew suddenly realises Sophie never banned him from seeing his friends. In fact, she always encouraged him to get out, just take it easy on the drinks! She never woke him on weekends for no reason. She made what he wanted to eat, even if it lacked secret ingredientsbut her food was made with care, not as a lecture.
Food soon becomes a problem. Mums meals, though delicious, are unbelievably rich. Everything fries in lard, everything smothered with gravy, drenched in oil. Andrews stomach, long used to Sophies lighter, veggie-packed cooking, rebels. Hes soon suffering heartburn, indigestion.
Mum, can we just I dont know, have plain chicken tonight? Maybe no frying? he ventures.
Feeling unwell? Barbara looks horrified. Plain chicken is for hospitals! Men need proper fuel! Eat up that goulash, theres dripping in it for strength.
Three weeks in, and Andrew is at his limit. He realises a hard truth: its possible to love Mum and her burgersfrom a safe distance. Living with the ideal means total surrender, constant accounting for every minute, and endless gratitude or youre for the high jump.
Meanwhile, Sophie enters full bloom. She signs up for yoga classes shed always put off. She meets old friends for brunch. Does a bit of redecorating, replacing that dust-gathering armchair Andrew insisted on. She realises that being on her own is not so bad. In fact, its rather peaceful.
The knock at the door comes on Friday evening. Sophie is expecting a delivery from IKEA, so opens it straightaway.
Its Andrew, clutching battered suitcases and a drooping bunch of chrysanthemums, looking utterly spent.
Evening, he mutters, hovering uncertainly.
Hello. Forgotten something? she asks, folding her arms.
Soph Can we talk?
I think weve said everything. Its not even a full month. Enjoyed your break, then? Good meals? Feeling recharged?
Andrew twitches. Come on, Soph, dont torture me. I want to come home.
This isnt your home, Andrew. Your home is with the standard. The perfect burgers and starched sheets. Why come back to my average efforts?
He sets his bags down with a heavy sigh. Im sorry. Ive been an idiot. I didnt know how good I had it.
You didnt, Sophie agrees. So whats changed? Did Mum finally throw you out?
No. I left. Sophie, Im going mad. She runs my life. She tells me how to brush my teeth! I feel ill from all the fried stuff. Id give anything for your soupthe simple one, just veggies. Please, I beg you.
Sophie looks at himhe really does look broken. So, my burgers are passable now, are they?
The best! Please, Soph. Let me come home. I swear, never another word about Mum. I know nowtheres a world of difference between visiting and living with her. I was spoilt. I took you for granted.
He tries to give her a hug, but Sophie steps back. Hold on. Sorrys a good start. But you cant just slot in like nothing happened. Im not interested in seeing this all repeat a month from now.
I promise! Cross my heart! Andrew pleads.
Promises mean nothing. Heres the deal. You come back, but youre on probation. Three months. Not a single comparison, not a hint. If the dinners not how you fancy it, you Cook. Quietly. If the ironings not up to scratch, you iron. Im not your servant, Im not your mum-substitute. We both work, so we both pitch in. Deal?
Andrew nods eagerly. Absolutely! Ill cook at weekendsI know how, honestly. Ill keep my mouth shut. Just let me in.
And one other thing, Sophie adds. Once a week, you ring your mum and tell her what a great wife I am. Lets see how she likes that.
Andrew pulls a face. Thatll be toughshe still thinks youre holding me hostage.
Thats your problem. You made your bed. You can fix it.
He watches her with new respectmaybe for the first time noticing that inner steel most men are blind to. Deal. Honestly, Soph, I love you. Only now do I see how lucky I am.
Sophie steps aside. All right. Come in. But Im not unpacking your case. And theres no dinner. Eggs and tomatoes in the fridgethink you can handle that?
With pleasure! Andrew grabs his luggage and all but bounces into the flat. Tomato omelette! The finest meal!
That evening, they sit in the kitchen. Andrew wolfs down the omelette hes made (too much salt, but he keeps schtum), and regales her with tales of Mums regime, already able to laugh at his own predicament.
Youll never guessshe made me wear a scarf to take out the bins! In fifteen degrees! Meningitis is always lurking! she said.
Sophie cant help but smile. Its clear Andrews received a much-needed lesson in adulthood. Barbara, unknowingly, saved their marriage by giving her son the ideal life in a dose so concentrated he couldnt cope with it.
The weekend arrives and Andrew vacuums the flatwithout a word about how Mum does it in two passes. When Sophie makes soup at lunch, he gratefully eats seconds, declaring, Tastes brilliant. Thank you, love.
A month later, Barbara rings up.
Well then, lost your touch yet? she crows to Sophie. Taken my boy back, has he?
No, Ive taken him back, Sophie replies calmly. And by the way, he says he misses you, but hes happier here. We run a democracy, not a dictatorship.
Barbara hangs up at that, but Sophie knows shell call again. She is his mother, after all. But now, theres a solid wall of mutual respect and hard-earned experience between her and Barbaras influencea wall Andrew helped build, brick by brick.
Life slips back to normal. Andrew keeps his promiseno more comparisons. Occasionally, an at Mums pops out, but he stops himself, catching Sophies eye. He begins to appreciate the comfort Sophie creates, realising at last its down to effort, not magic. And Sophie learns sometimes, to save a marriage, you dont smooth things overyou lay down clear lines and let your partner see for themselves. After all, everything in life is relativeand sometimes the good old days arent quite as perfect as legend.
Thank you for reading till the end. If this story struck a chord, please give it a like and stick aroundthere are plenty more true-to-life tales to come.
