The Timer on the Table — “You’ve put the salt in the wrong place again,” she said, not looking up from the pot. He paused, salt shaker in hand, staring at the shelf. The salt was just where it always was, beside the sugar bowl. “Where is it meant to go?” he asked carefully. “Not ‘where it’s meant to go.’ Where I expect to find it. I’ve told you already.” “It would be easier if you’d just tell me, rather than making me guess,” he replied, feeling that old familiar irritation rising. She noisily switched off the hob, slapped a lid on the pot, and turned to face him. “I’m tired of always having to explain. I just wish sometimes things could just… be where they’re meant to.” “So I’m getting it all wrong again,” he concluded, placing the salt back on the shelf, just a bit to the right. She opened her mouth to respond but snapped the cupboard door shut and left the kitchen. He stood holding a spoon, listening to her footsteps down the hall. Then he sighed, tasted the soup, and absent-mindedly added more salt. An hour later, they ate in silence. The TV in the lounge mumbled out the news, its glow reflecting in the glass of the display cabinet. She ate slowly, barely looking at him. He picked at his cutlet, thinking about how things had followed their usual route: minor issue, complaint, his comeback, her silence. “Are we going to keep living like this?” she suddenly asked. He looked up. “What do you mean?” She set her fork down. “You do something. I get irritated. You get upset. And round we go.” “What’s the alternative?” he tried, attempting a wry smile. “It’s our tradition, isn’t it?” She didn’t return the smile. “I read about something,” she said. “Talking, once a week. With a timer.” He blinked. “With what?” “A timer. Ten minutes for me, ten minutes for you. No ‘You always,’ no ‘You never.’ Just ‘I feel,’ ‘It’s important to me,’ ‘I want.’ And the other one doesn’t argue. Just… listens.” “Is this from the internet?” he checked. “A book, actually. Doesn’t matter. I want to try it.” He reached for his glass, taking a sip of water to buy time. “What if I don’t want to?” he asked, cautious not to sound too harsh. “Then we’ll just carry on fighting about salt,” she said quietly. “I don’t want that.” He looked at her face. The lines around her mouth were deeper now—he hadn’t noticed when it happened. She looked worn, not from the day but as if from an entire life. “All right,” he said. “But I warn you, I’m no good at these… techniques… of yours.” “You don’t have to be good,” she smiled, tiredly. “You just have to be honest.” That Thursday evening, he sat on the sofa, phone in hand, pretending to read the news. He felt the same unpleasant anticipation as before a dentist appointment. On the coffee table lay a kitchen timer, round and white, numbers circling the edge. She usually used it for baking. Tonight, it sat between them, like a stranger. She brought two mugs of tea, set them down, and sat opposite him. She wore an old house jumper, baggy at the elbows. Her hair was caught in a loose ponytail. “Well then,” she said. “Shall we start?” “Do we have a protocol?” he tried to joke. “Yes. I go first. Ten minutes. Then you. If there’s anything left, we can save it for next time.” He nodded and set his phone down on the armrest. She picked up the timer, turned it to “10,” and pressed the button. A soft ticking began. “I feel…” she started, and then stopped. He realised he was bracing for the familiar “You never” or “You always,” his muscles already tense. But she clasped her hands and continued: “I feel like I’m… background. Like the house, the food, your shirts, our days—it all just happens, and if I stop, everything falls apart and nobody would notice until it got really bad.” He wanted to say that he noticed. That he just didn’t say so. That maybe she never let him do anything. But he remembered the rule and kept his lips shut. “It’s important to me,” she glanced at him briefly before looking away again, “that what I do is… visible. Not praise, not daily thanks, but sometimes, a bit more than just ‘The soup’s good.’ I need to know you recognise how much effort goes in. That it’s not automatic.” He swallowed. The timer ticked on. He wanted to argue that he got tired too, that work wasn’t any easier. But the rule said no interruptions. “I want…” she sighed. “I want not to be the default person responsible for everything. Your health, our birthdays, the kids. I want to be allowed to be weak sometimes, not just the one who keeps it all together.” He looked at her hands. On her right was the ring he’d given her on their tenth anniversary, now a little tight. He remembered how nervous he’d been choosing the size. The timer beeped. She flinched, smirking nervously. “That’s it. My ten minutes.” “And I…” He coughed. “Now it’s me.” She nodded, rotated the timer back to “10,” and pushed it towards him. He felt like a schoolboy called up in front of the class. “I feel…” he began, realising at once it sounded awkward. “I feel like, at home, I want to… hide sometimes. Because if I do something wrong, it’s always noticed. But if I do it right, well… that’s just how it should be.” She nodded slightly, didn’t interrupt. “It’s important to me,” he listened to himself as he spoke, “that when I come home from work and sit in my chair, that’s not a crime. I’m not sitting all day. At work, I get tired too.” He caught her gaze: tired, but attentive. “I want…” He hesitated. “I want, when you’re angry, for you not to say ‘You don’t understand anything.’ Because I do understand. Maybe not everything, but not nothing. When you say that, I want to shut down and keep quiet, because any answer will be the wrong one.” The timer beeped again. He jumped, as if pulled back up for air. They sat in silence. The TV was off. In the other room, something whirred—the fridge, or perhaps the radiators. “It feels weird,” she said. “Like a rehearsal.” “Like we’re not husband and wife, but… —” he searched for the word “—patients.” She smiled wryly. “Well, if we’re patients, so be it. Let’s at least give it a month. Once a week.” He shrugged. “A month’s not a life sentence.” She nodded and took the timer, carrying it back to the kitchen. He watched her go and was surprised to realise it now felt like the timer was a new piece of their furniture. On Saturday, they went shopping. She walked ahead with the trolley, he followed behind with the list: milk, chicken, rice. “Pick up some tomatoes,” she called, not turning around. He went to the crate, chose a few, put them in a bag. He caught himself wanting to say, “I feel like the tomatoes are heavy,” and snorted. “What?” she turned, puzzled. “Practising,” he replied. “My new phrasing.” She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth quirked. “No need to do it in public,” she said. “Though… maybe we should.” They passed the biscuit aisle. He reached for her favourite, then remembered what she’d said about sugar and her blood pressure. His hand stopped. “Go on, take them,” she said, catching him hesitating. “I’m not a child. If I don’t eat them, I’ll take them to work.” He put the pack in the trolley. “I…” he began, then stopped. “What?” she asked. “I know you do a lot,” he said, exhaling and staring at the price tag. “That’s for next Thursday.” She looked at him closely, and nodded. “I’ll give you credit for that,” she said. The second conversation was harder. He was fifteen minutes late to the sofa, delayed at work, traffic, then a call from their son. She was already waiting, the timer on the table beside her notebook. “Ready?” she asked, skipping greetings. “One minute.” He took off his coat, draped it on a chair, fetched water from the kitchen. Returned and sat down, feeling her eyes on the back of his head. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “If you’re not interested, say so.” “I am interested,” he replied, though everything in him rebelled. “It’s just been a tough day.” “And for me,” she replied shortly. “But I got here on time.” He gripped his glass. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it.” She turned the timer to “10.” “I feel,” she began, “like we live as flatmates. We talk about bills, groceries, health, but hardly ever about what we actually want. I can’t remember the last time we planned a holiday as a couple and not just because someone invited us somewhere.” He thought of her sister’s cottage and last year’s holiday camp arranged through the union. “It’s important to me,” she said, “that we have plans, not just duties. Not just ‘maybe one day we’ll go to the seaside,’ but specifics: where, when, how long. And that it’s our plan, not just me dragging it along.” He nodded, although she was looking away. “I want…” she hesitated, “I want us to talk about sex, not only when it’s not happening. I’m embarrassed to say this, but… I miss not just the act, but the attention. Hugs, touches—not scheduled.” His ears burned. He wanted to joke about their age, but couldn’t. “When you turn your back to me,” she said, “it feels like you’re no longer interested. Not just as a woman, but… at all.” The timer ticked on. He tried not to watch it creeping down. “All right,” she said as the alarm went. “Your turn.” He reached for the timer, his hand trembling. She turned the dial for him. “I feel,” he started, “that when we talk about money, you treat me like a cashpoint. If I say no to something, it’s seen as stinginess, not fear.” She pressed her lips together but didn’t interrupt. “It’s important to me that you know,” he continued, “I’m scared of being left with nothing. I remember the nineties, counting every penny. And when you shrug it off, I get tense inside.” He took a breath. “I want, when you plan big purchases, for us to talk first. Not hear later: ‘I’ve booked it, I’ve ordered it, I’ve arranged it.’ I’m not against spending, I just don’t want surprises.” The timer beeped. He felt relief. “Can I say something?” she burst out, breaking the rules. —“I can’t keep quiet.” He paused. “Go on,” he said. “When you call yourself a cashpoint,” her voice shook, “it feels like you think all I do is spend. But I’m scared, too. I’m afraid of getting ill, of you leaving, of being alone. Sometimes I buy things because I want to feel we have a future, that we still make plans.” He nearly answered but stopped himself. They sat across the table, as if on opposite sides of a border. “That wasn’t on the timer,” he said quietly. “I know,” she replied. “But I’m not a robot.” He managed a bleak smile. “Maybe this technique isn’t for real people,” he muttered. “It’s for those who want to try again,” she replied. He slumped back against the sofa, feeling drained. “That’s enough for tonight,” he suggested. She glanced at the timer, then at him. “All right,” she agreed. “But let’s not call it a failure. Just… a note in the margin.” He nodded. She gathered the timer, but didn’t take it away, simply placed it nearer the edge of the table, leaving it open for next time. That night, he lay awake for ages. She was beside him, back turned. He reached out, wanting to rest his hand on her shoulder, then stopped a few inches away. Her words about feeling like a flatmate echoed in his mind. He withdrew his hand, rolled onto his back, and stared into the darkness. Their third conversation happened a week later, but started early, on the bus. They were headed to the surgery: he for an ECG, she for tests. The bus was crowded; they stood, hanging onto the rail. She was silent, staring out the window. He watched her profile. “Are you upset?” he asked. “No.” She continued looking outside. “Just thinking.” “About what?” “About the fact we’re getting old,” she said, not turning. “And that if we don’t learn to talk now, we’ll run out of strength later.” He wanted to protest that he was still fine, but the words wouldn’t come. He remembered yesterday, struggling up the five flights of stairs. “I’m afraid,” he said unexpectedly, “that I’ll end up in hospital and you’ll bring things for me and be silently angry.” She turned to him. “I won’t be angry,” she said. “I’ll be scared.” He nodded. That evening, as they sat on the sofa, the timer was already on the table. She placed two mugs of tea beside it and sat opposite. “Let’s start with you tonight,” she suggested. “I already got my words out on the bus.” He sighed and turned the dial to “10.” “I feel,” he said, “every time you mention being tired, I instantly hear it as blame. Even if you don’t say it like that. I start defending myself before you’ve even finished.” She nodded. “It’s important to me,” he continued, “to learn to listen, not just defend myself. But I wasn’t taught that. As a kid, if you were guilty, you got punished. So when you tell me you’re struggling, I hear, ‘You’re bad.’” He realised it was the first time he’d said this aloud. “I want,” he said, “for us to agree: when you talk about your feelings, it doesn’t automatically mean I’m at fault. And if I have made a mistake, please be specific: ‘yesterday,’ ‘now.’ Not ‘always.’” The timer ticked. She listened, not interrupting. “All done,” he finished as it beeped. “Now you.” She twisted the dial. “I feel,” she began slowly, “I’ve lived too long in ‘coping’ mode. For everyone—for the kids, for you, for my parents. And when you go silent, it feels like I’m the one dragging it all by myself.” He remembered when they buried her mother, how quiet he’d been. “It’s important to me,” she continued, “that sometimes you start the conversation. Don’t wait for me to explode—just come and say, ‘How are you?’ or ‘Let’s talk.’ Because otherwise, I feel… a nag.” He nodded. “I want,” she said, pausing for a moment, “that we agree on two things. First: we don’t talk about serious matters when someone’s already tired or angry. Not on the run, not in passing. We reschedule if necessary.” He listened, studying her face. “Second,” she went on, “we don’t raise our voices in front of the kids. I know I lose my temper sometimes, but I don’t want them to see us shouting.” The timer beeped, but she finished quickly. “All done,” she said. He smiled wryly. “That wasn’t by the book,” he pointed out. “But it was real,” she replied. He reached for the timer and turned it off. “I agree,” he said. “With both.” She relaxed her shoulders a little. “Me too,” he added after a pause. “But I want one more thing. Just one.” “What?” she asked warily. “If we don’t finish in ten minutes,” he said, “we don’t drag the row out till midnight. We carry on next Thursday, so it doesn’t become a never-ending battle.” She considered. “Let’s try it,” she said. “But what if something’s urgent?” “If it’s urgent, we put out the fire,” he nodded. “But not with petrol.” She gave a short laugh. “Deal,” she agreed. Between chats, life went on as always. He made coffee in the morning; she fried the eggs. He sometimes washed up before she asked. She noticed but didn’t always say so. In the evenings they watched series, arguing about which character was right. Sometimes she opened her mouth to say, “That’s us all over,” but remembered their rule and saved it for Thursday. Once, standing by the hob, stirring soup, she felt him come up behind and place his hand on her waist. Just because. “What’s this?” she asked, not turning. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m practising.” “Practising what?” she asked. “Touching,” he said. “So it’s not just on schedule.” She smiled, not moving away. “I’ll give you credit for that,” she said. A month later, they sat again on the sofa, the timer between them. “Are we still doing this?” he asked. “What do you think?” she replied. He looked at the round white plastic, at her hands, at his knees. “I think yes,” he said. “We haven’t learnt yet.” “We never will, really,” she shrugged. “It’s not an exam. It’s like brushing your teeth.” He snorted. “Romantic comparison.” “But everyone gets it,” she replied. She set the timer to “10” and placed it down. “Let’s not be too strict tonight,” she said. “If we go off track, we’ll come back.” “No fanaticism,” he agreed. She took a breath. “I feel,” she said, “it’s become a bit easier. Not everywhere, but… I don’t feel so invisible. You talk to me now, ask things yourself. I notice.” He looked a little bashful. “It’s important to me,” she went on, “that we don’t drop this when things feel ‘better.’ That we don’t slip back into old habits of silence until we explode.” He nodded. “I want,” she said, “that a year from now we can say: ‘We’re more honest.’ Not perfect, not without arguments, just… more honest.” The timer ticked on. He listened, realising he didn’t want to joke it off. “All done,” she finished as the beep sounded. “Now you.” He picked up the timer, turned the dial, and set it. “I feel,” he said, “more scared now. Before, I could hide behind silence, and now… I have to speak. I worry about saying the wrong thing and hurting you.” She listened, her head tilted slightly. “It’s important to me,” he continued, “that you remember I’m not the enemy. If I speak about my fears, it’s not against you. It’s just… about me.” He paused for a moment. “I want,” he said, “for us to keep this rule alive. Once a week—honestly and without blame. Even if we mess up sometimes. So it becomes… our shared agreement.” The timer beeped again. He turned it off before the second ring. They sat quietly for a moment. In the kitchen something clicked—the kettle switching off. Next door, the neighbours laughed, the hallway door thudded. “You know,” she said, “I always thought we needed one big revelation. Like in the films. But instead…” “We just do a bit every week,” he finished. “Yes,” she nodded. “Little by little.” He looked at her face. The wrinkles were still there, the tiredness too. But there was something else—maybe attention. “Shall we have some tea?” he suggested. “Let’s,” she agreed. She picked up the timer and carried it to the kitchen. Set it down beside the sugar bowl, not hidden away. He filled the kettle, put it on the hob, and turned on the gas. “I’ve got a doctor’s appointment after work next Thursday,” she said, leaning her palms on the table. “I might be late.” “We’ll move it to Friday, then,” he said. “No serious talks when you’re tired.” She looked at him and smiled. “Deal,” she said. He opened the cupboard, fetched two cups, and put them on the table. The water began to boil. “Where should I put the salt?” he suddenly asked, remembering their first conversation. She glanced around, seeing the jar in his hand. “Where I expect to find it,” she answered automatically, then stopped and added, “Second shelf on the left.” He placed the jar where she’d asked. “Got it,” he said. She stepped closer, touched his shoulder. “Thank you for asking,” she said quietly. He nodded. The kettle got louder, almost boiling. The timer sat in silence on the table, waiting for next Thursday.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 19 minViews 3

The Timer on the Table

Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she said, not looking up from the saucepan.

He stood, still holding the little jar, staring at the shelf. The salt was right where it always was, next to the sugar bowl.

Where did you want it? he asked, cautiously.

Not where I want itwhere I look for it. Ive told you already.

Itd be easier if you just said where, rather than making me play a guessing game, he replied, the familiar irritation quietly rising inside him.

She flicked off the hob with a clang, slammed the lid down on the pan, and turned to face him.

Im tired of repeating myself. Sometimes, itd just be nice if things were where I needed them for once.

So Ive done it wrong, again, he muttered, returning the salt to the shelf, just slightly more to the right.

She was about to answer but instead banged the cupboard door and swept out of the kitchen. He stood there holding a spoon, listening to her footsteps down the hallway. He sighed, tasted the soup, sprinkled in a bit more salt, almost absently.

An hour later, they ate in silence. The news rumbled on the television in the sitting room, its glow reflected in the glass front of the cabinet. She picked at her food, rarely meeting his eye. He poked half-heartedly at his meatball. He was bored of the pattern: something minor, a dig, his retort, her silence.

Is this it? Is this how were going to live now? she asked suddenly.

He looked up.

What do you mean?

I mean, she said, setting her fork down, you do something, I get irritable, you get offended. Round and round.

Well, what else is there? he tried to joke. Were keeping up British traditions.

She didnt smile.

I read something, she said after a moment. About talking, properly talking, once a week. Using a timer.

He blinked.

A timer?

Ten minutes each. I talk, then you talk. No you always, no you never. Just I feel, Its important to me, I want. The other person just listens. No arguments, no defending, just listen.

You got this off the internet?

From a book. Doesnt matter. I want to try it.

He reached for his glass, buying a moment.

And what if I dont want to? he asked, trying not to sound too sharp.

Then well just keep arguing about the salt, she said evenly. And I dont want that.

He studied her face. The lines around her mouth had deepened over the years. He wasnt sure when, exactly. She looked exhausted, not just by the day, but as if from an entire lifetime.

All right, he said. But I should warn you, Im no good at all these techniques.

You dont have to be good at it, she smiled, wearily. You just have to be honest.

On Thursday night, he sat on the sofa, phone in hand, pretending to read the headlines. Inside, he felt the same sensation as before a dentist appointment: a knot of reluctant anticipation.

There it was, a plain white kitchen timer on the coffee table between thema stranger in the sitting room. Usually she used it for baking pies. Now, it was between them, like a silent witness.

She brought in two mugs of tea, set them down, and sat opposite. She wore an old knitted jumper, baggy at the elbows, her hair stuck back in a ponytail.

Well, she said. Shall we?

Is there a schedule? he tried to joke.

Yes. I go first. Ten minutes. Then you. If theres more, well wait till next time.

He nodded, set his phone aside. She picked up the timer, turned the dial to 10, and pressed the button. The faint ticking began.

I feel she started, then paused.

He instinctively braced for you never or you always, muscles preparing for a blow. Instead, hands clasped, she continued.

I feel like Im the wallpaper. That our home, the meals, your shirts, our dayseveryone assumes theyll just continue, forever, unless I stop, and if I did, things would fall apart and no one would notice till it was all too late.

He wanted to say that he noticed, that maybe he just didnt say so, that perhaps she never let him do anything. But he remembered the rule and bit his lip.

It matters to me she glanced at him, then looked away, that the things I do are seen. I dont want praise or daily thanks, just sometimes for you to see more than the soup tastes nice. To see what it takes.

He swallowed. The timer ticked. He wanted to protest: he was tired too, work was no easier. But the rules were clearno interruptions.

I want She sighed. I want not to be automatically responsible for everything: your health, the family holidays, the kids. I want, sometimes, to be allowed to be vulnerable, not just to hold it together.

He looked at her handsthe wedding band he bought for their tenth anniversary now pressing into the skin. He remembered how anxious hed been getting the size right.

The timer beeped. She jumped and gave a short, nervous laugh.

Thats it, she said. My ten minutes.

I he cleared his throat. Me now.

She nodded and twisted the timer back to 10, gently nudging it to him.

He felt like a schoolboy about to stand at the front of the class.

I feel He realised how silly it sounded. I feel that at home, Id rather hide sometimes. Because if I get something wrong, its instantly seen. And if I do things right, its justnormal.

She nodded softly, not interrupting.

Its important to me, he went on, choosing his words, that when I come back from work and crash into my chair, its not treated like a crime. I dont sit at work all day eitherIm exhausted there too.

He caught her gaze: tired, but open.

I want He stalled. I want, when youre upset, not to hear you dont understand anything. I understandmaybe not everything, but not nothing. When you say that, I want to shut down. Because any answer will be the wrong one.

The timer beeped. He jerked, as if pulled from deep water.

They sat in silence. The television was off and, from the next room, came a low humthe fridge or the central heating.

It feels strange, she said. Like a rehearsal.

Like were not husband and wife, but he searched for a word. Patients.

She half-smiled.

Well, if were patients, lets agree to at least try this for a monthonce a week.

He shrugged.

A month isnt a sentence.

She nodded and picked up the timer, carrying it to the kitchen. He watched her go and, oddly, felt as if theyd acquired a new piece of furniture.

On Saturday they went to Tesco. She pushed the trolley ahead, and he trailed behind, ticking off milk, chicken, pasta.

Get some tomatoes, she called over her shoulder.

He went to the box, picked a few, popped them in the bag. He caught himself about to say, I feel like the tomatoes are heavy, and chuckled.

Whats funny? she turned.

Practising, he replied. My new style of talking.

She rolled her eyes, but her lips curled.

No need for that in public, she muttered. Although maybe it wouldnt hurt.

They walked past the biscuit aisle. Instinctively he reached for her favourite, but remembered her saying something about sugar and her blood pressure. He hesitated.

Go on, she said, spotting his pause. Im not a child. If I dont eat them, Ill take them to work.

He dropped a packet in the trolley.

I he began, then stopped.

What? she asked.

I know you do a lot, he managed, staring at the label. Thats for Thursday.

She looked at him, really looked, and nodded.

Ill mark it down, she said.

Their second conversation didnt go well.

He was late to the sofa by a quarter of an hourwork dragged, traffic was awful, and their son rang. She was already waiting, the timer and a grid-lined notepad at her side.

Ready? she asked, without greeting.

One minute, he tossed his jacket on a chair, headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, then came back, feeling her eyes on his back.

You dont have to do this, she said. If youre not interested, say it.

I am, he replied, though he felt nothing but resistance. Its just been a heavy day.

So was mine, she cut in. But I got here on time.

He gripped his glass.

All right, he said. Go on.

She turned the dial.

I feel, she began, like were housemates. We talk about bills, shopping lists, the doctor, but not about what we actually want. I cant remember the last time we planned a holiday together, rather than just tagging along with someone else.

He thought about her sisters place in Kent, about last years holiday camp, booked through her union.

Its important to me, she went on, that we share plans, not just chores. Not maybe well go to the seaside one day, but actually: this place, that week, for that long. As a teamnot just me dragging us along.

He nodded, although she wasnt looking right at him.

I want she hesitated. I want to talk about sex, not just when were not having it. Its embarrassing to say, butIm not just missing, well, sex, but the cuddles, the casual toucheswithout a timetable.

He felt his ears burn. He wanted to joke, in our age group, hardly the main event, but he couldnt quite say it.

When you turn away in bed, she said quietly, I feel like Ive stopped mattering to you. Not just as a woman, asanyone.

The timer ticked. He tried not to look at it, to avoid seeing how much time was left.

Thats it, she said, as the buzz sounded. Your turn.

He reached for the timer, but his hand wavered. She dialed it and passed it over.

I feel, he started, that our chats about money make me feel like a cashpoint. If I say no to something, you take it as stinginess, not fear.

She pressed her lips together but stayed quiet.

It matters to me, he continued, that you know Im afraid well lose our safety net. I remember counting pennies in the nineties, and when you say, oh stop fussing, I freeze up inside.

He took a long breath.

I want us to discuss big buys properly. Not as a fait accompli: Ive booked it, ordered it, sorted it. Im not against spending, I just hate surprises.

The timer beeped. He breathed out, relieved.

Can I say something? she blurted. Its not in the rules, but I cant wait.

He froze.

Go on, he said.

When you say Im a cashpoint, her voice quivered, it sounds like you think all I do is spend. Im scared too. Im scared Ill fall ill, that youll leave, that Ill be alone. Sometimes I buy things, not to spend your money, but to remind myself theres still a future. That we can still plan something.

He opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. They stared at each other across the tablelike opposing sides.

Thats not by the timer, he murmured.

I know, she replied. But Im not a robot.

He gave a joyless laugh.

Maybe this technique isnt made for real people, he muttered.

Its for those who want to try again, she replied.

He slumped back on the sofa, bone-tired.

Lets call it a night, he suggested.

She glanced at the timer, then at him.

Fine. But lets not call this a failure. Justa note in the margin.

He nodded. She moved the timer but didnt take it away, just left it at the edge of the tableas though leaving the door ajar.

That night, he tossed for ages. She lay beside him, back turned. He reached out, wanting to rest his hand on her shoulder, but stopped short. Her words echoed: I feel like your flatmate.

He quietly withdrew his hand, rolled onto his back, and stared at the darkness above.

Their third session came a week later, but it started on the bus.

They were heading to the GP: he needed an ECG, she had blood tests booked. The double-decker was crammed; both stood holding a rail. She stared out the grubby window; he watched her reflection.

Are you angry? he asked.

No, she said. Just thinking.

About what?

About getting older. She didnt look at him. If we cant talk things through now, soon we wont have the energy to.

He thought of denying it, insisting he was fine, but bit his tongue. He remembered wheezing up the stairs yesterday, no lift.

Im scared, he said, surprising himself. That Ill end up in hospital and youll visit with grapes and stew in silence.

She turned towards him.

I wont be angry, she said. Ill be worried.

He nodded.

That evening, they settled on the sofa. The timer was already on the table. She brought two mugs of tea and sat opposite.

Lets start with you tonight, she suggested. I did enough talking on the bus.

He exhaled, twisted the timer to 10.

I feel, he said, that when you talk about being tired, I instantly assume youre blaming me. Even when youre not. I start defending myself, before youve even finished.

She nodded.

Its important to me, he went on, to learn to actually hear younot just defend myself. But I never learnt how. My parents only ever said: If youre in trouble, youll be told off. So whenever you say youre struggling, I hear: Youre the problem.

Hed never said that beforeit felt strange.

I want us to agree that sharing feelings doesnt mean Im automatically at fault. And if I do something wrong, be specific: yesterday, now. Not always.

The timer ticked. She simply listened.

Thats time, he said quietly as the buzzer sounded. Your turn.

She dialed it.

I feel, she said slowly, like Ive been holding everything together for years. The kids, you, my parents. And when you clam up, I feel like Im shouldering it all alone.

He remembered when theyd buried her mother last yearhed hardly spoken then.

Its important to me, she continued, that you sometimes start a conversationnot wait for me to explode. Just come and say, How are you? or Shall we talk? Because if its always on me, I feelannoying.

He nodded.

I want us to agree on two things. She paused. First: we dont talk about the big stuff when one of us is too shattered or angrynot while running out the door, not between the hall and the lift. If we need to, we postpone.

He listened closely.

Second: we dont raise our voices in front of the children. I know I have, but I dont want them seeing us shout.

The timer beeped, but she pushed on.

Thats all, she finished quickly.

He smiled, just a flicker.

That wasnt by the book, he noted.

Its by life, she replied.

He reached over and switched the timer off.

I agree, he said. With both.

Her shoulders eased, just slightly.

And I, he added after a pause, have one request.

What is it? she asked, wary.

If we dont finish in the ten minutes, we dont argue about it all week. We leave itpick up next Thursday. So it doesnt just drag on forever.

She considered.

Lets try, she said. But what if its urgent?

If its urgent, we deal with it, he said. But not by pouring petrol on the fire.

She huffed a soft laugh.

Deal, she said.

Life between those conversations carried on as usual.

In the mornings, he made his coffee, she fried the eggs. Sometimes he washed up, even if she hadnt asked. She noticed, but didnt always say. At night, they watched the telly, arguing over whose character was more right. Occasionally, she almost said, Thats just like us, but caught herself and saved it for Thursday.

One day, she was stirring soup at the cooker when she felt his arms slip around her waist. Just because, for no reason at all.

Whats this? she asked, not turning.

Nothing, he replied. Im practising.

Practising what? she frowned.

Touching, he said simply. Not just by appointment.

She smirked but didnt move away.

Ill add it to your record, she said.

A month later, they sat again on the sofa, the timer between them.

Carrying on? he asked.

What do you think? she replied.

He looked at the white plastic, at her hands, at his own knees.

I think so, he said. Were not done learning.

We never will be, she said with a shrug. Its not an exam. Its more like brushing your teeth.

He snorted.

Very romantic, he teased.

But you get the idea, she replied.

She spun the timer to 10 and set it down.

Lets be a bit softer this time, she suggested. If we drift off, well find our way back.

No need to go overboard, he agreed.

She breathed in.

I feel, she said, that things are lighter. Not solved, butless invisible. You talk more, ask me things without prompting. I see that.

He blushed slightly.

It matters to me, she said, that we dont drop this if things improve. That we dont slip back to silence until the next explosion.

He nodded.

I want, a year from now, to be able to say: Were more honest. Not perfect, not argument-freejust a bit more genuine.

The timer ticked. He listened, feeling unusually unwilling to crack any jokes.

All right, she stopped as it beeped. Your turn.

He turned the dial, set the timer.

I feel, he admitted, more afraid now. Hiding behind silence was easier. Now I have to speak up, and Im terrified Ill get it wrong, or hurt you.

She listened, head slightly tilted.

It matters to me, he said, that you remember: Im not the enemy. My worries arent an attack on you. Theyre just about me.

He paused.

I want us to stick to this ruleonce a week, honest, no blame. Even if we slip up. Lets keep it as our own contract.

The timer buzzed. He flipped it off before it could sound again.

They sat quietly. From the kitchen came a clickthe kettle switching off. Laughter filtered through the walls from next door; a front door slammed above.

You know, she said, I always thought wed have one big breakthroughlike a film, everything changes at once. But it turns out

We just do a little, week by week, he finished.

She nodded.

Little by little.

He looked at her face. The lines were still there, the tiredness too. But there was something else now, something new in her gaze. Maybe it was attention.

Shall we have some tea? he suggested.

Lets, she agreed.

She picked up the timer and took it to the kitchen, setting it beside the sugar bowl without tucking it away. He poured water into the kettle and set it to boil.

Ive got the doctor Thursday after work, she said, bracing herself on the table. I might be late.

Well do Friday then, he replied. No important chats when youre utterly knackered.

She met his eyes, and smiled.

Deal, she said.

He reached up, opened the cupboard for two mugs, set them down on the table. The kettle started to rumble.

Where do you want the salt? he asked suddenly, thinking of that first conversation.

She turned, spotted the jar in his hand.

Where I look for it, she replied automatically, then paused and clarified, Second shelf, left side.

He placed it exactly there.

Got it, he responded.

She stepped closer, touched his shoulder.

Thank you for asking, she murmured.

He nodded. The kettle hissed louder. The timer waited quietly on the table, ready for its next Thursday.

Anna parked her car a street away from her mother-in-law’s house. The clock read 5:45 p.m.—she’d arrived earlier than planned. “Maybe she’ll finally appreciate my punctuality this time,” Anna thought, smoothing the creases from her new dress. The gift—an antique brooch she’d spent months hunting down from collectors—rested carefully wrapped on the backseat. As Anna approached the house, she noticed the ground-floor window was ajar. Her mother-in-law’s voice rang out clearly from inside: “No, Beatrice, can you believe it? She didn’t even bother to ask what kind of cake I like! She went and ordered some trendy dessert… Our son has always loved classic Victoria sponge, and she—” There was a pause. “—doesn’t even understand. Seven years of marriage!” Anna froze. Her feet felt glued to the pavement. “Of course I’ve told you before—she just isn’t right for David. She works day and night at that clinic, barely home at all. What sort of housewife is that? I popped by yesterday—dirty dishes everywhere, dust on the mantel… Naturally, she was off performing some complicated operation!” Inside, Anna went numb. She leaned on the garden gate, feeling her knees tremble. For seven years, she had tried to be the perfect daughter-in-law: cooking, cleaning, remembering every birthday, popping in when her mother-in-law was ill. And all for this… “No, no, I’m not saying anything really, but is that the kind of woman our David needs? He deserves a proper family, warmth and care… and she’s always away at conferences or working nights. She doesn’t even think about children! Can you imagine?” Family Games Anna’s head buzzed. Mechanically, she pulled out her phone and dialed her husband. “David? I’ll be a bit late. Yes, everything’s fine, just… traffic.” She turned and walked back to her car. Sitting down, Anna stared blankly ahead. The harsh words echoed in her head: “Maybe a little more salt?” “In my day, women stayed home…” “David works so hard, he needs extra attention…” Her phone vibrated—a message from her husband: “Mum’s asking where you are. Everyone’s here.” Anna drew a deep breath. A strange smile crept onto her face. “Right,” she thought, “if they want the perfect daughter-in-law, they can have her.” She started the engine and drove back to her mother-in-law’s house. The plan had formed in an instant. No more trying to please. It was time to show them just what the “ideal” daughter-in-law could really be like. Anna burst through the door wearing her brightest smile. “Mummy dearest!” she exclaimed, wrapping her mother-in-law in an exaggeratedly enthusiastic hug. “Sorry I’m late—I went to three different shops to get the exact candles you love!” Her mother-in-law froze, startled at the display. “I thought…” she began, but Anna was already barreling on: “Oh, and guess what—I ran into your lovely friend Beatrice on the way! Such a delightful woman, always so honest, isn’t she?” Anna gave her mother-in-law a knowing look, watching her face pale. Through dinner, Anna laid on the performance: heaping the choicest bites onto her mother-in-law’s plate, loudly admiring every comment, endlessly seeking advice about running a home. “Mummy, do you think borscht should simmer for five or six hours? And carpets—best cleaned morning or night? Maybe I should give up my job—after all, David needs a proper family, doesn’t he?” David stared in shock; the relatives exchanged glances. Anna kept going: “I was thinking—maybe I should sign up for housekeeping classes? This silly surgery business, perhaps it’s not for me… A woman should be the heart of the home, shouldn’t she, Mummy?” Her mother-in-law began tapping her fork nervously against her plate. Her poise crumbled with every minute. And what happened next? Well, some stories are best read all the way to the end…

I Made the Most Romantic Financial Mistake of My Life: I Built My Dream Home on Someone Else’s Land When I got married, my British mother-in-law smiled and said, “Dear, why rent? There’s space above our house. Build your own flat upstairs and live in peace.” At the time, it sounded like a blessing. I believed her. I also believed in love. My husband and I put every saved pound into building this future home. We didn’t buy a car. We skipped holidays. Every bonus, every saving—spent on materials, builders, windows, tiles. We built for five years. Slowly. With hope. We turned an empty space into a real home. With the kitchen I’d always dreamed of. With big windows. With walls in the colours I imagined for “our home.” I used to say proudly, “This is our home.” But life doesn’t wait for you to be ready. Our marriage began to crack. Arguments. Shouting. Differences we couldn’t overcome. On the day we decided to separate, I learned the most expensive lesson of my life. As I packed my clothes through tears, I looked at the walls I had sanded and painted myself and said: “At least give me back some of what we put in. Or pay me my share.” My mother-in-law—the same woman who once suggested “building upstairs”—stood in the doorway, arms crossed and eyes cold: “There’s nothing here that belongs to you. The house is mine. The papers are mine. If you’re leaving, you leave with what you can carry. Everything else stays here.” That’s when it hit me. Love doesn’t sign documents. Trust isn’t ownership. And hard work without a deed is just a loss. I walked out with two suitcases and five years of life poured into bricks and walls that were no longer mine. I left with no money. No home. But with clarity. The worst money lost isn’t what you spend on pleasure. The worst is what you invest in something that was never truly yours. Bricks don’t have feelings. Words drift away. But documents last. And if I can say just one thing to every woman: No matter how much you love, never build your future on someone else’s property. Sometimes, trying to “save rent” can cost you your whole life.