Lucy had always been the punchline to fates little joke. Orphaned as a child, she spent her formative years in a Midlands orphanage, with only the odd goldfish for company. At eighteen, she married faster than you could say bangers and mash, without the slightest clue about being a wife or what family life actually entailedher circle of friends contained approximately zero married couples.
Upon moving into her husbands flat, Lucy became a sponge for any wisdom on how to be the perfect wife, much of it coming from her mother-in-law, Mrs Pennington, who lived just down the street and fancied herself a sort of domestic oracle. Lucy had heard the talesthe classics about domineering mothers-in-lawbut with no mother herself, she clung to the hope Mrs Pennington might fill the gap, maybe even teach her how to roast a proper Sunday dinner.
Wishful thinking, really. Mrs Pennington wasnt a monster; she didnt actively plot doom upon her daughter-in-law. Instead, she dispensed pearls of wisdom with cheerful gusto. One of her favourites: If your husband strays, its really your fault, dear.
Why! Lucy had always imagined the adulterer was to blame, but apparently, in Pennington logic, the wife was at fault for letting herself go and failing to remain alluring. Mrs Pennington advised Lucy to keep a wasp-waist straight into old age. Dutifully, Lucy scribbled in her diaryDont get fatand signed up for the local gym.
Lucy was already slender, but terrified of tipping the scales, she started shedding more weight. Next lesson: In a proper English household, both spouses must work!
Lucy didnt object; she actually craved a job, even if it meant stacking Tesco shelves. When she asked Mrs Pennington what happens when youre on maternity leave, her mother-in-law shrugged: Maternity leave is your problem, love. You sort it out.
Lucy didnt jot that one down, but after a couple of years, when her baby arrived, she worked part-time and moonlighted as a childminder. Lucy was happy enough, but her husband and mother-in-law muttered about how she earned mere peanuts.
Lucy figured it wouldnt hurt if she spent her paltry earnings on a haircut, but Mrs Pennington chimed in with another gem: During maternity leave, theres no use for smart clothes. Save your pennies, dear! Makeup and hairdos were apparently reserved for women actually going somewhere.
Lucy used to hand all her earnings over to her husband. One bit of Mrs Penningtons wisdom echoed through their married life: A good wife handles all the housework herself!
So Lucy dideverything. At times, she was so worn out she barely made it to bed before passing out. Faints became her nightly ritual. After the youngest finally nodded off around nine, shed drag herself up to clean and prep meals for the next day. By then, her husband would be enjoying his tenth nap, exhausted from earning a living, while Lucy soldiered on.
The trip to the hospital was, frankly, inevitable. Lucy had never found time to pay attention to her nagging aches, missing the early signs of something serious. She spent over two weeks in hospital, and, naturally, her husband and Mrs Pennington never set foot in her room. Thankfully, her mobile was at hand, so she rang a friend, who came bearing all the essentials.
Once Lucy was discharged, she wasted no timewalked straight to the solicitors and filed for divorce. Sometimes, really, you have to do something for yourselfpreferably before you become part of the furniture.
