I dont eat leftovers, cook fresh every day. Thats what my 48-year-old partner proclaimed as he handed me a list of five womens duties. Heres what I did.
When Mark opened the fridge on Saturday morning, pulled out a container of the stew Id made the night before, and said, Emma, you know I dont eat leftovers. Cant you make something fresh?there I was, at the cooker with my coffee, looking at him like hed just landed from Mars. It wasnt the request for foodas people do ask. But his tone wasnt a request, it was a declaration. As though it was a given that a woman should whip up fresh meals on demand, and reheating last nights dinner was nothing less than a serious affront to his comfort.
Im forty-five. Im independent, working, with my own flata life I built for myself after divorce. Id invited Mark to move in just a month agonot so I could wait on someone, but simply because I wanted to be near a man who, I thought, was mature and reasonable. Turns out my idea of mature needed a rethink.
He had seemed entirely normaluntil he moved in.
Wed met in the most unremarkable wayon a dating app. Mark, forty-eight, divorced, worked as a delivery driver, renting a small one-bedroom flat. He was always polite in messages, a gentleman on dates. He brought flowers, cracked jokes, never asked nosy questions about my earnings or tried to impress me with tales of his own.
For three months, everything ticked along calmly. No red flags, no oddities. Hed visit on weekends, wed cook together, watch films, go for walks. Hed help with the washing-up, offer to pop to the shops, hand out compliments. I thought, Finallya grown man without any skeletons in the closet.
Then he mentioned he was tired of paying rent, said, Itd make sense to move in with you since were together most of the time anyway. I said yes, figuring if we were adults, what was the point of delaying the obvious?
The first week was perfectly fine. He cleaned up after himself, even cooked sometimes, and never left his stuff lying about. But in week two, little things started cropping uplittle things I tried to write off at first.
Those little things soon proved to be anything but.
He stopped washing his mug after tea. When I asked why, he shrugged, Youll do the washing up this evening anyway, why bother twice? Soon dirty socks appeared by the sofa. I asked him to chuck them in the laundry basket and he just laughed, Emma, its no big deal. Dont stress.
Every day hed ask me to fetch something, do somethingeven if he was sitting closer. Em, pass me the remote. Em, pour me a glass of water. Em, have you seen my charger? And bear in mind, I worked from home, while he came home evenings. Gradually, I felt more like the housekeeper than a partner, all in my own flat.
Then there was the ragù fiasco. And then the evening he handed me the list.
On Sunday evening, Mark sat across from me on the sofa, pulled out his phone with a look of grave importance.
Listen, Ive been thinking. We ought to sort out domestic matters, just to avoid confusion. Ive made a list of whats logical for us as a couple.
I tensed. I imagined hed suggest splitting choresorganising what each of us did, in a way that suited both.
He opened his notes, and began to read.
The first item: Cooking. The woman should cook every day, ideally something varied. I dont eat leftovers, so every day the food needs to be fresh. I blinked, gobsmacked, but he carried on, unfazed.
The second: Laundry and ironing. Thats a womans job, men dont understand it. My shirts should be ironed by Monday. Now I was boiling insideboth angry and bewildered.
The third: Cleaning. Do a deep clean weekly, dust regularly. Im at work all day, I havent got time for that. His voice was as steady as if he were reading out a job description, not talking to the woman alongside whom he lived.
The fourth: Physical intimacy. Minimum twice a week. Its key to a harmonious relationship. I clenched my fists as he flicked through his phone, never even looking up.
The fifth: Money. We split the bills fifty-fifty. Food shopping is on you, since youre home and cooking. Ill cover just my personal expenses. He finished with a smile, as if hed proposed something perfectly fair: Thats reasonable, isnt it?
I paused for a few seconds and asked, as calmly as I could, Mark, where are your contributions in this list? He raised his eyebrows, baffled: What do you mean? I bring in money for the house, dont I? I work too, I told him. From home, but full-time, and I earn no less than you. But thats remote work, he waved it off, not like my job. Youve got the heating, youre just at home. Im out all day, dealing with people, worn out.
I got up from the sofa. Mark, are you asking me to be your housekeeper, but for free? He frowned, Housekeeper? No, its just normal division in a couple. Man goes to work, woman looks after the home. Its always been this way. It was, in the fifties, I told him. Its the twenty-first century now. He sighed, as if I were a child. Emma, men arent built for housework. Were hunters, providers. The woman keeps the home fires burning.
I didnt sleep a wink that night. I lay there, listening to Mark snoring beside me, unconcernedas if this list, and my place in it, were normal.
By five in the morning, my mind was made up. Quietly, I packed his things into two bags and left them by the door. I wrote a note: Mark, Ive read your list. Heres mine:
1) Find yourself another housekeeper.
2) Your things are by the door.
3) Leave the key in the post box.
4) Dont call. Good luck finding someone wholl be your servant in exchange for harmony.
I left before he woke, went to my friend Sophies, had coffee, and told her everything. She simply shook her head, Emma, thank God you noticed now. Just imagine a year from now.
Three hours later, Mark texted: Seriously? Youre losing it over nothing. I thought you were a grown woman. I didnt answer; I blocked his number.
So, what was really behind this list?
Its been two months. Ive thought a lot, and heres what strikes me: Mark wasnt after a partnerhe wanted someone to do his chores, be available for him, with no expectations in return. For him, it really was normala woman over forty wasnt a person with her own boundaries, but someone who ought to be grateful for attention and constantly providing. Worse, there are plenty like himthey seem well-adjusted at first, but once you move in, the mask slips and the demands begin.
Most important lesson? Its far better to be alone and free than living with someone who sees you as staff. Im forty-five, and Ive earned the right to live life my wayno lists, no duties that are just for me, no man who sees me as a service.
If that means being on my own, so be it. Ill take solitude over the company of someone who thinks of me as nothing more than a housekeeper.
And you? Would you have walked out after that list, or tried some compromise? Why is it some men, past forty-five, want a housekeeper, not a partner? And have you ever found someone changing after they moved in, suddenly presenting a whole new set of demands?
That morning taught me: my own happiness is my responsibilityand it doesnt come from blindly filling someone elses idea of a womans place.
