Dear Diary,
After the New Years celebrations I found myself tangled in a familiar domestic standoff. My wife, Emily, trudged toward the bedroom, halfasleep, and I, still halfawake, called out, Emily, where are you off to?
She sighed, To the bed, whats the fuss?
I, halfjoking, halfirritated, asked, What about the dishes?
By then the last of the guests had drifted out, the house quiet except for the soft ticking of the hallway clock. Only my motherinlaw, Mrs. Margaret, lingered a little longer before retreating to her own room. Emily, exhausted, stacked the leftover food into containers, shoved the plates into the sink and declared the job done. I wasnt convinced.
Tomorrow Ill wash them, or you can do it yourself if you prefer! I offered.
Emily replied, James, my mother is staying with us. I cant imagine her face in the morning if she finds a mess!
She brushed it off. Its not the dishes that matter, love. The celebration was a successwe ate, we laughed, we even danced a bit. Im knackered and just want to sleep. Ill do the washing tomorrow; Ive no strength left tonight.
I asked, Are you feeling faint?
She retorted, Imagine! While you were lounging somewhere, I managed to tidy the whole house, prepare enough food for a platoon, and even decorate the tree. Thank heavens our little Evelyn helped. You promised to come home early and pitch in, too.
I couldnt, I explained, the car broke down on the way back.
She snapped, Now Im telling you Im going to bed! If you dont like the sink, you know where the sponge and soap are. Off you go! Im off to sleep!
I stopped arguing and let her collapse onto the pillow, utterly spent. I lingered at the computer for a while longer, but never got up to wash. Fatigue settled over me, and I went to bed disgruntled, dreading the inevitable lecture from Margaret in the morning.
We all awoke late on January1st; we had gone to bed around four in the morning after the party. Mrs. Margaret, who had danced herself sore the night before, slept the longest. Emily was the first adult to rise. Instead of grabbing a cloth, she brewed a mug of coffee and settled down to read a story onlineher usual start to the day, especially on the first of the year.
The aroma of coffee drifted into the kitchen, pulling me out of sleep.
Good morning, I muttered, glancing at the sink. Still havent washed them?
Emily smiled, Good morning, sunshine! Lets keep the day bright. Ive made two mugs in the kettle, help yourself.
I poured a cup, took a seat at the table, and recalled the piece of cake I hadnt managed to sample the night before. I sliced a small portion for myself.
Want a bite? I asked.
No, thank you. Quick carbs in the morning are a sin, and I ate enough yesterday. Ill be on a dry toast diet for a couple of days. Enjoy your cake, my sleek cypress! she teased, gesturing at the slight bulge under my Tshirt.
Ha, Ill burn it off at the gym later, I chuckled.
She waved me off, Fine, eat if you like. Its your call.
My mood lifted as I washed down the cake with coffee.
Has Lucy gotten up yet? I asked about our daughter.
She got up, had her cereal with milk, then went back to bed, I think. I havent seen her, but I heard her moving.
Just then, Mrs. Margaret slipped silently into the kitchen. I braced myself for a scolding, but she surprised us both.
Oh dear, Ive always dreamed of seeing this scene! she exclaimed with a grin.
What do you mean? I asked, puzzled.
She sighed, If you only knew how dreadful it is to wash dishes right after New Years or any big celebration. Its sheer torture! Im glad youre not like your father.
What are you getting at? I thought youd be furious, I replied.
She laughed, Nonsense! It was your father who drove me mad with his obsession to have the dishes done every evening. He insisted I do them. We fought over it many times. I eventually gave in and washed them at night, hating him for it. I often surrendered on household chores
My father had died five years earlier from a heart attack. My mother had long since moved past those memories, yet she spoke oddly now, hinting that she had never been the sole keeper of cleanliness.
Really, Mum? I asked.
Absolutely, she replied. Your father was a stickler for spotless everything. It drove me nuts, but he had many good qualities, so I accepted his standards. Sometimes I think his obsession contributed to his early deathhe gave too much weight to trivial things, like a pile of unwashed plates after a party.
Come off it, Mum, youre overthetop, I muttered.
Emily, absorbed in her phone, barely heard the conversation.
No, I truly believe it, my mother continued. My old friend George was always fretting over insignificant matters. Its sad. I tried to explain, but hed been raised that way. Remember your grandmother? She was a cleanfreak, forcing the kids to be immaculate. Perhaps thats why he turned out the way he did. She turned to Emily. Well done, Emily! You didnt fall for the provocation!
I was taken aback when she called my name.
Good on you for leaving the dishes till morning! she praised. And you, James, well done for not nagging your wife over such petty things!
I managed a weak smile, recalling yesterdays argument, but I didnt want to argue in front of my motherinlaw.
Honestly, I think the wife does most of the workcooking, decorating, everythingwhile the husband lends a hand only occasionally. For fairness, he should get the least appealing chores!
Whats the least appealing? I guessed.
The very thing in the sink! she winked, pointing. Come on, Emily, lets watch some telly and look at yesterdays photos. We took loads. James, finish your coffee; the dishes are still yours!
Emily laughed, Im thrilled, James, you have such a considerate mum! Im delighted! She stood, clutching her nowcool coffee, and left the kitchen with my mother.
I was left staring at the mountain of dishes, a sour taste in my mouth.
Why did I even start that argument? I muttered, turning the tap on.
If Id been alone with Emily, I could have concocted an excuse, but you cant argue with your motherinlaw. Thus a new tradition slipped into our young marriageone that Emily adored and I despised.
What can I say? Life isnt always fair, but it teaches you where to draw the line.
Lesson learned: a happy home isnt built on who washes the plates, but on the willingness to share the load without turning every chore into a battlefield.
