He Considered Her a Bad Mother and a Bad Wife
A friend of mine, a mother of three, recently remarried. How she managed that remains quite a mystery to me. It’s not that mothers with multiple children can’t find new partners—they certainly can if love is involved! But for as long as I remember from her first marriage, she was often labeled as the “worst mother and wife.”
I visited her home several times during her “previous” life. I remember her as always exhausted, overwhelmed, and disoriented.
She would burn the porridge, the youngest would wander around in wet trousers for hours, and she would be torn between him, the middle child with his homework, and the stove, unable to attend to everything at once. Dinner needed to be prepared before her husband returned from work. Somehow, she had to tidy up since he liked order. She’d gather toys, stuffing them into boxes; the youngest would scatter them again…
At the same time, she’d open the internet, sending emails—she was freelancing because her husband’s salary barely sufficed. It was an endless gloomy chaos. Her husband would come home, glance at the disorder, and casually remark, “Give the cat some water! Do something useful for once…” Half-jokingly, half-seriously. But those words stuck with me.
My friend would drop everything—emails, ladles, wet trousers—and, with an apologetic smile, fill the cat’s bowl with water. It was the only useful thing she could do for the day.
I made a silly mistake trying to lighten the mood. Half-jokingly, I suggested she leave all these cats and the unfinished dinner, get the kids together, put on some makeup (talking to her, that is), and let’s head to a café. “I’ll bring my kids too.”
“She’s too old to wear makeup!” her husband snorted, again supposedly joking…
I watched her in horror, realizing she was actually younger than me. If she’s old, what does that make me?
She apologized and said they preferred home-cooked meals. She began setting the table for her waiting husband. Meanwhile, the kids threw around toys again, and she gathered them with a “third” hand, because her husband liked order. Her phone beeped, probably work emails.
“Stop sitting on the internet all day,” her husband said.
I took my leave.
“It’s my own fault”
No, she never complained. Not once! No matter how grey or green she looked, she’d always confidently reply, “Everything’s fine!” And she’d hide her lifeless, colorless eyes.
But we always had many mutual acquaintances. From one or another, I’d hear her mother-in-law was dissatisfied. The daughter-in-law was a bad mother because their youngest fell off a bike and needed stitches. She needed to watch, not mess around with nonsense… She was a bad wife because their home was a mess, and the kids and husband weren’t well-fed.
Once, her husband went to school, which led to a scandal at home afterward. The eldest had misbehaved, all because the “bad mother” wasn’t focusing on their upbringing. I heard she began taking antidepressants because, yes, she was a bad mother and wife. She did nothing, and even if she wanted to, she had no strength. Even the kids understood.
“Mum, you’re bad!” the youngest yelled outside while we walked together. “You don’t read me a book.” She pulled out a book from her bag and began reading, resigned and weary. She genuinely wanted to be a good mother.
Then they divorced. Her husband met another woman. Probably a better wife and homemaker. But, to be fair, he regularly paid child support and was involved with the kids.
“Well, that’s how it is,” was all my friend said when I inquired. “It’s probably my fault.”
Later, she moved with the kids, exchanged apartments, and we lost touch for quite a while.
“From Ugly Duckling to Swan”
Time passed, and we recently reconnected on social media. She reached out to me herself. I was surprised. From the profile picture, a completely different, unfamiliar woman looked back at me. Bright, beautiful, happy, and full of energy. My curiosity was piqued, and I suggested we meet up.
We met at a café. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She was truly someone else. Confident in herself, in life, in people. It was then that I learned she remarried.
“I don’t even know why he noticed me,” she shared. “I was just trying to survive…”
But the man was persistent, cared for her, became friends with her kids, and proposed.
It turns out she’s the best mother and wife. Cooking eggs that sometimes burnt? She’s the best homemaker. Tomorrow she’s baking pies because she’s the best. She wanted to bring joy. Messy house? A wonderful mother and wife. Because it turns out you can tidy up together and have fun chatting.
It turns out you don’t have to carry all the shopping bags alone and then be criticized for forgetting something—yet again, distracting yourself with nonsense. You can go shopping together and laugh if you forget something. It turns out she’s far from an old maid; she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. She’s now styling her hair in the evenings just to greet the one who sees her beauty.
Turns out she’s quite remarkable because she even manages to freelance. But it’s not mandatory. Only if she wishes to.
It turns out she’s not the useless nobody she thought herself to be for years. All because she’s loved, praised, and appreciated. Not criticized.
I listened in awe. Then her new husband picked her up. And I understood everything. You know, he looked at her in such a way that she truly blossomed. She couldn’t not blossom. He spoke and treated her in such a way that she couldn’t help but become the most wonderful woman in the world.
He brought along her three kids. I saw them briefly. Even in that brief moment, I noticed she was the best mother. That’s how they behaved.
All because someone beside her helped her believe in that. Turned the ugly duckling into a beautiful swan… It’s so important to have someone who helps you become that swan. Because a swan needs time, strength, and love to spread its wings.
No, I’m not trying to say anything specific. I’m not trying to blame anyone. Life can be unpredictable. But that’s the story. I’m quite curious about what her first husband thinks now.
