I Buy Premium Turkey Meat for Myself and Make Healthy Steamed Cutlets, While He Gets Expired Pork—Reflections of a British Wife After Thirty Years of Marriage and Tending to Family, as My Husband Refuses to Work or Share Household Duties

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 1

I buy good-quality turkey mince for myself and make healthy steamed burgers, while he gets the nearing-its-expiry pork.

Im fifty-seven. Ive been married for more than thirty years and in that time, Ive done my husbands laundry, cooked his meals, and kept the home ticking over in shipshape condition. We have two children, whom I singlehandedly raised and shepherded through school and university. For as long as I can remember, Ive been like a hamster on a wheel. Always juggling several jobs, picking up any work going, just to make sure our children had everything and never looked out of place next to their friends.

All those years, my husband never really bothered his head with hard work. Once he hit retirement age, he plonked himself down in front of the telly and hasnt lifted a finger since. Meanwhile, Im still hobbling off to work each day, minding the grandchildren, and doing every last bit of housework.

Ive asked him, many times, to pick up a part-time jobsecurity guard, shelf stacker, anything really. But he just shrugs and says were doing fine without it. Hes certainly no fool when it comes to food, mind you! I barely have time to whip up a dinner. Sometimes Ill come home, and hes eaten anything halfway decent and left me the soupif Im lucky.

One day, I mentioned all this to a friend, who suggested I start cooking separatelyuse budget ingredients for him, and the good stuff for myself. I went home and told my dear husband that the doctors put me on a special diet, and from now on, he really ought to steer clear of my meals for health reasons.

Now, I squirrel away my food and, when he nips off to the garage, I treat myself to sweets. I stash sausage and cheese deep in the fridge, well hidden from his line of sight, and when hes not looking, I polish it all off. Thank goodness weve got two fridges: one for the usual groceries, another holding jars andincreasinglymy little cache of treats.

You know how men arewouldnt notice an elephant in a tutu. I buy myself the best turkey mince, steam up lovely burgers, and for him, its pork thats well past its best-by, but a sprinkle of herbs and hes none the wiser. He gets bargain-bin pasta by the bagful, and for me, only the finest durum wheat.

I cant see anything wrong with my little arrangements; if he wants to eat well, let him get a job. At our age, getting divorced would be daftmost of lifes behind us, and we have a house together. Why sell up and split the money now? Far too much troubleand, honestly, who has the energy?

My Dearest One. A Story Caroline had always believed she’d grown up in her own family. It still seemed impossible to accept. But there was no one left to talk to about it. Her adoptive parents had passed away, one after the other. First her father fell ill and never recovered. Soon after, her mother followed. Caroline had sat at her mother’s bedside, holding her frail, lifeless hand. Her mother was very weak. Suddenly, Caroline noticed her mother opening her eyes: “Carrie, darling, your father and I never managed to tell you. We just couldn’t bring ourselves to say it… We found you. Yes, we found you in the woods, crying, lost. We waited for someone to come looking for you. Reported it to the police. But no one ever did. Maybe something happened, I never knew. And in the end they let us adopt you. At home, in the dresser where I keep my papers. There are some documents… letters… Please, read them. Forgive us, darling.” Her mother was exhausted and closed her eyes. “Oh, Mum,” Caroline pressed her mother’s hand to her cheek, unsure what to say, “Mum, I love you and I so want you to get better.” But the miracle never came. And within a few days, her mother was gone. It might have been better if she’d told Caroline nothing at all. She didn’t tell her husband or her children about her mother’s last words. In fact, she seemed to have forgotten, tucking her mother’s secret away in a dark corner of her memory. The children had adored their grandma and granddad. Caroline didn’t want to trouble anyone with this unwanted truth. But one day, driven by a strange impulse, she finally opened the folder her mother had mentioned. There were newspaper clippings, letters, responses. As Caroline began to read, she couldn’t stop. Dearest, beloved parents! They had found her—Caroline—at eighteen months old, in the woods. They were already in their forties and had no children. Suddenly, a crying little girl had reached out to them with tiny arms. The village constable had just shrugged his shoulders—no one had reported a missing child. They adopted Caroline. But her mother kept searching for her real family. Perhaps not to find them, but to make sure no one would come and take their beloved daughter away. Caroline shut the folder and shoved it far back on the shelf. Who needed this truth? A week later, she was called into Human Resources: “Caroline Paige, there’s someone here asking after you from your previous job.” A woman about Caroline’s age sat next to the HR manager: “Hello, I’m Helen. I really must talk to you,” Helen glanced at the HR manager, “It’s about Mrs. Elizabeth Chapman. You’re her daughter, right?” “You said this was about her old work!” the HR manager fumed. “Private matters aren’t for work hours!” “It’s all right, Helen, let’s talk outside,” Caroline suggested. They left under the HR manager’s watchful glare. “I’m sorry, this is strange, but I promised,” Helen began nervously, “Three years ago, I ran into my first primary school teacher—at Littledale Primary. I’d moved on, but she’d stayed. She was old, all alone. Invited me in for tea, asked me for a favour. Said her little girl went missing many years ago. She’d been writing to your mother.” “I’m sorry, Helen,” Caroline replied stiffly, “My mother died, and I’m not involved in this.” “I understand, Caroline. It’s just—Mrs. Chapman’s very ill. Cancer, they say she doesn’t have long. She’s desperate to find her daughter, whom she’s searched for all her life. She even gave me a lock of hair to try for a DNA test. Can you imagine?” Caroline was about to end the conversation, but something stopped her. “She’s seriously ill, you say?” Helen nodded. Caroline took the envelope with the hair and agreed to stay in touch. A week later, they visited Mrs. Chapman in hospital together. They walked into her room, and Mrs. Chapman peered at them with dim eyes. “Oh, Helen, you came! Thank you, dear,” she smiled shyly, then looked questioningly at Caroline. “Mrs. Chapman, I found her. This is Caroline. She wanted to come herself,” Helen handed her an envelope. “What’s that? Even with my glasses I can hardly see,” her eyes looked at them, hopeful. “It’s the test result,” Helen pulled out a sheet, “It says you’re related. Caroline is your daughter.” Mrs. Chapman’s face lit up with joy, tears spilling down her cheeks. “My dearest, my child—thank you both—my dearest, what happiness. I’ve found you. Alive and beautiful, looking just like I did as a girl. My dearest child,” she took Caroline’s hands, “Every night of my life I woke thinking I heard you crying, calling for me. There’s no forgiving me. Alive, alive. Now I can rest.” A little later, Helen and Caroline left Mrs. Chapman, who drifted off to sleep, exhausted. “Thank you, Caroline. You can see how ill she is. You made her happy.” A few days later, Mrs. Chapman passed away. Caroline tore up all the papers from her mother’s folder. She didn’t want anyone else to uncover this pointless truth. But what truth was there, really? After all, Caroline had never had any other mother. And Mrs. Chapman? That was just a blessed lie. Was Caroline right to do what she did? She believes it was for the best. In the end, each of us must answer to God for what we have done.