I dated a woman for nearly a year, never stinted on spending for her or her grandson. Yet the moment I asked her to pack some pies for me, I immediately learned my place.
The waiter carefully set down a plastic container in front of us, cradling a barely touched slice of chocolate cake. Margaret, clearly satisfied, pulled the box towards herself. We were at a respectable café in central Manchester, soft music playing in the background, yet inside me a faint irritation was steadily growing.
We’d been together almost a year. I’m fifty-eight, Margarets fifty-four both with our own histories, former marriages, divorces, grown children and, of course, grandchildren. I have two a boy and a girl. She has just one beloved grandson, Oliver, her six-year-old ray of sunshine, whom Id only briefly glimpsed a couple of times, but about whom I feel I know more detail than about my own blood pressure.
Margaret stowed the container in her handbag and gave me that gentle smile that once made me lose my head.
Ollie adores anything chocolate, she said. Im quite full already, so best not to let this go to waste, right?
I nodded silently, flagged down the waiter and paid the bill cake, my coffee, her salad. Money was never the issue Im comfortable. But it wasnt about the cost; it was the pattern that had quietly taken shape over the past six months. I stubbornly ignored it, chalking it up to grandmotherly affection. At every opportunity and most often at my expense Margaret would take home whatever she could to delight her precious grandson.
The first alarm bell rang three months ago at the cinema for a big film premiere. I bought our tickets, then at the concession stand Margaret asked for the biggest tub of caramel popcorn and a large cola.
I was surprised; she usually avoids sweets, always watching her figure. I assumed she was indulging for the evening. We found our seats, and as the lights went down, I helped myself to a handful of popcorn. Margaret, however, kept the tub firmly in her lap, having specifically requested a lid at the counter, and didnt eat a single piece.
Why arent you eating? I whispered. Its good.
Oh no, I dont fancy any, she replied quietly. Ill take this to Ollie hes staying over tonight and absolutely loves cinema popcorn, but his parents rarely buy it for him.
I nearly choked on my cola. Apparently, that enormous tub wasnt for us at all, but for her grandson without ever consulting me. Shed simply decided. I felt uncomfortable the whole film: eating became awkward, as if the tub were under guard. Afterwards, I dropped her home; she left the car gleaming, popcorn triumphantly in hand, while I felt like some delivery driver whod both provided and paid for the order.
It wasnt as if she lacked money; Margaret earns a decent living, dresses well, has her own car. It wasnt about need.
But the real shock came last Saturday. Margaret invited me for lunch at her place, promising her famous homemade pies Id heard so much about. I didnt come empty-handed I bought a nice bottle of wine, fruit, and smoked salmon; wanted to make the meal special. The flat was filled with the mouthwatering smell of fresh baking.
There on the kitchen table was a huge bowl under a cloth and under it, a mountain of golden, shiny pies. We sat down, she poured tea, and placed five pies on a plate.
Tuck in, Martin, have them while theyre hot, she said fondly.
The pies were divine. I ate three with meat, two with cabbage, and was completely full and in excellent spirits. We chatted, opened the wine, and for a moment, I thought: this is what homey comfort feels like.
Margaret, your pies are fantastic, I said, leaning back. My two are coming round this evening my daughters bringing the grandkids for the weekend. Any chance I could take a few with me for them to try? They always get shop-bought, their mum doesnt cook much.
And suddenly, she completely changed. One moment she was warm and pleasant, then a switch seemed to flip: her smile vanished, eyes went distant and defensive.
Oh Martin she began, her tone suddenly apologetic but firm. I would, but I cant really spare much. My Ollies coming round this evening, and I baked these mostly for him.
She stood, went over to the bowl where there must have been at least thirty pies rummaged a bit, produced a small plastic bag, and put exactly three pies inside: two cabbage, one meat.
Here, she said, handing over the paltry parcel. So your lot can try. But theres nothing left for Ollies supper if I give away more.
I looked at the three pies in the bag and felt my face burning with indignation. There was a whole heap in the bowl, and Id just brought her wine, fruit, and salmon. Id never withheld anything from her. Was she really being that frugal with my grandchildren rationing out just three pies?
Margaret, theres so many left, I tried to smooth things over, although I seethed inside. Surely Ollie cant eat all those. Let my two each have a couple as well?
She pressed her lips together, covered the bowl like it was some sort of fortress, and replied firmly,
I planned these out I promised Ollie. Dont be upset, I just cant hand out everything Ive made. Youve eaten, you enjoyed them, thats what matters. The rest are for my grandson.
She called it handing out. As if I were a beggar, not someone shed been building a relationship with, and who half an hour earlier had contributed generously to her table.
Why was it that in her internal hierarchy, I ranked below a six-year-old boy?
Half an hour later I left, excusing myself with some errand. Those three pies sat on the passenger seat, their aroma which moments ago felt homey and warm now made me feel oddly empty, almost deceived. I tried to puzzle out what was going on in her head, but the conclusions were far from comforting.
I always believed healthy couples put each other first. Youre each others main person. Children and grandchildren are precious, of course, but after us. But for Margaret it was different. Ollie was the centre of her universe. He is the priority, no question. So what does that make me a handy bank card? The man who pays for the café and cinema, and supplies to-go popcorn?
When I buy her grandson cake, its only natural, were practically family though how true is that after just a year? But when I ask for a few pies for mine, its I cant give everything away. All one-sided. Her grandson is the golden child, fed the best, while mine are afterthoughts, not even worthy of more than three pies between them. She didnt even notice how humiliating it was, handing a grown man such a meagre bag, then defensively covering the rest.
My grandkids were already at home when I got back. My daughter was busy unpacking bags after work.
Oh Dad, it smells like fresh pies in here!
I took out the little bag, feeling embarrassed.
Theyre from Margaret, I said, avoiding my daughters eyes. Give them a try.
They vanished in moments, of course. They were delicious.
Are there any more? my granddaughter asked hopefully, licking her fingers.
No, sweetheart, just those, I replied, and stepped onto the balcony for a smoke.
I stood in the cold, staring at the city lights and wondered: What am I doing this for? Why am I with a woman who treats my money as shared when it comes to her grandson but her pies as strictly personal? It isnt about the food; I can always buy more, or order in. Its about her attitude.
She didnt even see how shed hurt me. That evening, she rang, all cheerful: Ollies here! Hes so full and happy, watching cartoons. I listened in silence. I wanted to say, Mine asked if there were more, and I had to tell them no. But I couldnt.
Has anyone else met with this double standard? When all the best goes one way, and from you, only contributions are expected? Is this a conversation worth having, or is it simply an ordinary case of carefulness, and am I just being a cranky old man for no reason?
