I stopped ironing my wifes shirts the day she called my work just sitting at home.
Come on, Emily, why are you so tired? From the telly? From gossiping with the girls on the phone? I get home drained after a day at the office, and you start talking about a sore back! My back hurts because Ive been carrying the whole family on it while some people just lounge around!
Simon slammed his fork onto the table; it rang, bounced and fell to the floor. The mince patty Emily had been frying for an hour, trying to get the crust just the way he liked it, sat untouched on the plate.
Emily froze by the kitchen sink. The water kept running, washing the suds off the dishes, but she didnt hear it. All she could hear was the phrase just sitting at home.
Simon, she said slowly, turning off the tap, her hands trembling as she tucked them into the aprons pockets, are you serious? You think I spend my whole day watching programmes?
Simon leaned back in his chair, his expression full of that patronising condescension hed been showing more often lately. What do you do, then? Weve got no little kids, Arthurs at university living in a dorm. Our flat isnt a palace, just a modest threebedroom, nothing to tidy. The robot vacuum does the floors, the washing machine handles the laundry, the slowcooker does the stews. Youve got a holiday, not a life. Im the one earning the money that funds your holiday. Dont I have the right to come home to a relaxed, rested wife instead of hearing complaints about fatigue?
He stared at the perfectly pressed, lightblue shirt with delicate stripes. She remembered spending forty minutes at the ironing board the night before, smoothing every crease and cuff so it looked immaculate. She recalled rushing to the market at dawn for fresh curd because Simon only likes cottagecheese pancakes made from homegrown curd. She thought of scrubbing the bathtub, sorting winter coats, hauling shopping bags.
But he never saw any of that. To him, spotless floors were a given, a hot dinner a function of the slowcooker, and fresh shirts apparently grew on trees in the wardrobe.
Alright, Emily whispered. I hear you. Im on a holiday, just sitting at home.
Good, weve finally understood each other, Simon grumbled, picking up the fork and tossing it into the sink. Give me a clean one and make a strong tea, last time it was a bit rubbish.
Emily handed him the fork in silence and poured the tea without a word. Something inside her snapped. No loud argument, no smashed crockeryjust a cold, empty feeling, as if the cosy kitchen had suddenly lost its windows in the middle of winter.
That evening, Simon, fullbellied and smug, flopped onto the sofa to watch the football. Emily slipped into the bedroom. By then her second shift usually began. Simon was a department manager at a large firm, a place where the dress code was strict and shirts changed daily.
She pulled out the ironing board, set the iron down, then stared at the heap of his shirts in the laundry basketcrumpled, stiff from the spin, twisted.
The machine washes, the machine washes, hed said. But it doesnt iron.
She pulled the irons cord from the socket, folded the board, and tucked it away. She shoved the pile of rumpled shirts into a corner of the wardrobe.
Enjoy your holiday, Emily, she told her reflection in the mirror. Youve got a holiday.
The next morning Simon woke to his alarm, stretched and headed for a shower. Emily was already in the kitchen, sipping coffee. She hadnt prepared breakfast; a box of cereal and a carton of milk sat on the table.
Wheres the scrambled eggs? Simon asked, patting his hair dry with a towel.
I didnt get around to it, Emily replied calmly, scrolling through the news on her phone. Im on holiday. Decided to linger a bit longer, gather some energy before my afternoon binge of programmes.
Simon snorted, assuming she was being petty after yesterdays row.
Fine, never mind. Cereal is cereal. By the way, I checked the wardrobe and cant find the white shirt with the cufflinksgot a meeting with the chief today, need to look sharp. Where is it?
In the basket, Emily said without looking up.
In the basket? Dirty?
Clean. Washed. The machine does the washing.
Simon choked on his milk.
Emily, seriously? Im off in twenty minutes. Wheres the ironed shirt?
Its with the rest, not ironed.
He slowly set his spoon down, his face turning a shade of pink.
Enough of this circus. I may have overreacted yesterday, but this isnt a reason to sabotage me. Go iron my shirt. Quickly.
Emily lifted her eyes to him, showing neither fear nor resentment, just indifference.
No, Simon. I wont iron. Ironing is work, and I, as you correctly pointed out, dont work. I stay at home. Staying at home doesnt mean I have to stand at a hot iron for hours. The machine washeslet the machine iron, or you do it yourself. Youre a man; you carry the burden. An iron isnt any heavier than the responsibility for the family.
Youre mocking me?! I have a meeting! Im late!
The irons in the cupboard, the boards there too. Youll make it if you hurry.
Simon stormed out, muttering curses. Emily heard the clatter of the board, the clink of the iron, the hiss of steam. Ten minutes later he returned, hair a mess, shirt bearing a fresh but crooked crease across the chest and a collar pointing every which way.
Thanks, love! You saved me! he shouted, slamming the door so hard the teacups on the sideboard rattled. Emily calmly finished her coffee and headed out. She had a plan: a swimming session shed been meaning to do, and a catchup with a friend. A holiday, after all.
That night Simon returned looking bleaker than a stormclouded sky. His shirt was even more rumpled, giving him the appearance of a man whod spent the night in a railway station.
Happy now? he asked, throwing his briefcase into a corner. The chief gave me the onceover all day. Asked if Id caught a cold, seeing me like this.
What did you say? Emily asked, intrigued.
I told him my wifes turned into a feminist. Anything to eat, or am I stuck with dry biscuits again?
Frozen dumplings in the freezer. The brands called Boulmein.
Simon gritted his teeth, but didnt argue. He quietly boiled the dumplings, ate straight from the pot and trudged to the bedroom, slamming the door demonstratively.
A week passed and the flat gradually slipped into chaos. Emily still washed dishes, dusted visible spots, and kept the place tidy, but the magic of fresh towels appearing in the bathroom and the smell of homebaked pies vanished. Most noticeably, the ironed clothes disappeared.
Simon suffered. He first tried to wear the stale garments deep in the wardrobe, but they ran out fast. He fumbled with the iron, burning holes in a jumper, blaming Emily for sabotage.
Meanwhile Emily flourished. She realised she finally had time for herself: reading, walks in the park, a new haircut, standing a little taller as if a heavy sack had been lifted from her shoulders.
Friday evening Simon arrived not alone. His colleague, Ian Peters, was with him. Simon had mentioned the visit a week earlier, before the argument, but Emily had simply forgotten.
Emily! Simon called from the hallway, oddly upbeat. Guests! Ian and I are celebrating the report!
Emily stepped into the corridor, dressed in a smart home outfit with a touch of makeup.
Good evening, Ian, she smiled.
What a wife you have, Simon! Shes blooming and fragrant! And you were complaining she was ill.
Simon flushed and ushered the guest toward the kitchen.
Come in, come in Emily, could you set the table? Some veg, something quick for the mains.
Emily kept smiling.
Simon, youve forgotten we have nothing prepared. I didnt cook today. Maybe order a pizza? Or sushi? Deliverys fast now.
What? No food? We have guests!
You didnt remind me. I was off, at the cinema.
Ian sensed the tension and tried to smooth things over:
Come on, Simon, dont put pressure on your wife. Pizzas a great idea. I love a good pepperoni.
Simon, teeth clenched, grabbed his phone to order the pizza. He spent the whole evening on edge, watching Ian glance at his crumpled tshirtSimon had stopped ironing his own clothes, thinking it would do, but next to Emilys immaculate appearance it looked pitiful. He also noticed the lack of the usual abundance of snacks he liked to flaunt to friends.
When the guest left, Simon exploded.
Youve embarrassed me! On purpose? In front of a colleague! Hell tell everyone I live in a pigsty and eat takeout!
Whats wrong with pizza? Emily asked. Its tasty, and we dont have to wash dishes. You always said domestic chores shouldnt be a problem.
Start ironing! he roared. I look like a scarecrow! At work they point at me!
Tell them the truth, Simon. Say, My wife stays at home and I forbade her from getting tired, so I iron my shirts myself. Theyll understand. Theyre modern people.
I cant iron! Im a man! My hands arent built for that!
Then hire a cleaner.
Simon froze.
A cleaner? Who?
A housekeeper. Someone to wash, tidy and, most importantly, iron your shirts. Since my work is considered just sitting at home, lets pay a professional. Ive looked up prices. Ironing a shirt costs about £3. You need about seven a week, plus trousers and tees. Thats roughly £10 a month just for ironing. Cleaning another £20, cooking another £20. In total, around £50 a month.
Youve gone mad! Simon whispered. Fifty pounds? Thats a third of my salary!
I used to do it for free, and all I got were accusations of laziness. Mathematics is stubborn, Simon. If you dont value free labour, pay the market rate.
Simon collapsed onto the sofa, his face turning a rusty colour as the gears of realization finally started to turn.
Emily, its family he muttered, his voice stripped of the old bravado. We dont count money for stew.
In a family, we respect each others work. When one person thinks theyre a lord and the other a lazy servant, thats not a family, its exploitation. Im tired of being invisible, only noticed when I stop doing the invisible work.
Emily retreated to the guest room, needing her own space.
The weekend passed in a grim silence. Simon wandered the flat, bewildered. On Saturday he tried to iron his trousers and burnt them. On Sunday he attempted to wipe the stove after spilling coffee and broke a nail. He discovered dust didnt settle once a year but every two days, the toilet didnt clean itself, and the bin went rancid if not emptied.
Monday morning Emily woke to the smell of something burningno, something tasty but slightly charred. She entered the kitchen to find Simon in an apron, standing naked over the hob, trying to flip pancakes.
Good morning, he grumbled without turning. I thought Id make breakfast.
Emily sat down.
Why?
Simon switched off the burner, placed two lopsided, blackonesided pancakes on a plate and pushed them toward her.
Emily, I I was wrong.
He lowered his head.
Im an idiot. I thought everything would just work itself out. You never complained; you always smiled, the house stayed tidy, the meals were good. I got comfortable. When you stopped I was shocked, honestly.
He met her eyes, looking guilty and pitiful, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes.
I spent an hour ironing one shirt yesterday. My back was killing me. You iron five shirts a day. I cant imagine how you managed. Im sorry. Ill never call you just sitting at home again. Youre not just sittingyoure working, and I didnt appreciate it.
Emily looked at him, feeling the ice inside melt. She didnt need a housekeeper or the money for ironing. She only needed a simple human thank you and a bit of understanding.
Eat the pancakes, he urged, pushing the plate forward. Theyre not like yours, but I tried.
Emily took a bite. The pancake was rubbery, tinged with burnt oil, yet it was the best pancake shed tasted in months.
Thanks, Simon, she said. Its good.
Emily, he said, his voice softer, could I ask a favour? I have an important meeting today. Could you iron just one shirt? I promise I wont forget the dishwasher Ive been meaning to buysomething big enough so you dont have to handwash the big pots. And well hire a cleaning service once a month for the windows.
Emily smiled, genuinely this time.
Alright. Bring the shirt over. Just one.
Just one! Simon cheered, hopping up. Youre the best! I love you, Marish.
He rushed off, and Emily finished the slightly burnt pancake, thinking how a tiny rebellion of unironed shirts had been what it took to restore balance in the little kingdom called family.
Six months later Simon kept his promisehe bought the dishwasher, arranged the monthly cleaning, and every time he puts on a freshly pressed shirt he leans over, kisses Emilys cheek and says, Thank you, love. Youre my magician.
And perhaps it was worth the twoweek uprising of wrinkled shirts, because love isnt about being served; its about seeing, valuing and protecting each others work.
