My husband, Oliver, keeps criticising me for not cooking elaborate meals like his friend Henry’s wife, Emily. Emily is wonderful—a true master in the kitchen. I won’t argue; her cooking is amazing, but it takes hours. The kitchen is her passion, where she spends her whole day creating. As for me? I’m juggling work, our child, and the house, and his words cut like knives.
Emily is on maternity leave right now, living what seems like every mother’s dream. Her parents, though divorced, adore their grandson and happily take him in the mornings. Grandparents compete to push the pram, feed the baby, and drop him home by evening. Emily wakes up, hands him over to her delighted family, goes back to bed, then leisurely tidies up. She has all day to craft culinary masterpieces—no distractions, no interruptions, just freedom. She experiments, tries new recipes, and each evening, their table is laid with something extraordinary. Her family gives her that luxury, and I’m genuinely happy for her.
But Oliver doesn’t see that. He looks at Emily and sees an ideal I should aspire to. “She’s on leave with a baby and still manages everything!” he snaps. “You just throw something together, the same old things.” His words sting. Where am I supposed to find five or six hours a day to cook? I work full-time, then pick up our daughter, Charlotte, from nursery. By the time we’re home, it’s past six. I do my best—roast chicken, jacket potatoes, spaghetti with a simple salad. It fills us up, but for Oliver, it’s a joke.
If I tried cooking like Emily, dinner wouldn’t be ready until midnight, and we’d all go to bed starving. But Oliver doesn’t get it. All he says is, “Emily always makes something new for Henry, but you don’t seem to care.” His admiration for her feels like an attack on me. I’m tired of defending myself. If Emily had the kind of maternity leave most women do—where you barely have time to shower—she’d be heating frozen lasagne too, and Henry would eat it without complaint.
I’m glad for Emily and Henry. She’s brilliant, turning her kitchen into a stage instead of lazing about. But it hurts that Oliver keeps comparing me to her. Does he not see how different our lives are? I work full days, then rush to collect Charlotte by six. Emily’s on leave, with grandparents lining up to help. Of course she has more time! I’d love a maternity break like hers, but our parents aren’t rushing to babysit. They adore Charlotte, but spending all day with her? Not happening.
Oliver won’t let it go. “At least on weekends, you could put in some effort,” he mutters. What, am I not human? Don’t I deserve a break? Five days a week I’m at the office, then I’m supposed to spend my weekends chained to the stove to please him? Sometimes I wonder if he’s looking for an excuse to leave. Does he really not hear how unfair he’s being? Or does he want to hurt me? I’m sick of proving I’m doing my best. I just want him to see me—not Emily, but his wife, trying to keep us afloat.
