**Diary Entry**
My husband, James, always nags me for not making fancy dinners like his mate Anthony’s wife, Emma. She’s brilliant—a proper culinary artist. I won’t argue, her cooking is amazing, but it takes hours. The kitchen is her passion, where she spends her days experimenting. Me? I’m juggling work, our son, and the house, and his jabs cut deep.
Emma’s on maternity leave, living every mum’s dream. Her parents—divorced but doting—take their grandson every morning. Grandparents compete over who gets to push the pram, feed him, then drop him back by evening. Emma wakes up, hands him off, goes back to bed, then tidies up at her leisure. She’s got all day to whip up gourmet meals—no distractions, just freedom. She tests new recipes, and every night it’s something extravagant. Her family makes that possible, and I’m genuinely happy for her.
But James doesn’t get it. He looks at Emma like she’s the standard I should meet. *”She’s on leave with a kid and still manages everything!”* he snaps. *”You just throw together the same basic meals.”* His words sting. Where am I supposed to find five hours a day to cook? I work full-time, then pick up our daughter, Sophie, from nursery. By the time we’re home, it’s past six. I make quick meals—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pasta with a simple salad. It keeps us fed, but to James, it’s a joke.
If I tried cooking like Emma, dinner wouldn’t be ready till midnight, and we’d all go to bed starving. But he doesn’t see that. All I hear is, *”Emma always makes something new for Anthony—seems like you can’t be bothered.”* His admiration for her feels like an accusation. I’m sick of defending myself. If Emma had a typical maternity leave—no time to even shower—she’d be heating frozen pies too, and Anthony wouldn’t complain.
I’m glad for Emma and Anthony. She’s doing great—not lazing about but creating masterpieces. Still, it hurts that James constantly compares me to her. Like he doesn’t see how different our lives are. I work full shifts while Emma’s on leave with grandparents lining up to help. Of course she has time! I’d love that kind of leave, but our parents won’t babysit all day. They adore Sophie, but won’t take her overnight.
James won’t let up. *”At least on weekends you could try harder,”* he grumbles. Am I not a person? Don’t I deserve a break? Five days a week I’m at work, then supposed to spend my weekends slaving over the stove for his whims? Sometimes I wonder if he’s looking for a reason to leave. Does he really not see how unfair he’s being? Or does he just enjoy twisting the knife? I’m tired of proving I’m doing my best. I just want him to see *me*—not Emma, but his wife, keeping this family afloat against the tide.
**Lesson learned:** Comparisons are poison. A man who can’t appreciate the weight you carry isn’t worth the breath it takes to explain it.
