My husband, Thomas, never fails to remind me that I don’t prepare elaborate meals like his friend Oliver’s wife, Eleanor. She’s a wonderful woman, a true master in the kitchen—I won’t deny that. Her dishes are exquisite, but they demand hours of labour. The kitchen is her passion, her domain from dawn till dusk. As for me? I’m stretched thin between my job, our son, and the house, and his words cut deeper than any blade.
Eleanor is on maternity leave, and her life is the dream of every young mother. Though her parents are divorced, they dote on their grandson, eagerly whisking him away in the mornings. Grandmothers and grandfathers take turns pushing the pram, feeding the little one, and delivering him home by evening. Eleanor wakes, hands the child to her delighted family, slips back into bed, and later tidies the house at her leisure. She has all day to craft culinary wonders—undisturbed, unhurried, utterly free. She experiments, tries new recipes, and each night, their table boasts something extraordinary. Her family affords her that luxury, and I’m truly glad for her.
But Thomas refuses to see it. He looks at Eleanor and sees an ideal, some standard I’m meant to meet. “She’s on leave, with a baby, yet she manages it all!” he snaps. “Meanwhile, you throw together the same old things.” His words sting like slaps across the face. Where am I to find five or six hours a day for cooking? I work full-time, then fetch our daughter Emily from nursery in the evenings. By the time we’re home, it’s past six. I do my best—roast potatoes, baked chicken, pasta with a simple cucumber and tomato salad. It keeps us fed, yet to him, it’s a joke.
If I attempted Eleanor’s feasts, supper wouldn’t be ready till midnight, and we’d all sleep hungry. But Thomas doesn’t see it. All he says is, “Eleanor cooks something new for Oliver every night, while you can’t be bothered.” His admiration for her feels like condemnation of me. I’m tired of defending myself. If Eleanor’s leave were like mine—no time even for a proper shower—she’d be boiling shop-bought dumplings too, and Oliver would eat them without complaint.
I’m happy for Eleanor and Oliver. She does splendidly, choosing creation over idleness. But it hurts that Thomas keeps measuring me against her. He acts blind to how different our lives are. I work all day, then rush home to Emily. Eleanor’s parents give her the gift of time. Of course she has more of it! I’d love a leave like hers, but our parents won’t spend days minding Emily. They adore her but won’t play nanny.
Thomas won’t relent. “At least on weekends, you could try something special,” he mutters. Am I not human? Don’t I deserve rest? Five days a week, I labour at my desk, only to spend my weekends chained to the stove for his whims? Sometimes I wonder if he’s hunting for reasons to leave. Does he truly not grasp how unfair he’s being? Or does he mean to wound me? I’m exhausted from proving I’m doing my best. I just want him to see me—not Eleanor, but his own wife, fighting to keep this family afloat.
