Dear Diary,
Tonight I found myself once again standing in my kitchen, watching Mark push away his plate, his lips pursed in that way that spells disappointment before hes even opened his mouth. Did you forget the salt, again? he asked, reaching for the salt shaker, exaggerating every movement. How many times do I have to tell you? This is just so bland. Mum always says, A pinch of salt, not a bath in it, but she just knows how to taste a dish. You just throw in whatever the recipe tells you. Theres no feeling in your cooking.
I watched in silence as he scattered salt with abandon over the casserole Id spent an hour slow-cooking after work. That familiar coil of tension tightened inside me, something that had almost become habit in the three years wed been married. I drew a quiet breath, determined to conceal even the smallest flicker of irritation, and turned to the window, watching the amber glow of streetlights bleed through the autumn gloom.
I cooked it the way your GP recommended, Mark, I said quietly, rearranging mugs on the draining board, after you had that bout of heartburn last week.
Oh come on, dont use the doctor as an excuse! he shot back, thick with disdain as he chewed. Just admit youre not much of a cook. Remember how good my mums Sunday roast was last weekend? The potatoes, the gravy everything was spot on. And her kitchen! It always smells of home baking. Ours just stinks of cleaning products.
What could I say? The place did smell of cleaning spray, but that was because Id just spent an hour scrubbing the kitchen after his attempt at a fried breakfast had sent bacon grease everywhere, even onto the lampshade. But there was little point reminding Markhe possessed that rare knack for dismissing his own blunders and making a martyr of himself over mine, even the imaginary ones.
Dinner continued with the TV murmuring in the background as Mark dropped the odd jab about housekeeping. I nodded absently, my mind preoccupied with tomorrows month-end at work. As Senior Analyst at one of Londons larger logistics firms, the last week of the quarter always leaves me wrung out. All I ever wanted from home was peace and quiet. Instead, I landed a daily dose of comparisons to the peerless, infallible, almost canonised Mrs. Warren.
Marks mum, Margaret Warren, is nothing if not formidable: hearty, tireless, and undoubtedly adept at running a household. Her cleanliness can only be described as apocalypticshe rearranges furniture and manages to find dust in places I never knew existed. Mark grew up cocooned by this maternal devotion and for some reason, cant fathom why I dont revolve my life around chores too.
The evening crept into night, but the tension never let up. Mark sprawled on the sofa with his tablet, and I decided to iron some of his shirts for tomorrow. I set up the board, plugged in the iron, and reached for his blue shirt, crisp but stubborn to iron.
Not again, Lizzie? His voice materialised from behind; I jumped.
He lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes scanning my efforts.
Whats wrong, Mark?
Youre leaving creases. Mum always does the sleeves first, then the back, and the collar lastover a damp cloth. Youre just blasting steam over it, itll shine and ruin the fabric.
I set the iron down, releasing a hiss of steam as if the iron shared my feelings.
Mark, if you know how to do it better, why dont you iron your own shirts? I replied, keeping my tone level.
He sighed. Here we go. I try to help and you get in a mood. Im only telling you, Mum always said a woman ought to know how to look after her husbands wardrobeits the mark of the family. But youre always too busy. Work, reports Never time for the house.
Is the house untidy? I glanced around the sparkling living room. Mark, we have a clean home, good food, and all the laundrys done. I work just as hard as you, and I earn more, for what its worth. Why do I have to sit evening classes in domestic science run by your mum?
Typical, bringing up money! Its about care, about being a woman. Mum worked full time as a librarian and still had the table laid with roast, pudding, and a fresh cake. And Dad was always smart. You could at least try. Fine, iron it however you want. Ill go in wrinkled and let everyone see what kind of wife Ive got.
He stormed off, leaving me with the cooling iron and a heavy, icy lump in my throat. The urge to pick up my bags and walk outjust to escapewas overwhelming. But leave? Why should I? The flat was mine, inherited from my grandmother long before Mark came along. He moved in with a small suitcase and an ancient laptop, but three years later he carried himself like the lord of the manor, always complaining about the maid.
Days blurred into a kind of cold war. Mark would sigh theatrically if he spotted a speck of dust or drown his dinner in salt before even tasting it. I held my ground in stony silence, losing myself in work. Saturday loomeda day we customarily spent having lunch at Margaret Warrens.
Saturday morning was a storm. Mark kept hurrying me along. Lizzie, youre taking ages! Mum doesnt like it when were late. And wear that blue dress, not those jeans. Mum says you look like a teenager in jeansat your age, you ought to dress smarter.
Standing in the bedroom zipping up my comfortable trousers, I paused.
Im happier in jeans, Mark. Were going for lunch, not to Buckingham Palace.
Its about respect for your elders! he retorted. Mums been slaving away in the kitchen and you show up in rags?
I wore the jeans and a plain white blouse anyway. The drive to his mums was excruciatingMark glowered at the road, clicking his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel of our car. Not that it matteredthe loan on the car is mostly paid by me.
Margaret Warrens flat greeted us with a warm waft of freshly baked scones and roasting meat. She opened the door in her starched apron, her hair in elaborate curls.
At last! Oh Mark, youve lost weightshes starving you, isnt she? Margaret gathered him up for a hug, throwing me a curt nod. Come on, Lizzie, slippers over there. Careful, Ive only just polished the floors.
Lunch unfolded as always: Margaret heaping food onto Marks plate, fussing over how pale he looked. Try the duck, love. Its been roasting with apples three hoursnot like these days, when girls just bung it in a slow cooker and call it cooking. Thats not real food, is it, Lizzie?
I managed a polite smile, pushing salad around my plate.
We all have different routines nowadays, Mrs. Warren. The slow cooker really saves me time.
Time! she exclaimed. What for? Facebook? In my day we worked full time, raised kids, kept the house immaculate. Now youve got robot hoovers and dishwashers and still theres no warmth. I was in your flat last week The net curtains were grey, the windows murky. Embarrassing, Lizzie. A womans face is her windows.
Mark, his mouth full of duck, nodded vigorously. I told her, Mum! I said, lets do the curtains, clean the windows. She said, Just call a cleaning company. Can you imagine? Strangers, paid to clean your home!
Cleaning company? Margaret looked scandalised, as though Id suggested running a casino in our living room. Dear me, Lizzie! Such waste! A womans touch is needed in every corner. Youll have bad luck with strangers in the house. No wonder youve no children yet, or youre always arguing.
Below the belt. She knew the topic of children was still tender for us, and always managed to make it sting.
We dont argue about cleaning, Mrs. Warren, I said firmly, laying my fork down. We argue when Mark compares me to you.
An electric hush fell across the table. Mark choked on his drink.
Whats wrong with wanting the best? his mum protested. Marks proud of me. He wants a wife to match. Maybe jot down some recipes while Im still here, LizzieMark likes a certain standard of care.
Exactly! Mark joined in, dabbing at his lips. Mums right. You could be more gentle, more domestic. Look how clean everything is here. At ours, the dusts thick on the skirting boards.
Something inside me snapped. Some invisible switch flicked from tolerance to action. I looked at Markcompletely comfortable, entirely certain of his rightnessand at Margaret, glowing with triumph.
Thank you for lunch, it was delicious, I said calmly and stood from the table.
Leaving already? Margaret blinked, startled. Ive made a Victoria sponge for tea!
No, not yet. Im leaving. Mark can stay. Might do him good to soak up a bit of home.
Lizzie, what do you think youre doing? Mark hissed, grabbing my arm in the hallway. Dont embarrass me in front of Mum. Get back in there!
Im going home, Mark. My heads pounding. Come back on your own, taxi or drive if you like. You have keys.
I stepped outside, drew in the sharp autumn air, and felt, for the first time in months, a weird sort of relief. The plan formed in my mind instantly, as though it had been waiting for its moment for ages.
That evening, I didnt rest. I fetched the big suitcases from the cupboardthe ones wed taken to Greece last yearand methodically emptied Marks wardrobe. Shirts, jeans, pullovers, socks, boxers. I folded everything, even the awkward suit that had to be ironed with a damp cloth, placed in a suit bag.
Mark rolled in late, smelling faintly of his mums pies and smugness.
So, what happened today? he began as soon as hed kicked off his shoes. Mums upset. Her blood pressure shot up. Had to give her her heart pills. Youre so selfish, Lizzie. This is all about you.
He wandered to the bedroom and stopped short. The cases and boxes loomed, the wardrobe gaping empty.
Whats this? Are we going on holiday? he asked, confused.
I was sat in the armchair with a book. I placed it in my lap and met his gaze.
No holiday, Mark. Youre moving out.
He snorted. Very funny, Lizzie. Unpack all this, Im knackered.
Im not joking. Ive packed everythingyour clothes, shoes, documents, your beloved record collection, even your mug. The removals firm will be here at nine.
His face reddened by degrees.
Youre youre kicking me out? Of my own home?
My flat, Mark, I said softly. Lets be precise. Its in my name. We lived here together, but you never seemed happy.
So thats it? All because I prefer Mums cooking?
Its not about the food, Mark. Its that I cant, and wont, compete with Margaret Warren. Its a losing battle. You never wanted a wife, Mark, you wanted another mother.
He looked utterly crestfallen. Were still family! This is mad.
No. A family supports each otherthey dont spend their whole time pointing out flaws. Youre never satisfied here, Mark. And Im never going to measure up to your mum. So this is the best solution.
I moved towards the cases. Youll be happier back there. Hot dinners, ironed shirts, all the rest. Youll get what you craveand Ill finally get some peace.
Marks eyes darted, his mouth working uselessly. Then anger flashed. What about everything Ive done here? Renovations! I stuck up wallpaper, paid for those tiles in the bathroom! Ill take you to court!
I almost smiled. Of course, hed try that.
Mark, you know the law. The flats my pre-marital property. Yes, you got the wallpaper and paid for the adhesive. That came to £120, right? Ill transfer it to you tonight. As for your labour a spot of DIY doesnt mean anything in court. Youre welcome to press your case, but youll spend more on fees than its worth.
He deflated, realising I was righthis income as a mid-level manager just about covers our groceries and the cinema. The heavy lifting at home has always been mine.
So, youre really ending this? Just because I said your food was bland?
It was never about the casserole. You refused to grow up, Mark. You want a mum, not a wife. I want an equal, not a child looking for comfort. Were not the same.
We slept in separate rooms. In the morning, the removals van took away Marks cases and boxes. Mark shuffled in the hall, a pitiful sight in his jacket.
Lizzie, do we have to do this? Whatll I tell Mum? Shell flip when I show up with all my stuff.
Tell her the truth. Her standards are too high for me and you want to be back home. Shell be thrilledyou know she always said I wasnt right for you. So its a dream come true.
The door closed on him. I locked it, rested my forehead against the cool metal, andfor the first time in yearslaughed. Genuinely laughed. The flat was quiet. No nit-picking, no demands, just peace.
A week drifted by. I hired a cleaning servicelo and behold, the place gleamed, and nobody complained about bad energy. I bought takeaway from a lovely deli, met friends in cosy cafés for supper, soaked in the tub with a book, and didnt even think once about ironing shirts.
On Thursday, my phone buzzed. Margaret Warrens name flashed up. With a deep breath, I answered.
Elizabeth! What is going on? Why have you thrown your husband out? Hes been driving me mad!
Good evening, Mrs. Warren. I havent thrown him out, Ive simply returned him to the home where hell get all the attention he deserves. You always said my standards werent good enough for him. You run a tight shiphe belongs there, not with me.
Dont be sarcastic! she shrieked. Hes an adult man! All he does is loll about demanding dinner and leaving socks everywhere! My nerves are shot, I need peace. Mum, make me this, Mum, fetch that, Mum, iron this. I say, Go to your wife! and he says, Lizzie never appreciated me.
Well, thats the way you brought him up, Mrs. Warren. Hes used to it. Ive got a demanding job.
Oh jobs! A wife should look after her husband! Take him back. Last night, he told me my stew was too salty. Me! Too salty!
I nearly burst out laughing.
Im sorry, Mrs. Warren, but I wont be taking him back. Well be filing for divorce. He can stay with you or get his own place, learn to fend for himself.
Divorce?! There was a long pause. Have you thought about wholl want you, a divorced woman at forty? Marks still got his looks
Thats perfect then, Mrs. Warren. He can find someone elseand youll still be there. Ill manage on my own. Goodbye, Mrs. Warren.
I hung up and blocked the number. Then I blocked Mark, for good measure.
A month later, we met at the registrars office. Mark looked drained, his shirt wrinkled, dark rings beneath his eyes.
Lizzie, couldnt we try again? he muttered, staring at the tiles. Life with Mum isunbearable. I thought she loved me, but she just wants to boss me about too. With you, it was just calmeven if the casserole was bland, at least you didnt nag.
I felt nothing but a tinge of pity. You only realised that when you stood in my place. But you dont want meyou want comfort, familiarity. Im not meant to be your backdrop; Im a person.
Ill get my own place. Ill do everything myself.
Then do. Grow up, Mark. But not with me. Ive got used to not being compared with anyoneand I like it.
We left the office as strangers. Mark hunched his way to the bus stop. I got into my car and glanced over at the glossy brochure from a travel agent. Id always wanted to see Rome, but Mark insisted it was too pricey, better to holiday at his mums allotmentfresh air, digging, river and all that.
No more allotments. Just me, my choices, my life. I started the car, turned up the radio, and headed home. The future felt mine nowflavourful, even if someone else insists theres not enough salt.
