My husband just couldnt stop comparing me to his mother, so I suggested he pack his bags and move back in with her.
So, youve gone easy on the salt again? Honestly, how many times do I have to say it? Its bland as dishwater, Tim said, making a dramatic show of pushing away his steaming casserole. He reached for the salt shaker. Mum always said: Better under-salted at the table than over-salted in the pot, but you know, Jane, she always gets things just right. Shes got, like, an instinct for flavour. You just chuck things in as it says in the recipetheres no love in it.
I just watched as Tim dumped a small mountain of salt onto the veg Id lovingly cooked for an hour. That familiar tension wound up inside me, as it had so many times over the past three years of marriage. I took a deep breath, kept my voice even, and turned away to look out the window, where the street lamps were starting to glow in the autumn dusk.
I cooked it exactly like the dietician suggested, Tim, I said, moving mugs around on the drying rack. You had terrible heartburn last week, remember?
Oh, give over with the doctors! Just admit cookings not really your thing. Remember Sunday at Mums? Her cabbage rolls, every one exactly the same size, perfectly neat. And the sauce? She uses proper sour cream and tomato purée, not that shop-bought ketchup. The way Mum does thingstheres always a sense of home. Your place always smells of cleaning products.
I bit my tongue. The smell of cleaning products was down to me just having scrubbed the entire kitchen after Tims heroic attempt at frying bacon and eggsgrease everywhere, right up on the light fittings. But reminding him would be pointless. He had a fascinating ability to completely blank out his own cock-ups, while highlighting every possible flaw of mine, real or imagined.
We ate in front of the telly, with Tim occasionally chipping in with little tips about how proper housework ought to be done. I nodded automatically, my mind on the report I had to finish for work tomorrow. I worked as a senior financial analyst for a big logistics company, and the end of another quarter always absolutely wiped me out. All I wanted from home was a bit of peace and quietbut instead I got daily updates on the unreachable standards of the holy, infallible Margaret.
I mean, Margaret, my mother-in-law, was really a force of naturebossy, energetic, and, credit where its due, generally competent with her house. Mind you, her organisation skills were more like a whirlwind. Give her an afternoon and shed shift every stick of furniture, clean dust out of gaps nobody knew existed. Tim had grown up with his mum treating domesticity as a way of life, so he genuinely couldnt see why I wasnt eager to sacrifice my life on the altar of homemaking.
Evening faded into night, and the tension just sat there. Tim crashed onto the sofa with his tablet, and I went off to iron his shirts for the next day. I set up the board, popped the iron on, and reached for his blue shirtthe one that always creased in funny ways.
Jane, are you at it again? Tims voice was right at my ear, making me jump a mile.
He stood in the doorframe, arms folded, watching me steam the collar.
Whats wrong now? I asked.
Who irons like that? Youre making a mess of it! Mum always starts with the sleeves, then the back, and the collar at the end, with a damp cloth over the top. But you just go at it straight with the steamnow itll go shiny. Youll ruin it, mark my words.
I gently set the iron back. Steam puffed out, as if echoing my own thoughts.
If you know the best way, why dont you do it yourself? I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
He sniffed, rolled his eyes. There you go againcant say a word to you without you getting all defensive. Im just trying to help! Mum says a woman should know how to look after her husbands clothes, its her pride. But youre always busyoff with your work and your meetings. Meanwhile, the whole house is neglected.
Neglected? I repeated, taking in our sparkling living room. Tim, the place is clean, the laundrys done, the house is tidy, and dinners on the table. I work just as hard as you and, by the way, I earn more. Why exactly should I spend my evenings sitting another round of Margarets masterclass in domesticity?
Money, money, always with you! Tim made a facelike hed bitten into a lemon. Its not about money. Its about care. About being a good wife. My mum managed a library full time, and still cooked every meal and baked every week. Dad always looked sharp. Look, Jane, do what you wantyou wont listen anyway. Ill just turn up in a wrinkled shirt and let everyone see what sort of wife Ive got.
He stormed off, leaving me with my thoughts and a cold lump of resentment in my throat. Part of me wanted to just pack up and walk, but the flat was mine. It had been my grannys place, long before Id even met Tim. He moved in with a beaten-up suitcase and a crusty old laptop, but three years later youd think hed inherited a manoralways acting like lord of the manor, constantly dissatisfied with the help.
The next few days were the usual tension. Tim would sigh loudly every time he noticed a speck of dust or would drown every dish in salt before even tasting. I kept my distance, focused on work. Saturday, as usual, meant lunch at Margarets.
Saturday morninga flurry of stress. Tims barking at me, Jane, youre faffing about again! Mum hates people being late. Put on that blue dress, will you? Not those jeans. Mum says you look like a teenager in jeans, youre nearly forty for goodness sake. Show some dignity.
I was in the middle of doing up the zip on my nice, comfy trousers and I just stopped.
Im comfortable in jeans, Tim. Were going for a family lunch, not tea at Buckingham Palace.
Show a bit of respect! Mums cooked for you and you show up looking like a scruff.
In the end I wore the jeans and a plain white blouse. The drive there was silent as the grave; Tim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of our carthe loan for which, by the way, I was still mostly paying off.
Margarets flat smelled of pastry and roast. Margaret herselfa solid woman with a towering hairdoopened the door, hands busy on her spotless apron.
Oh, youre here! Finally. Timmy, youve lost weight! Your wife barely feeds you, I see. She all but squeezed him to death before flicking her eyes over me. Jane, shoes offguest slippers are by the door. Careful, I just polished the floors.
At the table, the whole thing played out as usual, Margaret showering Tim with the choicest cuts while lamenting his wasted appearance.
Try the duck, Timmy. I did it with apples for three hoursnone of this chuck-it-in-an-electric-pot nonsense. Honestly, Jane, you people dont realise: thats not food, thats slop. Isnt that right?
I smiled politely, poking at my salad.
Were all busy nowadays, Margaret. The slow cooker saves hours.
Busy! For whatFacebook? Back in my day, we managedjobs, kids, and the house spotless. Now you lot have robots, dishwashers, and not an ounce of warmth. When I popped round last week, your net curtains were grey and your windows filthy. Shameful, Jane! A womans windows are her reputation.
Tim, mouth full, nodded emphatically. Thats what I keep telling her! Wash the curtains, clean the windows, but noshed rather pay for a cleaner. Imagine, strangers in the house just to clean!
Cleaner? Margarets eyes nearly popped out. Jane, thats outrageous! A good wifes hand should touch every corner. Strangers bring bad energy. No wonder you havent got children. And you argue, I suppose?
That hit hard. The whole baby thing was painful for me. Tim and I were doing what we could, but Margaret never wasted a chance to twist the knife.
We dont argue because of cleaners, Margaret, I said, setting down my fork. We argue because Tim keeps comparing me to you.
The air went thick. Tim choked on his squash.
Whats wrong with wanting the best, Jane? Margaret was honestly baffled. Tims proud of me. He wants a wife who matches up. Instead of talking back, why dont you take notes on my recipes? Tim needs a certain standard.
Exactly! Tim piped in, dabbing at the corner of his mouth. Jane, come on. Mums right. You could be softer, more homely. Look aroundmums house always shines. Ours? Dust on the skirting boards two days running.
That did it. Something snapped. I just looked at Timstuffed, happy, and absolutely certain of his own logic and his mothers support. Margaret beamed.
Thank you, Margaret, lunch was really lovely, I said, standing up.
Leaving already? Tea! Ive made a Victoria sponge!
No, not leaving. I am. Tim can stay for tea. I think hell enjoy being right at home.
Jane, whats this? Tim hissed in the hallway as I pulled on my boots. Sit down, youre embarrassing me in front of my mum!
Im heading home, Tim. Migraine. You can come later, drive yourself or get a cab. Front door keys are on your ring.
I walked out, breathing in the sharp autumn air, feeling lighter than I had in years. It was like the plan just fell fully formed into my head, as though it had been waiting for the moment.
Saturday night, instead of relaxing, I started working. I dragged those big suitcases out from the airing cupboard, the same ones we used for our Turkey trip. I opened Tims wardrobe and got packing: shirts, jeans, jumpers, socks, underwear. I kept calm and just folded everything, even packed that suit he always moaned about needing to be ironed with a tea towel.
Tim crept in at about eleven, Christmas pies and smugness still trailing after him.
So, what was all that drama you started at Mums? he began, pulling his shoes off. Mums upset. Blood pressures shot up, bless her. And its all your fault. You only ever think of yourself, Jane.
He walked into the bedroomand stopped dead. Three massive suitcases and a stack of boxes in the middle of the floor. His side of the wardrobe was bare.
Whats this? Going on holiday? he said, stunned.
I sat by the window, reading. I put my book down and looked him straight in the eye.
Were not going anywhere, Tim. You are.
What, like, a work trip? I dont
No. Youre moving out. To your mums.
He gave a nervous laugh. Thats not funny, Jane. Unpack all this, Im knackered. I want to sleep.
Im not joking. Ive packed your thingsclothes, shoes, your records, everything. Even your favourite mug. Ive arranged a van to come at nine tomorrow.
His face went pink. Youre throwing me out? Of my own home?
No, Tim. Of my home. This flat was my grans. You moved in with a suitcase. Youve made it clear this isnt the home you want.
My homes rubbish? Ive tried my best here! I only wanted things to be nice!
Exactly. But its never good enough. My cooking? Always wrong. My cleaning? Never right. Ironing? Not up to standard. I cant and wont compete with Margaret. Theres no point. So Im choosing not to.
But were married! Tim finally lost his swagger.
Marriage is supposed to be a partnership, Tim. Not an endless criticism session. Youre miserable here because Im not Margaret. And Im worn out doing a never-ending audition for mother-in-law of the year. Heres the answer: go back to your paradise. Back to meals cooked properly, spotless windows, and all the pampering you could want. Youll be delighted. And, finally, I can relax at home without worrying about ironing technique.
I watched him open and close his mouth, speechless. Then he tried to rally.
You do realise I have a claim on this flat? I did all the decorating! Put up shelves, retiled the bathroom for you! Ive got rightsIll go to a solicitor!
I nearly smiled. Youre a solicitor by training, Tim, even if you dont practice. This flat was my inheritance, years before I met you. The new tiles? Theyre mineI bought them, paid the builder, all from my account. You did buy wallpaper£60 all told, I can pay you back right now. As for you pasting them up yourself, well, thats basic maintenance. We can go to court if youd like, but youll spend more on legal fees than wallpaper.
He wilted. The truth was, Tims salary as a sales manager barely covered groceries and petrol. Id always handled the big stuff, because my career had just gone better.
So youre binning the marriage over some comments about your casserole? His voice shook. Jane, I do love you, honestits just how I am. Its my mum, you know? Look, Ill stop all the comparisons!
For a week? A month? I was just tired. Tim, its not about casserole. You never grew upyoure still your mums boy, not my husband. You want mothering. I want a grown-up partner. Theyre not the same. I just want to come home and breathe, not sit a daily domestic exam.
We slept in separate rooms. The van arrived at nine. The movers made quick work of the cases and boxes.
Tim stood in the hallway, looking lost in his too-big coat.
Jane, do we really have to? Mums going spare with me and my stuff. What shall I say?
The truthyour wife wasnt living up to Margarets high standards, so youve gone home. Shell be thrilled. I told you Jane was never good enoughdream come true.
The door shut behind him. I locked it and leant my head against the wood, then laughed. Properly laughed, light and free. The flat was peacefulno moaning, no judgement, no helpful comments.
A week went by. I enjoyed the quiet. I booked a cleanermiraculously, no bad vibes, and the flat sparkled. I ate M&S meals or out with the girls, had long soaks in the bath, read books or watched a bit of tellyno ironing emergencies looming.
The phone rang Thursday nightMargarets number. I sighed, but answered.
Jane! What dyou think youre doing? Kicking Tim out of your home! Hes driving me mad!
Good evening, Margaret. I havent kicked him out. Just sent him back where he can get the A* treatment. You always said my house was dirty and my cooking was inedible. Now hes all yours.
Stop being so flippant! she screeched. Hes a grown man and hes lazing around my house, demanding food and losing socks everywhere! Hes thrown my whole routine out! Im an old woman, Jane! Now hes telling me my soups too saltyyou believe that?
It was all I could do not to laugh.
Sorry, Margaret, but I wont take him back. Were filing for divorce. He can stay with you or find a place of his own.
Divorce? Jane, come off it. Whos going to want you at your age, divorced and all? Tims still a catch…
Lucky someone! A catch with a perfect motherjackpot for any woman. Ill be fine. Goodbye, Margaret.
I hung up and blocked her. Blocked Tim as well, for good measure.
A month later, signing the divorce papers at the registry office, I saw Tim looking rumpled, shirt crumpled, dark circles under his eyes.
Jane, cant we try again? he said, not quite meeting my eyes. Mums driving me mad. Theres just no pleasing hersits on my case about every cup and spoon. I thought she loved me, but its just about control. With you, at least it was peaceful. Even if your cooking was boring, you didnt nag.
I looked at himsad for him, but not for myself.
You only get this now, Tim, because youve finally seen what its like. Youre not looking for a wife, but for comfort. Im not here for that. Im my own person.
Ill get a flat, do everything myself, I promise!
Go on, learn. Grow up. But not with me. Im so used to not being measured up against anyone, I cant go back.
We left as strangers. Tim shuffled off to the bus stop; I drove home. Lying on the passenger seat was a travel brochure. Id always wanted to see Italy, but Tim said it was too pricey and wed be better off at Margarets allotmentfresh air and digging, he said.
No more allotment. Just me, my life, my choices. I turned the key in the ignition, pumped up the tunes, and realised my life could finally taste niceeven if some might say it needed a bit more salt.
