My husband was always comparing me to his mother, so I told him to gather his things and move in with her
Youve gone and been stingy with the salt again, havent you? I keep telling you, its as bland as old boots, John said pointedly, pushing his steaming stew to one side and reaching for the salt cellar. Now, Mum always says, Better less salt on the plate than too much on the back, but she, Alice, she just knows what a dish needs. She feels it in her hand. You, you just follow the recipe with no heart.
Alice watched in silence as John, heavy-handed as ever, heaped salt onto the vegetables shed spent an hour stewing. Inside, the familiar coil of tension, wound ever tighter over three years of marriage, clenched again. She drew a steadying breath, careful not to betray her irritation, and turned towards the window, where streetlamps glimmered in the autumn dusk.
I made it the way the nutritionist recommended, John, she replied quietly, setting clean cups onto the rack. Remember how your heartburn flared up last week?
Oh, dont go blaming doctors now! John waved a hand, chewing a chunk of beef. Just admit cookery isnt your strong suit. Remember when we were at Mums on Sunday? Those cabbage rolls she made all neat and the same size, perfect. And her sauce! Real cream, fresh from the farm, none of this supermarket stuff. Mum really knows how to make a house feel cosy the place smells of baking. Here? Always like bleach and cleaning sprays.
Alice bit her lip. The chemical tang still hung about because shed just scrubbed the kitchen top to bottom after his attempt at a fry-up, which ended with bacon grease sprayed as far as the lampshades. There was no point reminding him John had a remarkable knack for ignoring his own mishaps and making mountains out of the smallest flaws in his wife.
Tea dragged on under the drone of the telly, punctuated by Johns monologues on proper housekeeping. Alice nodded along absent-mindedly, her mind on the report due tomorrow. As a senior analyst at a big logistics firm, the quarters end wrung every ounce of her. Home, she only dreamed of stillness and rest. Instead, she got the daily ration of comparisons with the peerless, saintly Mrs. Edith Cartwright.
Edith, Johns mother, was the type to command a room fiery and, to be fair, undeniably industrious. Her house management bordered on cataclysmic: when she cleaned, furniture was moved about, and shed find dust in nooks nobody knew existed. John had grown up in the cult of motherly care and couldnt understand why Alice wouldnt lay down her life in service to home and hearth.
The evening faded into night, but the friction never lessened. John camped on the sofa with his tablet; Alice set up the ironing board and began pressing his shirts for the morning. She took out the blue one sturdy cloth, but devilish to iron.
Back at it again, are you? Johns voice startled her; he stood at the door with arms folded, eyes narrowed at her technique. Thats not the proper way. See, Mum does sleeves first, then back, and tests the collar at the very end, always with a damp cloth. Youre blasting away with steam itll shine and spoil the shirt!
Alice placed the iron back on its stand, steam hissing from the holes like the voice of her own heart.
If you know the method better than me, John, perhaps youd like to do it yourself? Her tone was even.
John pulled a face, rolling his eyes.
There you go again: cant even say a word without you getting in a strop. Im just trying to help, teach you for your own sake. Mum says a woman should know how to care for her husbands clothes its the familys pride. But youre always busy, always your work and deadlines The home suffers.
The house suffers? Alice glanced round the spotless living room. John, its clean, the laundrys done, foods on the table. I work as hard as you and, for the record, earn more. Why must I be forced every evening into a crash course in the Edith Cartwright School of Housekeeping?
Money again! John winced as if from toothache. This isnt about money, its about care, and a womans role. Mum worked in the library her whole life and still, we always had a three-course meal and proper cakes. Dad always looked a picture. And you Well. Forget it, iron it how you want, Ill go in creased tomorrow let people see what sort of wife Ive got.
He stormed out, leaving Alice alone with the now-cold iron and a heavy lump in her chest. At that moment, she wanted more than anything just to pack a bag and leave. But where would she go? This flat was hers, left to her by her grandmother long before she married. John had arrived with one suitcase and an old laptop, and in three years had acted the lord of the manor, forever cross with the staff.
The days that followed fell into a cold war. John sighed ostentatiously on discovering a speck on the mirror, or dosed his food before even tasting it. Alice responded with silence, sinking herself into work. Saturday, as always, loomed as the day for lunch at Ediths house.
Saturday morning began with the usual rush. John pounded about, urging Alice on.
Well be late again! Mum hates it when people are late. And please put on that blue dress, not those jeans. Mum says you look like a schoolgirl in jeans, and youre thirty-eight now time to look presentable.
Alice, zipping up her smart trousers, paused.
Im comfortable in jeans, John. Were going for a family lunch, not an audience with the Queen.
Its about respect! John shot back. Mums cooked, made an effort and youll turn up like a ragamuffin.
Alice wore her jeans and a plain white shirt. On the drive to Mrs. Cartwrights, John stayed silent, tapping on the steering wheel of the car that, incidentally, Alice mostly paid for.
The scent of baking and roast filled Edith Cartwrights home. She was a full woman, hair in a stiff bouffant, greeting them with floured hands on her freshly starched apron.
Ah, there you are! At last. Goodness, John, youre wasting away! Hardly being fed at home, are you? She enveloped her son in a hug, barely nodding at Alice. Come in, Alice, slippers are by the door. Careful, just polished the floor.
At lunch, the performance began. Edith piled food on Johns plate, lamenting his pale looks.
Try some duck, John. I slow-cooked it, three hours. Not like youngsters nowadays throw it in a slow-cooker and call it dinner. Hardly a real meal, is it, Alice?
Alice smiled with tight politeness, forking salad.
Everyones busy these days, Mrs. Cartwright. A slow-cooker saves time.
Time? Edith gave a dramatic sigh. What for social media? In my day, we worked, raised children, kept house spotless. Now its robot hoovers and dishwashers and still no homey touch. Why, I was at yours last week The nets were grey, the windows foggy. Shameful, Alice. A womans face is her windows.
John, face stuffed with duck, nodded enthusiastically.
I tell her too, Mum! I say: Lets wash the curtains, do the windows. She says: Ill get a cleaner. Imagine! Strangers dragging mud into the house for money!
Cleaning service? Edith looked as if Alice had suggested running a gambling den in the sitting room. Alice, have you lost your mind? Such extravagance! A womans hand should touch every nook. Otherwise its bad luck. No wonder youve no children and probably quarrel all the time.
Low blow. Children had been a sore issue for Alice; she and the doctors were trying, but no joy yet. The mother-in-law knew, and never missed a jab.
Our rows arent about cleaning, Mrs. Cartwright, Alice said steadily, putting down her fork. They happen when John compares me to you.
A crisp silence fell. John choked on his drink.
Nothing wrong with aspiring to the best! Edith declared, genuinely puzzled. Johns proud of his mum. He only wants a wife who can match that. You should take notes, Alice learn my recipes while Im around. John expects a certain standard of care.
Exactly! John chimed in. You could be softer and more houseproud. Look how Mums house gleams. Ours dust on the skirting for days.
Something snapped inside Alice. The invisible switch flipped from patience, at last, to action. She looked at her husband full, smug, sure in his mothers support. And Mrs. Cartwright, glowing with triumph.
Thank you for lunch, it was delicious, Alice said as she rose.
Already leaving? Edith blinked. What about my Victoria sponge? Freshly baked!
Oh, Im not leaving not exactly. John will stay for cake, Im sure. Hell benefit from some home comforts.
Alice, what the blazes are you playing at? John hissed, grabbing her arm in the hallway. Sit down and stop making a scene!
Im off home, John. Headache. Come back as you like youve got keys.
She stepped out, drawing a deep, cool breath in the autumn dusk, feeling a rush of odd relief. Her plan formed instantly, as if it had quietly waited in her mind all these months.
Rather than rest that evening, Alice was a flurry of activity. Out came the suitcases the big ones theyd taken to Cornwall the year before. She opened Johns wardrobe and methodically packed his things. Shirts, jeans, jumpers, socks, undies. Calmly, no tears, each item folded neat. Not forgetting even the suit that must be ironed with a damp cloth in it went, too.
John returned late, past eleven, smelling of his mums baking and self-righteousness.
What was that fiasco at Mums? he grumbled, kicking off his shoes. Shes upset, her blood pressures up. I had to make her tea. Selfish, thats what you are, Alice. Always think of yourself.
He entered the bedroom and froze. Three suitcases and a stack of boxes stood by the wardrobe, which now yawned empty.
What? Are we going somewhere? he mumbled.
Alice, seated in an armchair with a novel, closed the book and regarded him steadily.
Not we. You. Youre going, John.
Going where? For work? I havent
No, John. Youre moving. Back to your mother.
He gave an incredulous laugh.
Not funny, Alice. Unpack all that, its late. Im dead tired.
Im not joking. Everythings here. Clothes, shoes, documents, your precious record collection, even your favourite mug. Ive arranged a van for nine oclock tomorrow.
His cheeks flushed red.
Youyoure throwing me out? Out of my home?
Out of my home, John, Alice corrected gently. Lets be clear. The flats mine pre-marriage. Weve lived together here, but it seems being here makes you miserable.
Miserable? I bent over backwards for you! I wanted the best!
And yet, everything here falls short for you bland food, poor cleaning, clumsy ironing, and Im never enough. Ive spent long enough competing with Mrs Cartwright. Its a losing battle, and I wont play it any longer.
But were a family! John cried, all bluster draining away.
Family is support, not endless fault-finding and comparison. Youre not happy here, John. My house doesnt match up. And Ill never be your mum. Thats why Ive found the perfect answer.
She gestured to the bags.
Youre going back to paradise. Home cooking, spotless rooms, a lady who devotes her life to your comfort. Youll be happy. And Ill have peace at last no fear about how I ironed your collar.
John stared, opening and closing his mouth, fishlike. A mean glint showed in his eyes.
And you think Ive no rights here? I helped redecorate, stuck up wallpaper, retiled the bathroom! I invested! Ill see you in court!
Alice sighed shed expected this.
John, you trained as a solicitor, surely you know the law. The flats my pre-marital property. As for the DIY, I have every bill I bought the tiles, paid the fitters from my account. The wallpaper, however, you did buy thats £100 all told. Ill transfer it now, or hand you the cash. Your labour thats regular upkeep, not improvement. We can go to court, but the fees would dwarf whats at stake.
He deflated; he knew she was right. His junior managers wage barely covered fuel and groceries; all real purchases had been Alices responsibility.
You serious? Youll end a marriage over nagging about stew? His voice trembled. I do love you. I cant help my ways, and Mum, well I can stop comparing. Please.
For a week? A month? Alice asked tiredly. No, John. Its not about stew. Youve never grown up still your mothers son, not a husband. You dont want a partner; you want a mum. I want to come home and rest, not sit a domestic proficiency exam.
That night, they slept in separate rooms Alice locked herself in the bedroom, John tossing on the sofa. At nine the next morning, the removers appeared, carrying the cases and boxes away.
John, in his battered old jacket, lingered at the threshold, looking lost.
Alice, please. Mum will go mad if I turn up with all this. What do I tell her?
Tell her the truth: that her standards are high, and youve gone home to your roots. Shell be delighted; shes always said Im not a proper match for you. Dream come true.
The door latched behind him. Alice turned both bolts, pressed her forehead to the cold metal, and unexpectedly laughed. Not a desperate sound, either; laughter of relief. The flat was silent. No one murmuring, criticising, demanding.
A week passed; Alice revelled in solitude. She booked a cleaner and, miracle of miracles, the place sparkled, with none of the so-called bad energy Edith had moaned about. She bought meals from a nice deli or dined out with friends. In the evenings, she stretched out in a bubble bath, read novels, or watched dramas, with no ironing guilt.
The phone rang on Thursday evening. Edith Cartwright writ large on the screen. Alice sighed, but answered.
Alice! What is the meaning of this? Ediths voice was shrill with outrage. How could you kick your husband out of his home? Hes driving me round the bend!
Evening, Mrs. Cartwright. I didnt kick him out, I returned him to the bosom of his family. You always said my house was dirty and unwelcoming his happiness is with you, not me.
Dont you be flippant with me! squealed Edith. Hes a grown man! He lies about, demanding cutlets, leaving socks all over! My nerves are shot, my blood pressure up! He goes, Mum, fetch this; Mum, iron that. I told him, Go back to your wife! and he says, Alice doesnt appreciate me.
Quite. You raised him to expect a certain standard of care. I cant provide that; I have a job.
Job! A wifes place is with her husband. Take him back! He told me my soup was over-salted me, imagine!
Alice nearly laughed aloud.
Sorry, Mrs. Cartwright, but I wont have him back. Were divorcing. He should live where hes comfortable. Or find his own place and learn for himself.
Divorce?! a stunned pause. Have sense, Alice. Whos going to want you at forty, divorced? Johns a good catch
Precisely. A catch, and the perfect son for someone who wants one. Ill manage on my own, thanks, Mrs. Cartwright. Goodbye.
She hung up and blocked the number, then, on reflection, Johns too.
A month later, they met at the registrars. John looked rumpled, his shirt unpressed, dark shadows beneath his eyes.
Alice, cant we just try again? Its impossible at Mums. Shes forever at me drinking from the wrong cup, sitting in the wrong chair. She doesnt want to mother me, only boss me about. I see now how easy things were with you quiet, no one getting at me. So what if your stews bland? At least no one does my head in.
Alice looked at him there was pity, but not regret.
You realised that only when you stood in my shoes. Thats not love, John; thats just missing your comfort zone. You need to learn to be a grown man, not a well-kept child.
Ill rent a place. Do everything myself!
Learn. Grow up. But not with me. I like not being measured against anyone. I wont give that up.
They left the courthouse as strangers. John trudged to the bus stop, hunched and defeated. Alice slid into her car. On the passenger seat lay a travel brochure shed longed to see Italy, but John always insisted it was too dear, and the best holiday was at his mothers, down at the cottage by the river.
No more vegetable patches for her. Just Alice, her life, her choices. She put on the radio, turned it up loud, and drove off to a future that, bland or not, would suit her taste even if someone else thought it needed more salt.
