Martha Johnson was wagging her finger at me, calling me a terrible housewife, and I decided Id had enough of her meddling.
Emily, love, whos cutting those cucumbers into proper little cubes? Look at that, theyre more like bricks than salad bits! Men dont have steeljawed chewing, they need tenderness, care Martha hovered over the kitchen while I hurriedly finished the Christmas ham salad.
I gripped the knife so hard my fingertips went white. There was half an hour left before the guests arrived, and the motherinlaw, who showed up two hours early to help, spent the whole time shuffling spice jars and commenting on every move I made.
Martha, its a potato salad. Everything gets mixed together. David likes his veg with a bit of texture, not turned into mush, I said calmly, trying not to raise my voice.
Oh, stop with David! I raised him, fed him for thirty years. Hes always wanted everything neat and proper thats just his nature, thanks to my upbringing. Yesterday his shirt was crumpled, I saw it when he dropped by. Shame on you, Emily. A wife should keep her husband looking like he just stepped out of a tailors shop.
I sighed deeply and set the knife down.
I work until seven, Martha. David gets home at six. Hes got his own hands, and the iron is right where you can see it.
Martha pressed her hands to her chest, where a heavy amber brooch glinted.
Hands! A mans job is to bring home the bacon. The cosy home, the clean house thats a womans sacred duty. If you cant manage, maybe you should quit your job or get up earlier. I used to be up at five to fry fresh pancakes before my shift. And you? Youre feeding us premade stuff?
I cook every day, I snapped. Right now, excuse me, I need to pull the roast out of the oven.
Lunchtime was tense. David sat at the table, head buried in his plate, pretending not to notice the electric atmosphere. Hed always preferred to bury his face in soup when things got awkward, hoping the storm would pass on its own.
After tasting my marinated roast, Martha winced.
Well its edible. The meats a bit tough, overcooked. And youre a touch low on salt. David, want the salt?
Its fine, Mum, delicious, David mumbled with his mouth full.
Delicious, huh? Sweet as a carrot. And the floors? she turned her gaze to the laminate. The corners look dull. Your robot vacuum whirrs around but does nothing. You need a cloth, your hands, get down on your knees! Thats the only way to get a proper clean. Your attitude to the house is cold, almost official. Youre a bad housewife, dear, sorry for being blunt. Who else will tell you the truth but your mother?
I placed my fork down slowly, feeling something snap inside. Five years of marriage, five years trying to be perfect. I was a senior accountant, shared the mortgage with David, and in the evenings became a secondshift chef, washing, scrubbing, baking, all to earn a single word of praise. And the response was youre a terrible housewife.
I looked at David. He kept chewing, eyes glued to his food, protecting me. Hed grown used to it mum criticises, I try harder, and he just consumes the results.
So Im a terrible housewife? I asked quietly.
Dont take it personally, love, Martha waved a hand, shovelling another bite of the overcooked meat onto her plate. Its a fact. There are proper homemakers and there are modern career women. I saw dust on the cornice last time, it was glaring.
Alright, I nodded, a strange, calm smile spreading. I hear you, Martha. Thank you for the honesty.
That night, after Martha finally left with a tin of her famous lemon drizzle cake (she said shed take it so we wouldnt get poisoned when it went mouldy), David flopped on the sofa in front of the TV.
What a day, he yawned. Emily, could you bring me a cuppa? Theres still a biscuit left.
I stood by the window, looking out at the nightlit streets.
No, David.
What, no biscuit? Mum ate it all?
No tea. Actually, Im not bringing it.
He lifted his elbow, surprised.
Youre mad at your mum? Come on, shes old, always complaining. Dont let it get to you.
Im not mad. I just realised my motherinlaw called me a terrible housewife, that Im doing everything without heart, overcooking meat, ignoring dust. I thought, why should I keep torturing you and myself with my shortcomings? If I cant run the house properly, Ill stop trying altogether. No more embarrassment.
David chuckled, assuming it was a joke.
Fine, enough whining. Come over, Ill hug you.
I didnt move. I grabbed a book and retreated to the bedroom, closing the door firmly.
Monday morning broke with a change of routine for David. Usually hed wake to the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon, a freshly ironed shirt hanging on the chair, socks neatly stacked. Today the flat was silent. The kitchen was empty, the stove cold as a dead heart.
Emily? David called from the bedroom. She was already at the vanity, applying mascara. Breakfast?
Theres eggs and sausage in the fridge, bread in the box, I replied calmly, pulling at my lashes.
But you always cooked! Im late!
Im late too. And since Im a bad housewife, I might ruin the food. What if the eggs crack, the coffee burns? Better you sort it yourself. A mans a provider, he can fetch his own breakfast.
Cursing under his breath, David stumbled into the kitchen. Coffee boiled over, the pan burnt, the eggs were halfcooked, the sausage was dry. He shoved a sandwich down, donned yesterdays rumpled shirt, and left for work, angry and famished.
Evening rolled around and the same pattern repeated. David walked in expecting dinner, found me on the sofa with a face mask, flipping through a magazine.
Whats for dinner? he asked, tripping over his own trainers left on the floor.
I ordered salmon poke, already ate it, my voice came muffled behind the fabric mask. I didnt think youd like it, so I left frozen dumplings in the freezer.
Dumplings? After a whole day at work I want a proper homecooked meal! I want borscht!
Borscht is complicated. With my lack of talent Id mess it up. Mum said I cook without heart. Dumplings are safe: boil, salt, ten minutes.
David wanted to argue, but the icy look in my eyes stopped him. He boiled the dumplings, then washed the pot because Id said, Im bad at washing up, I leave streaks, you better do it properly.
A week passed. The flat slowly lost its shine. Dust that I used to swipe every two days now danced in the sunlight. The sink filled with a mountain of dishes David only washed what he needed immediately, while I used a single plate and cup and promptly put them in my little cupboard.
The laundry basket grew into an Everest of his socks, tshirts and jeans. I had no problem with my own clothes Id drop them off at the laundrette on the way to work or wash my own things by hand.
David looked gaunt, angry, a little thinner from a diet of sandwiches and instant noodles.
Saturday morning, a knock at the door. It was Martha, coming for her weekly inspection, unannounced this time.
Open up, love! Ive brought you pancakes, youve been starving on dry toast, she chirped as she stepped into the hallway.
Her eyes landed on the pile of shoes by the entrance, then she moved into the living room, spotting a dust layer on the TV screen with someones finger scribbled Wash me. Empty mugs with dried tea bags and a pizza box sat on the coffee table.
My God! she gasped, clutching her chest. What happened here? Are you sick? This looks like a barn!
I emerged from the bedroom in a silk robe, hair brushed, a book in hand.
Morning, Martha. Its just a flat, not a barn, I said.
A barn? Look at this! she ran a finger over the dusty dresser. This is unsanitary! David, how do you live like this?
David popped out of the kitchen, chewing on a stale biscuit, his shirt crumpled, a stain on his trousers.
Mum, this is how we live he muttered.
Emily! Marthas voice rose. Grab a cloth now! This is an embarrassment! Ill start a deep clean and youll help me. How can you let your husband live in filth?
I sat back in a chair, crossed my legs, and opened my book.
No, Martha. I wont pick up a cloth. You told me last Sunday Im a terrible housewife, that Im lazy, that I have no talent. I accepted your criticism. Why should I do something Im bad at? Ive decided to focus on what Im good at my job and my rest.
Are you mocking me? she sputtered. I was trying to help!
The lessons over. Ive dropped out.
David! Say something! she shrieked.
David glanced between his wife, his mother, and the heap of dirty dishes.
Mum, what can I say? Youve been on her case forever. Shes tried, youve just kept finding fault. Shes fed up.
Im not upset, David, Emily corrected him. Ive optimised my processes. If my work is judged zero or negative, it makes sense to stop wasting energy on it.
Marthas face turned a shade of crimson.
So thats it? Optimised? Fine, Ill do it all myself! A daughterinlaw cant manage, a mother must save her son!
She ripped off her coat, grabbed a rag, and launched herself at the kitchen. For the next three hours the flat echoed with the sound of scrubbing, vacuuming, and Marthas commentary on every speck of grime.
I sipped my coffee, brewed just for me, and read. I didnt offer help, didnt apologise. I simply watched.
David tried to help his mum but got only sharp rebukes: Dont get in my way!, Stay out of it!, Better fetch a cutlet, Ive already cleaned the shelf.
By evening the flat glittered. Martha, sweaty and wildeyed, collapsed onto the sofa, her blood pressure spiking.
Water she croaked.
I handed her a glass and a tablet.
Thanks, Martha. Youre truly a cleaning maestro. Id never have managed this.
She glared at me with a mix of hatred and exhaustion, but her voice softened.
I wont let this go, she whispered. David, you should divorce her. Shes lazy, selfish.
David stood by the window, looking out. He was full from mums cutlets, the flat spotless, yet his stomach churned. He saw how humiliating the scene was, and knew his mother would eventually leave, leaving him with me. If I kept my strike going, the next week would be another nightmare, and his ageing mum couldnt keep coming back to do the floors.
Mum, he said quietly. Ill get you a taxi home.
Youre kicking me out? her eyes welled.
No, just think you need a break.
When the door shut behind her, a crisp, sterile silence settled over the flat.
David walked back to the kitchen, where I was tossing a simple salad together.
Emily, he began hesitantly.
What?
Maybe its enough? Ive learned my lesson. Mum maybe.
What lesson did you learn, David? I turned, knife in hand. That you cant spend a week living in a pigsty and then expect an old mum to swoop in and fix everything while you just watch the telly? Thats a bad lesson.
No. Ive realised Im miserable without you. Ive taken the clean house and good food for granted. I thought it just happened on its own.
It doesnt happen on its own. Those hours are my life, pulled from sleep, hobbies, rest. When I hear youre useless, I lose the will to do anything.
Ill talk to my mum, David said firmly. Ill tell her to stop slandering your cooking or cleaning. Otherwise well stop inviting her over.
Words, David. I need actions.
Ill help, really. Lets split chores. Ill vacuum, take out the rubbish, and wash the dishes each evening.
I raised an eyebrow.
Dishes? Every night?
Yes. And Ill do breakfast on weekends. Ill learn to fry the eggs the way you like.
I thought it over, weighing his words.
Fine. Trial period one month. If you break the agreement, Im back on strike. And believe me, your mum wont be able to return for a second round her back wont hold up.
Deal. Dinner tonight? Normal?
Tonight were on mums leftover cutlets. Tomorrow well see how youve behaved.
The next week was an eyeopener for David. The robot vacuum needed a brush, dishes multiplied like rabbits, and socks werent a landfill but a basket.
Wednesday evening, Martha called.
How are you two? Still drowning in dust? Want me to come over Saturday and make borscht?
David, arms covered in flour, held the phone against his shoulder.
No, Mum. Weve got it. Weve got borscht, Emily made it. Tastes great.
Oh, tasty then I know her cooking.
Mum! his voice hardened. I said its tasty. Emilys a brilliant housewife. If you say another nasty thing, well be hurt. I love my wife, and it pains me when shes insulted.
A heavy silence stretched over the line before Martha finally hung up.
I listened from the doorway, a genuine smile forming for the first time in ages. I slipped behind David, wrapped my arms around his shoulders and rested my head on his chest.
Theres still a bit of grease on the handle, I whispered.
I see it, he muttered, not annoyed. Ill wipe it now. You go rest, youve earned it.
Martha didnt call for two weeks. Eventually she drifted back, wanting grandchildren and a bit of company. She turned up quietly, sat down at the table.
I served dinner roast chicken with golden potatoes. The skin was crisp, the aroma drifted through the whole block.
Martha cut a piece, chewed, and almost said something about too many spices or undersalted. Her lips twitched, but she met my husbands steady gaze instead. David watched his mother, waiting, stern.
Delicious, she managed. Good chicken.
Thank you, I smiled. I tried my best.
And the place is so clean she looked around, hunting for a fault, but found none. David had already wiped the skirting boards before she arrived, fearing another strike.
We cleaned together, David said proudly. Im now responsible for the dust.
A man with a rag Martha began her usual tirade, then stopped. Well if that works for you. The important thing is peace at home.
Exactly, I agreed, pouring her a cup of tea. Peace and respect.
The criticism never vanished completely you cant rewrite a character but it quieted to a low mutter nobody really heard. I learned a simple truth: to be valued, sometimes you have to stop being invisible and show how much invisible work you do. Most of all, I never feared being called a bad housewife again. Being a happy woman matters far more.
