Dear Diary,
This afternoon felt like a storm in the kitchen at our flat in Camden. Eleanor Whitmore, my motherinlaw, hovered over me with that familiar sharpness, accusing me of being a terrible housewife and saying I should quit looking after the family.
Poppy, love, why are you cutting the cucumber for the salad into bricks? Those arent cubes, theyre little stones! How could anyone eat that? she scolded, her voice rising as I hurriedly finished the potato salad.
I gripped the knife handle so tightly my fingertips went white. The guests were due in half an hour, yet Eleanor, who had arrived two hours early to help, spent the whole time rearranging spice jars and critiquing every move I made.
Eleanor, this is just the salad. Everything gets mixed together. David likes his veg to feel like veg, not turn into mush, I replied calmly, trying not to raise my voice.
She launched into a tirade about David: I raised him, fed him for thirty years. He always wanted everything neat and tidy. If the shirt is wrinkled, its a shame, dear. A wife must make sure her husband walks on a needlepoint path.
I took a deep breath and set the knife down. I work until sevenp.m., Eleanor. David gets home at six. He has his own hands, and the iron sits out for him to use.
Eleanor clutched a heavy amber brooch to her chest and declared, Men have different duties. Theyre the providers! A womans holy tasks are comfort, cleanliness, and order. If you cant manage, perhaps you should quit your job or get up at sunrise. I used to rise at five to make fresh crumpets for my husband before his shift. And you? Do you rely on processed meals?
I cook every day, I snapped, and now I need to pull the roast out of the oven.
The lunch was tense. David sat at the table, his fork digging into his plate while pretending not to notice the electric atmosphere. He preferred to bury his head in the soup, hoping the conflict would dissolve on its own.
After trying a slice of my marinated beef, Eleanor frowned. Its edible, but the meat is a bit tough and undersalted. David, do you need more salt?
Its fine, mum, David mumbled with his mouth full.
Eleanor turned her gaze to the laminate floor. The corners are grey. Your robot vacuum whirs around, but you still need a cloth and your hands. Proper cleanliness comes from kneeling and scrubbing. You treat the home coldly, without heart. Youre a bad housekeeper, dear, but who else will tell you the truth?
I lowered my fork, feeling something snap inside me. Five years of marriage, five years of trying to be perfectbalancing a senior accountant role, a joint mortgage, and double shifts at the stove. I washed, baked, seasoned, hoping for a single word of praise, only to be called a bad housekeeper.
David kept chewing, his head down, as if protecting me. He was used to his mothers criticism, to my overeffort, and simply consumed the result.
Is that it? Bad housekeeper? I asked quietly.
Eleanor waved her hand, adding another piece of overcooked meat to her plate. Its a fact. Some women are homey, others are modern careerwomen. I even saw dust on the cornice last timeeyesore.
Alright, I said, a calm smile forming. I hear you, Eleanor. Thank you for your honesty.
When Eleanor finally left, taking a container of cake with a warningIll take this so you dont get poisoned when it mouldsDavid flopped onto the sofa.
Phew, what a day, he sighed. Poppy, could you bring me a cup of tea? Theres still a biscuit left.
I stood by the window, looking out at the London night.
No, David.
What? No tea? Did Mum eat it all?
Theres no tea. I wont bring it.
He sat up, confused. Youre angry at your mother? Shes just old and nagging. Dont take it to heart.
Im not angry, I replied. Your mother called me a bad housekeeper, said I do everything without soul, that I overcook meat and ignore dust. I thought: why should I keep hurting you and myself with my incompetence? If I cant run the house properly, Ill stop trying altogether, to avoid embarrassment.
David chuckled, thinking I was joking. Fine, enough whining. Come here, Ill hug you.
I didnt move. I took a book and closed my bedroom door.
Monday morning broke a routine for David. Usually Id wake to the smell of fresh coffee and bacon, a crisply ironed shirt hanging on the chair, socks neatly stacked. Today the flat was silent. The kitchen was empty and cold, the stove as chilled as a broken heart.
Poppy? David called from the bedroom. Breakfast?
There are eggs and sausage in the fridge, bread in the tin, I said calmly, applying mascara.
But you always cooked! Im late!
Im late too. Since Im a bad housewife, I might ruin the foodcrack a shell into the omelette, burn the coffee. Better you do it yourself. Men provide; you can provide your own breakfast.
David cursed and headed to the kitchen. Coffee spilled over the hob, the omelette burned at the bottom and remained runny on top. He ate a dry sausage sandwich, put on yesterdays shirtstill a bit wrinkledand left for work angry and famished.
That evening the same pattern repeated. David walked in expecting dinner. I was on the sofa, a face mask on, flipping through a magazine.
Whats for dinner? he asked, tripping over his own sneakers left on the floor.
I ordered salmon poke and have already eaten it, I replied softly from behind the mask. I didnt order anything for youmaybe you dont like it. There are frozen supermarket dumplings in the freezer.
Dumplings? Ive been at work all day! I want proper homecooked food, a stew!
Stew is complicated. With my lack of talent Id ruin it. Your mother said I cook without soul. Dumplings are simplewater, salt, ten minutes, done.
David wanted to argue, but my icy stare stopped him. He boiled the dumplings, then washed the pot because I told him, Im terrible at washing dishes; I leave streaks, so you should do it properly yourself.
A week passed, and the flat slowly lost its shine. Dust, which I used to wipe every two days, now danced in the sunlight. The sink filled with dishesDavid only cleaned what he needed, while I used a single plate and cup and promptly put them away in my personal cabinet. The laundry basket grew into a mountain of mens socks, tshirts, and jeans. I had no problem with my own clothes; Id drop them off at the dry cleaners on my way to work or wash them by hand.
David drifted around, crumpled, angry, and a bit thinner from a diet of sandwiches and instant noodles.
Saturday morning the doorbell rang. It was Eleanor, unannounced, with her weekly inspection.
Open up, love! Ive brought crumpets, you look famished, she announced, stepping into the hallway.
Her eyes landed on a pile of shoes by the door, then she moved into the living room, spotting a layer of dust on the TV screen, where someonepresumably Davidhad written Clean me with a finger. Empty mugs with dried tea bags and a pizza box sat on the coffee table.
My God! Eleanor gasped, clutching her chest. What happened here? Are you ill? This place looks like a barn!
I emerged from the bedroom in a silk robe, hair freshly brushed, a book in hand.
Good morning, Eleanor. Its just a flat, not a barn, I said.
What barn? Theres no housekeeper! This is unsanitary! David, son, how do you live like this?
David shuffled out of the kitchen, a stale ginger biscuit in his hand, his shirt crumpled, a stain on his trousers.
Mum, thats how we live, he muttered.
Poppy! Eleanors voice rose. Grab a cloth this instant! Its a disgrace! Ill start a deep clean and youll help me. How can you let your husband live in filth?
I sat back in an armchair, crossed my legs, and opened my book.
No, Eleanor. I wont pick up a rag. You already told me last Sunday Im a bad housekeepermy washing, my cleaning, my talent is lacking. I accepted your criticism. Why should I keep doing something Im not good at? Ill focus on what Im good atmy job and my rest.
Youre mocking me? she sputtered. I only wanted the best for you!
My education is over. Ive dropped out of the housewife school, I replied.
David! Say something! she shrieked.
David glanced at his mother, then at the mountain of dirty dishes, and said, Mum, you really did push her. She cleaned, she cooked, and you kept saying not right, not right. She got fed up.
Im not fed up, David, I corrected. Ive optimized my processes. If my work is judged as zero or negative, it makes sense to stop spending energy on it.
Eleanors face turned a shade of crimson. So youre saying youll do nothing? Then Ill clean everything myself! A helpless daughterinlaw needs a mother to rescue her son!
She ripped off her coat, grabbed a rag, and launched into a threehour cleaning frenzyscrubbing, vacuuming, commenting on every speck of grime. I stayed in the kitchen, sipping coffee Id made just for myself, watching the chaos without offering help.
By evening the flat sparkled. Eleanor, exhausted and sweaty, collapsed onto the sofa, her blood pressure spiking.
Water she croaked.
I handed her a glass and a tablet.
Thank you, Eleanor. You truly are a cleaning master. I could never have done it like that, I said, smiling. She glared at me, but her breath steadied.
She whispered, I wont let this go. David, you must divorce her. Shes lazy and selfish.
David stood by the window, stomach rumbling, watching the street. He felt sick; the clean flat looked almost surreal. He knew his mother would soon leave, and he would be left with me. If I kept my strike, the next week would be another nightmare. And his mother, aging, couldnt keep coming in to mop the floors forever.
Mom, Ill call a taxi for you, he said softly.
Youre kicking me out? tears welled in Eleanors eyes.
No, just think you need a break, I replied.
When her door shut, a sterile silence settled over the apartment.
Later, as I prepared a simple salad for myself, David approached hesitantly.
Poppy
Yes? I asked.
Maybe its time to stop this lesson. Mum maybe shes
What lesson have you learned, David? I turned, knife in hand. That you can live in a pigsty for a week, then a mother comes in and cleans everything while you watch TV? Thats a bad lesson.
No. Ive realized I feel terrible without you. I was used to cleanliness and good food, but I never valued the work behind it. I thought it would happen on its own.
It doesnt happen on its own, I said. It costs me sleep, hobbies, rest. When I hear Im clumsy, I lose the desire to do anything.
Ill talk to my mum, David declared. Ill tell her to stop criticizing your cooking or cleaning, otherwise we wont invite her here again.
Words are fine, David, but I need actions.
Ill help, truly. Lets split duties. Ill vacuum, take out the rubbish, and wash the dishes every evening.
I regarded him skeptically. Dishes? Every night?
Yes. And Ill make breakfast on weekends, learning to fry the eggs you like.
I paused, weighing his promise.
Alright. Onemonth trial. If you break the agreement, Ill quit again. And believe me, the next time your mother shows up, she wont have the strength to clean.
Deal. Dinner tonightany plans?
Tonight we have leftover mums meatballs. Tomorrow well see how youve performed.
The following week was an eyeopener for David. The robot vacuum still needed a brush, dishes multiplied if left unattended, and socks had to be taken to the laundry basket, not dumped in a corner.
On Wednesday evening Eleanor called.
How are you two? Not drowning in dust? Should I come over Saturday and make a stew?
David, angrily scrubbing a pan, held the phone to his shoulder.
No, Mum, weve got it. We have stew alreadyPoppy made it, its delicious.
I know her cooking, darling, she replied, a hint of pride in her voice.
Enough, David snapped. Shes an excellent housewife. If you say another nasty thing, well be hurt. I love my wife, and it pains me when shes insulted.
Silence hung on the line before Eleanor hung up.
I stood in the doorway, smiling for the first time in weeks, warmth spreading through me. I slipped behind David and rested my head on his shoulder.
Theres still a bit of sauce on the knob, I whispered.
I see it, he murmured, reaching for a cloth. Go rest. Youve earned it.
Eleanor didnt call for two weeks. Eventually, longing for grandchildren, she visited quietly, sitting down for tea.
I served roast chicken with potatoes, the skin golden, the aroma filling the whole block. Eleanor took a bite, hesitated, then swallowed.
Youve seasoned it well, she said, a rare compliment slipping past her usual critiques. The chicken is lovely.
Thanks, I replied, smiling. I tried.
She glanced around, searching for faults, but found none. David had already polished the skirting boards before she arrived, fearing another strike would return.
We both cleaned together, he said proudly. Im now in charge of the dust.
Eleanor began her usual tirade, then stopped. Well as long as peace stays in the house, she said, a hint of resignation in her tone.
Her criticism never vanished completelysome habits are hard to changebut it faded into a low murmur that nobody really listened to. I learned that to be valued, sometimes you must stop being the invisible helper and make your effort visible. Most importantly, I no longer fear being called a bad housekeeper. Being a happy woman matters far more.
Poppy.
