**Part-Time Husband**
“Brilliant. You got your wife pregnant—and now you’re running back to Mummy’s skirts? No, son, that won’t fly. I won’t hide you.”
“It’s not about hiding! I just need a breather, you get that? She’s screaming, crying, apologising, then screaming again… My nerves are so frayed even someone else’s breathing sets me off!”
“You’ll be breathing your last if you keep this up,” snapped Tamara, stepping forward. “You married her—deal with it. Family isn’t summer camp. Did you think you’d spend your life clubbing and watching films?”
Matthew lowered his gaze, shoulders tense. He wanted to argue, but words failed him. He dropped his bag, as if still planning to push past his mother despite her protests.
Tamara squared up.
“No. No sleepovers. No dinners. If you won’t leave, I’ll call the police. Seriously. Oh, poor you—tired, are we?”
Matthew had always been like this. Eyes wide with guilt, but sparks of resentment flickering beneath.
…Her son had mastered shirking responsibility young. While his older brother toiled in the garden, Matthew “fell ill” with mysterious fevers. Tamara dragged him to doctors until she realised her youngest was just a crafty little actor.
Once, when he faked sickness before an exam, she yanked him from bed by his collar. He whined, sniffled, and threatened—”I’ll drop dead at school, and Miss Thompson will blame you!”—but he went.
Tamara laughed, though even then, she knew it wasn’t funny. He’d spend hours building toy castles, yet clearing his plate was a Herculean task. Homework only happened after shouting. Every problem sent him scurrying to her, eyes like a kicked puppy.
And though she tried to break the habit, his knack for dodging blame stuck.
Emily, his wife, had a temper. At first, she’d been sweet—dotting on him, even bringing coffee in bed.
“Mum, she’s exactly the wife I wanted,” he’d gushed.
Tamara wasn’t fooled. She knew newlyweds put on their best faces. Emily was only twenty-one—eager to please, but green as grass.
One dinner party revealed the truth. When Matthew asked for a fork instead of a spoon, Emily sighed loud enough to rattle the china. When he teased her for being fussy, she smiled—but her eyebrow twitched. After Tamara’s niece criticised the salad, Emily bolted to the kitchen, muttering about a “phone call.”
Tamara doubted any call was made. The kitchen stayed silent.
“Be careful with her,” she whispered later. “Are you sure she’s the one?”
“Mum, we’re fine. You’re too hard on her. She’s just emotional—it’s not a problem.”
Not a problem? Tamara saw the upside. Emily had fire—determined, driven. She’d keep Matthew in line. But was he ready for that?
Life answered: no.
Six months into the marriage, they arrived with cake and grins.
“Mum, you’re going to be a grandma!”
Tamara nearly choked. Her throat tightened; her palms slicked with sweat. She adjusted her glasses, studying them. They glowed like lottery winners.
“Are you serious? Not even a year married, and already a baby?”
Matthew blinked, baffled by her reaction. Emily frowned, eyes downcast. Arguing was pointless.
“What’s the issue? We’re married—it’s family,” he mumbled.
Tamara sighed. They were children themselves! How could they raise one? But she held her tongue. No use being the villain.
“I’ve no say anyway,” she thought.
She was wrong. Fate handed her the wheel.
It started small. Matthew dropped by for lunches—missing her, he claimed, appreciating her care now he was grown. Then the truth slipped:
“Emily can’t stand meat, fish, even eggs. Lives on salad. I just want a proper meal.”
Soon, he came for dinners too.
Tamara didn’t mind. She thought she was helping—less cooking for Emily, a happier husband.
But he pushed further.
“She nagged me all morning,” he complained. “Broke a nail before her friend’s birthday. Kept asking if it looked bad. Like I’d notice!”
He moaned about work exhaustion, Emily waking him to chat at 3 AM, hunting dragon fruit because she craved “something exotic.”
Tamara’s patience frayed—not at Emily, but her son. She remembered pregnancy well. The nausea, the mood swings. Matthew, though? He withdrew. Spent evenings at her place: bingeing shows, gaming, “just needing quiet.”
“Yesterday, she blew up over yogurt. I bought peach, not strawberry. Said I never listen.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Tamara arched a brow.
He waved her off. A week later, he arrived with a bag.
“She’s at her mum’s. We need space, or we’ll divorce.”
Tamara’s eyes narrowed. This, she hated.
“You’ll divorce if you keep running. Go back. She needs you—even if she’s snappy. You’re her husband. Act like it.”
The excuses tumbled out: Emily’s fears, daily scans, her constant need for reassurance. Then—the slip.
“I’ve thought about divorce too…”
Tamara read between the lines. He wanted her approval, a soft landing. No. She’d never enable this.
“Did you think it’d be all roses? There’s a human growing inside her! When I carried you, I cried at shampoo ads. Your dad came home, though—even when he wanted to bolt. Because he loved me. Because I was scared!”
“Mum, you don’t get it—”
“I get it fine. You chose her. You wanted a child. Man up.”
“Just till the baby’s born—”
“First ‘just till birth,’ then ‘just till teething.’ No. You won’t be a part-time husband. I’ll chase you with a broom if I must, but you’re not hiding here.”
They argued, but she shoved him out. Then she texted Emily:
“He’ll be back in an hour. Love, my advice: don’t smother him, but don’t cave. He’s a work in progress.”
Emily read it instantly. Ten minutes later: “Thanks ❤️.”
…Matthew stopped visiting. At first, he vanished—not even a Mother’s Day card. Later, contact resumed, though strained. Tamara didn’t fret. Pain was part of growing up. And if she let him hide? He’d never grow at all.
**Life lesson:** Love means staying through the storms—not just the sunshine. Running away solves nothing; responsibility, once chosen, must be shouldered, not shrugged off.
