Ive often heard people claim that a wife should be at least ten years younger than her husband natures way, they say, so a man always has a freshfaced partner beside him.
I had to choke back a laugh when my wife, Emily, told me that. Of course, Id just earned my PhD last year and was finally a doctor of science. That didnt give me the right to start stringing nature into every conversation, especially when I was the one obsessed with spiders. And as everyone knows, many a female arachnid would happily feast on its beloved.
I giggled at the thought, but answered plainly:
When we married, didnt you know there was only a year between us?
Thats the point! Everythings backwards youre older than me!
By one year.
Does it matter? Its a fact!
Whats the point of this whole argument? I could feel my temper rising.
Lately, Id been tossing out remarks about Emily, mostly negative, sometimes thinly veiled as compliments that sounded more like insults on social media. Youve put on a few pounds, Your hairs thinning, You dress terribly The barbs grew harsher.
Im just talking about natures way to ensure a species thrives, Id say. You keep turning it into petty spats. Maybe read a book or two
And there she was, growling like a wild animal. Id always hinted that she didnt match my academic level. At first it seemed a harmless joke, but after I defended my dissertation, the tone changed.
When we first met, I was a broke postgraduate living in a university hall, picking up any odd job to keep the lights on. I was twentyfive, dreaming of greatness in the lab. Emily often walked her terrier, Max, in Hyde Park, and I told myself it was fate we lived on adjoining streets and happened to cross paths each week, when I was heading to the institute and she was out for a stroll. She was so striking that I mustered the courage to approach her. She blushed at first, then couldnt believe her luck that a charming young scientist had shown interest.
Her family life was, to put it mildly, strained. Her mother preferred the bottle to her own daughter, and her father wasnt much better. In practice, Emily was raised by her grandmother, a frail lady who was often ill. From school, Emily helped her at home, which meant she never went to university; she had a small tailoring college diploma instead. When her grandmother felt a bit better, Emily worked in a garment factory, but that closed down soon after.
Later she became her grandmothers fulltime carer as her health deteriorated. They lived on the pension, and to stretch the money they rented out a spare room in the twobed flat where the grandmother lived. Emily slept on the balcony, cramped as she was.
So when I asked her out and eventually proposed, Emily thought it was a dream.
Im a plain, penniless girl, shed say of herself. Not a beauty, no dowry
Dont say that, youre the most wonderful woman Ive ever known, Id reply. Ill find a second job. Well manage a flat and look after your gran.
I took nightshifts delivering taxis after the lab, just to keep some cash flowing. Fortunately, my grandmother passed away and left the twobed flat to Emily. The young couple moved in, saving on rent, and our finances improved. I kept working at the institute, while Emily took occasional sewing orders from home, first simple skirts and dresses, then more elaborate pieces.
A couple of years later our son, Jack, was born. Emily devoted herself entirely to him, sewing only when she could between naps. She wanted Jack to grow up sharp, and my salary finally reached a livable level we could afford butter on the bread. Yet I was still glued to the lab, with little energy left for my own dissertation. How could I think about great science when a family needed feeding?
Time rushed on. Jack excelled at school, won a gold medal, and earned a place at a top university in London. He breezed through his studies and dreamed of following in my footsteps, though he chose a different field. I swelled with pride, bragging to colleagues:
Look at that lad, hell be an academic one day. You should think about finishing your thesis yourself.
Its too late for me, Id shrug.
Better late than never! Youve gathered so much data, it would be a waste to let it go unused.
That nudged me to finally draft my PhD thesis. Emily hovered like a hen, dusting off my papers, making sure I didnt forget to write. Id already been lazy about chores, but once the thesis became my obsession, I stopped taking out the rubbish and even avoided reheating my soup she wouldnt let me put a readymade meal in the microwave for fear it would distract me.
At first her fuss spurred me on. I burned the midnight oil, but the work kept stalling. Calculations needed redoing, tables had to be reformatted. Frustration boiled over and I snapped at Emily.
Why do you always make the same pea soup? I barked when she set a bowl on the table. We cant eat the same thing every day!
What do you mean the same? she retorted. I made it just yesterday. Before that it was a beef stew.
No, it was definitely pea soup yesterday, I insisted.
Fine maybe the day before then. I try to vary the menu, you know.
Try harder!
She pursed her lips and walked away.
Each day I grew more petulant, like a sulky child. Id complain about the tea being cold, even though Id been glued to the computer while she brought it over.
Im not drinking lukewarm tea! It tastes like I muttered.
Then heat it up, Emily shrugged.
My arrogance only made me less inclined to do anything nice for her. The final straw came when she landed a big order: two whole classes wanted graduation aprons. She wanted everything perfect, recalling her own school days in pristine white smocks with ribbons. She set to work, washing, cooking, tidying, and then, in a rare free moment, turned on her favourite cooking show.
Could you turn it down? I shouted after five minutes. I cant concentrate!
She lowered the volume, though I still managed to hear the programme through the closed door. Five minutes later she was irritated again:
I already did, love.
I stalked over, snatched the remote and nearly silenced the sound completely.
Your programmes are for simpletons! I sneered. My brain cant handle that rubbish!
Its my favourite show! Emily hissed, trying to retrieve the remote. Why did you mute it?
You can watch it without sound, I waved off. The pictures are enough.
I want sound!
The television is shouting! I cant think! Watch something intelligent! Your brain is as thin as a pea!
Im exhausted, I just want to relax! Leave me be!
Why are you so tired? You never work. You boiled the mince, thats it! Instead of TV, read a book; youd be smarter!
She pouted, and the endless youre not bright enough routine resumed. When I finally defended my thesis, the tension peaked. I kept telling Emily she was beneath me intellectually, and that became our biggest obstacle.
One day, I was in a sour mood and shed burnt a cherry cake.
Whats this, charcoal? I shouted, flinging a slice onto the plate.
I overcooked it, she sighed, having tried to rescue it. I needed a cherry cake badly, so I ate a bit of the burnt part.
Forgot? Did a crow teach you?
I was swamped with a coat order. Im stitching.
Youd better stick to cooking properly than scorch the pastries! Those orders dont bring money; they just distract you. Youd be better off reading a book and widening your horizons.
Ive been sewing half my life, she retorted, hurt, and it does bring in cash. Its modest, but pleasant. If I chased more orders, I could earn decently.
Who needs those ragged coats? No shops?
I sew well, she puffed, from decent fabrics. In stores the same stuff costs the same, but the quality is poor
And who wants those sports jackets? I scoffed. Going to the gym in them?
Young people wear them now. My friends daughter suggested I start a line. Sportswear made from the fabrics I use is pricey in stores. Id love to get into that.
Youve run out of ideas? I almost laughed. Look at you, budding entrepreneur!
My friend says
Your friends are clueless, and you act like them, I snapped. Youd be better off with books.
You know what? she snapped back. Ill sort it out myself. Im not a girl any more. If I want to, Ill open my own workshop. Think I cant?
Im sure you cant, ninetyfive percent sure.
Really? she snorted. Thanks for the confidence.
She stared at the ruined cake, then at me.
If you dont like it, she said, dont eat it. Wash the dishes yourself. Im a dimwit, you think? I cant handle that. Ill just read a book.
From that moment I saw a fire in her eyes: to prove she could succeed, first to herself, then to me. Her son was grown, so it was time for her to enjoy life and do what shed missed in her youth.
She saved every penny for advertising. Her friends daughter offered to post an online ad. At first business was slow.
Business not kicking off? I teased. Emily kept quiet.
Gradually orders trickled in: mums on maternity leave and anyone who liked comfy clothes ordered trousers or jackets. The friends daughter took photos, even modelling the garments herself, showing them on women of different ages and sizes. She handled client emails, social media, and promotion. Emily got a cut, but she didnt mind.
The small workshop began to thrive. More orders came in.
Still at the sewing machine? I joked when I got home. One client ordered matching outfits for a big family, so youre swamped.
Theres meat in the fridge, she said. Heat it up yourself or need a hand?
I huffed in irritation.
Working for herself suited Emily. Income wasnt steady month to month, but it was enough to keep the bills paid.
Youll soon earn more than me, the neighbours teased.
And Emily didnt deny it.
One evening I came home to find only a plate of fried cutlets in the fridge.
No dinner? I muttered, entering the little workshopturnedkitchen.
I only managed the cutlets. No sides. If you want, buy some bread or fry an egg.
I didnt even look at the sewing machine. I stared at her, then examined the sleeve she was stitching. She stopped and gave me a questioning look.
You spend all your time on nonsense instead of feeding your husband.
I cooked the cutlets. If you cooked sometimes, nothing would go wrong. I have more work than you do now, she replied, proud of the orders shed landed.
Why do I need a wife who makes tracksuits and talks like a designer?
Im fed up with your condescending remarks, honestly. Dont bother me, Im busy. I didnt stop you from writing your thesis, so stop bothering me.
Same to you! Comparing a thesis to a piece of cloth
To each his own, Emily shrugged.
Perhaps Id never have recognised her triumph if not for one night at the institutes NewYear party. I turned up in a dress Id sewn myself. It became the talk of the evening; men complimented it, women whispered, some were jealous. When asked where it came from, Emily proudly showed the name of her tiny studio on her phone. Older colleagues were indifferent, but the younger lab girls asked for the price and the website.
Your wifes a real business lady, a colleague chuckled, glancing at me with a downturned smile. Shell be supporting us in old age.
Look at her, a proper entrepreneur, I muttered, halfenviously watching Emily beam as she described her sewing.
The party made her a star. Some colleagues later asked me about the workshop. At first it irritated me, but a strange pride grew my wife really was doing something worthwhile.
Since then Ive been more tolerant of Emilys sidehustle. When she hired a young seamstress to help, I finally admitted that my wife now ran a genuine business.
You doubted me, didnt you? Emily smiled, harmlessly smug.
Her success impressed me, even if I never admitted it out loud. I stopped teasing her about being uneducated or a dimwit. I even began chopping potatoes for dinner when the fridge only held cutlets. The dissertation was finally behind me, no longer a stumbling block.
