**Diary Entry**
Valerie Greenwood finally visited us for the first time in eight years. Not once since my husband, Oliver, and I married had she stepped foot in our home. She lived in a small village near York, rarely making the trip to London—her age, health, and the farm kept her tethered. Then, out of the blue, she announced, “I’m coming to see how you’re managing. My son, a wife, a mortgage—I deserve to lay eyes on it all.”
I’ll admit, I was glad. After years of silence—no visits, no birthday cards, not even a casual “how are you” on the phone—I’d hoped this might thaw things between us. Maybe we’d bond at last. We treated her like family: showed her the guest room, laid out fresh towels, and even bought her a cosy dressing gown and slippers. Oliver and I tried our best, though between work and chores, it wasn’t easy. Still, she was elderly—she deserved kindness.
The first few days passed smoothly, without incident. Then came Saturday morning. Exhausted after a brutal workweek, I allowed myself to sleep in. Oliver, ever the thoughtful one, decided to surprise us with breakfast. Half-asleep, I heard him bustling in the kitchen—the hiss of the frying pan, the gurgle of the coffee machine, the buttery scent of toast. I smiled into my pillow. *My husband. My sweet, considerate Oliver.* The peace lasted precisely until Valerie marched in.
Her voice cut through the closed door like a knife:
“What in God’s name are you doing, boy? At the stove? Wearing an *apron*?”
“Mum, I thought I’d make breakfast. You’ve had a long trip. Sophie’s asleep—let her rest. You know I enjoy cooking—”
“Take that ridiculous thing off! A man in the kitchen—it’s downright shameful! I didn’t raise my son to play housewife! Your father never so much as boiled an egg his whole life, and here you are, flipping omelettes like some hired help! And *her*—lazing about in bed?! That’s *her* job, not yours! Good Lord, you’ve turned into a proper doormat!”
I lay there, clutching the duvet, torn between laughter and fury. Her words made me sick—ashamed for Oliver, wounded for myself, and dreading the damage this visit might leave.
By the time I came out, she was working herself into a lather. Oliver still gripped the spatula, the omelette now burnt on the hob. Valerie trembled with outrage, muttering about disgrace, weak men, and *a man should be a man.* I had to brew her some chamomile tea—anything to stop a full-blown row right there in the kitchen. Sitting beside her, I took her hand and said calmly,
“We do things differently. We’re partners. I cook, clean, work. So does Oliver. Because he *wants* to. Because he cares. Is that really so wrong?”
She didn’t listen. Her face was stony, her eyes sharp with disapproval. She didn’t say it aloud, but the words hung in the air: *You’ve turned him into a pushover.* When she left days later without so much as a goodbye hug, I knew—she’d never accept our way of life.
Later, Oliver admitted she’d complained to his father on the phone: “Our boy waits on his wife hand and foot—can’t even lie in on a Saturday! Up at dawn like some scullery maid.” And all I could think was: *How sad.* To raise a man to fear kindness. To mistake love for shame.
I’m not angry. Just… sorry. For her—a life where the kitchen was a prison. For him—having to fight just to be a good husband. And for me—because I’d truly hoped we’d find common ground.
But one thing’s certain: my husband isn’t a *doormat.* He’s a man who loves. And if that offends anyone? Well. That’s their problem, not mine.
