The Right to Be Tired
Edward returned home late one evening. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes in the hallway, hung up his overcoat, and silently made his way to the bathroom. A few minutes later, he sat at the kitchen table, where a plate of chicken stew and peas—his wife Margaret’s signature dish—awaited him. Beside it stood a seafood salad. He picked up his fork, poked at the salad for a moment, then suddenly turned to her.
“Tell me truthfully… where did you get this salad?” he asked quietly, but firmly.
Margaret froze, the teapot hovering mid-pour. Something uneasy flickered in her eyes.
They had been married for over thirty years. If asked to rate their marriage out of a hundred, Margaret would have given it a solid fifty. Because they had seen it all—love and frustration, joy and drudgery, bright moments and weary days. An ordinary life. And Edward, though stubborn and hard-edged, was a good man. Loyal, dependable, hardworking.
Everything shifted last spring when Margaret fell ill. The doctor called it simple exhaustion, built up over years. Edward took her home in a taxi—their own car had long been neglected, every spare penny going toward their daughter Charlotte’s wedding loan.
Charlotte had just married, and her wedding had to be “like in the films.” Even though the dress turned out odd and the cake—”like chewing gum,” as Edward put it—her parents bore it without complaint. All that mattered was their daughter’s happiness.
After the wedding, the newlyweds moved into a flat inherited from the groom’s grandfather, while Edward and Margaret kept paying off the loan, scraping by with their battered car, worn-out appliances, and endless fatigue.
Margaret taught English and took private lessons. Edward worked as a mechanic at the factory. He refused canteen meals, burgers, takeaways—only home-cooked food! Hot, fresh, varied.
Margaret never argued, though by evening she could barely stand. One day, she snapped:
“How am I supposed to manage a starter, main, salad, and pudding every night? I’m not a machine.”
But Edward would reply with tales of his great-grandmother, who tilled the fields, fed a family of eight, and still found time for village plays.
Margaret was simply tired. One evening, stopping by the new deli near their house for fresh bread, she spotted the display of salads. Without thinking, she said:
“I’ll have the seafood one, large, please.”
That night, there were stuffed peppers, a pie… and that same salad.
“Something new! Tastes just like home,” Edward praised.
Margaret said nothing. And so it became her secret: if she ran short of time, she bought from the deli. Homemade taste, a bit dearer—but at least she could breathe.
It might have stayed that way if not for chance. At work, Edward shared lunch with a young apprentice, who was eating meatballs and a salad suspiciously like his own.
“Where’s that from?”
“The deli round the corner. Better than home!” the lad grinned.
Edward grew wary. Too many things matched. And so suspicion took root.
That evening, he ate in silence before asking the question. Margaret looked down.
“I… I was just tired. I thought you wouldn’t mind, so long as it tasted good.”
Edward stood. Walked over. Embraced her.
“I do mind. But you’re human too, Meg. You’ve the right to be tired.”
She sniffed. He smiled.
“Truce?”
“Truce.”
And that night, instead of the usual meal, they ordered a pizza, put on an old film, and felt—for the first time in years—not just husband and wife, but a pair who truly mattered to one another. And that, in the end, was enough to change everything.
