Dear Diary,
I could hear the tremor in Sams voice as he asked, Mum doesnt love us any more, does she? Is she leaving because were a bother? He hiccupped, the words spilling out of his fiveyearold throat. I glanced sideways at Margaret, my wife, who was folding the last of the clothes into a suitcase. She seemed ready to collapse, caught between a guilty conscience and sheer exhaustion.
It all started with a harmless joke from George. The night before, Margaret had announced she intended to spend International Womens Day alone, away from the family. The house erupted in chatter. George couldnt stop himself; he let every thought out and then turned to the childrenSam, five, and Arthur, sevenlike a mischiefmaking father.
Did you hear, kids? Mums packing her bags and heading off. Weve worn her out, havent we? he said, his tone light and almost cheerful, but with an undercurrent of accusation.
The boys froze. Arthurs brow furrowed, Sams eyes widened.
Shes really going forever? Sam asked, confused.
Dont know yet, George shrugged. Maybe itll become a habit. She might just decide to stay away for good.
For George it was all banter. For the kids it felt like the end of the world. Sam burst into tears, and Blythemy sister who was staying overheld him all evening, hoping George had learned something. He hadnt. Today the same pattern repeated.
Dont cry, Sam. Dad loves you. Im not going anywhere, just off to work, George said casually.
Blythes restraint cracked; only the tears in Sams eyes kept her from shouting. She sat beside him, rubbing his cheek.
Sam, love, its not what you think. I just need one day to be alone, Margaret began, just as she had yesterday. Look, Dad spends every Sunday with Uncle Peter and his mates. Mum needs a break too.
There was a time, not so long ago, when Margaret imagined she could never tire of the people she loved. She and George seemed the perfect pair: cycling together, catching the latest film, debating the books theyd read. They had a small Sunday ritualtrying a new café or restaurant, sampling unfamiliar dishes.
Now Sunday belonged to George. Instead of books, their conversations revolved around vaccination schedules and nursery fees. Their outings were limited to childrens exhibitions and the occasional grocery run.
When Arthur was born, things held together, albeit tenuously. Between George and the grandmothers, someone could watch the baby. Margaret still found moments for herself. The arrival of Sam, the second child, changed everything. Only Margaret seemed able to juggle both.
My dear, I love them both, his motherinlaw would say, but Im stretched thin. Remember that rocking horse we had by the telly? It survived seven kids! These little rascals broke it trying to sit together.
Margarets own mother stopped offering help, showing up only for moral support, refusing to look after the grandchildren, insisting shed had enough of her own.
George treated time with the kids like a snack with a pintsporadic and mooddependent. If he felt weary, hed lock himself in the spare room and stay there all evening.
Whats the problem? hed ask when Margaret complained. Im just sitting quietly, not bothering anyone. Its you who cant relax. Youre always wiping and washing. Calm down, take a breath. Youre too tense.
His words were easy to say; nothing ever fell to his hands. Margaret knew that if she ever laid down her arms, they would sprout moss. She felt emotionally burnt out. Over time she started shouting more, snapping at the kids who, for the fifth time in two minutes, declared they didnt want tomatoes. She hated Georges habit of coming home, slamming the door, and the endless pile of irritations that surrounded her. Yet she held on.
Then Sams birthday arrived.
For three days straight Margaret was in the kitchen, scrubbing and cooking. Sam wanted to invite his nursery friends, which meant also inviting their parents. She turned the whole house upside down: two cakes baked, salads prepped, meat marinated. She mapped the day so she could finally get a proper nights sleep.
But the universe had other plans.
Sam woke first, tugging at her sleeve.
Sleep! Margaret snapped. Or sit quietly until Im awake. Let Mum rest!
Sam whined that he was bored and hungry.
Patience, she replied, her voice sharp.
She was so drained she could barely lift herself out of bed. Sleep eluded her; Sams cries kept her on edge.
Soon Arthur rose, the responsible older brother, and tried to help: he took Sams hand and led him to the kitchen. Margaret exhaled, hoping for a brief respite, when the clatter of dishes rang out.
She sprang up as if the children had shattered her last nerve. The boys scrambled, picking up shards. On the counter lay a box of cereal and a bottle of milk. A chair knocked over from the cupboardclearly theyd tried to make breakfast themselves, overestimating their strength.
I asked you to wait! Margaret roared. How many minutes can you not survive without me? If I werent here, would you finally appreciate what I do?
Her tirade lasted minutes, words pouring out in a frantic, incoherent flood. Sam buried his face in his shoulders. Arthur clasped his hands behind his back, eyes downcast. Margaret finally stopped when the youngest began to sob, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
Alright, calm down Ill clean up, then well go for a walk and pick up toys later.
The outburst terrified her. Shed never felt that raw fear before. It wasnt the broken plate; it was how shed blown up, as if the whole house had been demolished.
The next day she confided in my friend Lenka, who has three children herself and still manages to keep a clear head.
Of course youre overwhelmed. Youre doing it all. International Womens Day is coming, and youll have both the motherinlaw and your own mum on the hook again. Youll turn the house into a twoday marathon kitchen, Lenka said. Take a break, love. Womens Day isnt about endless labour for the family. My brother let me off for a day in the countryside. Want to come? Ive got a cottage with spare rooms.
It sounded sane. Margaret ordered two books shed long wanted to read, packed a grocery basket, and announced her changed plans.
Her mother took it well, saying, Good, get some rest. The motherinlaw was surprised but didnt protest. George, however
So youre running away from us? People spend this day with family, not abandon them, he muttered.
She explained at length that it wasnt betrayal, just a need for respite. He didnt agree, but he didnt block her either.
Fine, go wherever you like, even to space if you must, he tossed back. Ill see you back next time.
Later he started teasing the kids again, and Margaret had had enough. When Sam and Arthur finally fell asleep, she approached George.
Stop the jokes. Because of you the kids think I dont love them. Did you see Sams eyes this morning? she asked.
Come off it, its nothing. Kids forget by sunrise. And besides, youre supposed to be at home today, not gallivanting, he replied.
She sighed slowly. He brushed her off again, as if she were invisible.
You know what, love? All your evenings are quiet because dads tired, and Sunday is your day. Ive been on the front line for seven years with no days off. Im not running away; I just need a moment to collect myself so I dont snap at the children. Its you I have to shout at, she said, eyes narrowing. Ive told you a thousand times you dont hear me. Lets try this: Sunday is yours, okay? But Saturdays are mine. Spend at least one day a week with the kids. Theyre yours too, after all.
He resisted, but eventually gave in, because the alternative was each of us taking one child alonesomething Margaret simply couldnt manage.
International Womens Day passed unusually quiet. They arrived at the cottage the night before, so when Margaret awoke she wasnt greeted by childrens cries but by the soft light of morning. She lingered in bed with a book, later chuckling with Lenka over university memories and scheming how to lure the other girls into a weekend hike without internet.
By evening Margaret sat on the veranda, breathing fresh air, watching ants carry away a crumb shed left out. Her mind was empty yet bright, like a room that had finally been cleared of clutter and the windows flung wide open. For the first time in seven years, no one tugged at her, no one called, no one demanded, no one criticised.
Lenka lifted her glass and clinked it against Margarets.
Well, happy Womens Day, love. At last youre not just a mum, she smiled.
Margaret returned the smile. It was only for a day, but it reminded her what it felt like to be herselfnot a mother, not a wife, but a person with her own wishes and a right to a breath of peace.
