It is strange how the memory of those years still feels vivid, as though the echo of a longago household still calls out from the past.
Andrew, I need you to arrange something special for tonight, or order it in. No clichés, please, I told myself, fastening a silk scarf around my neck with a practiced, businesswomans flourish. I was issuing the days orders to my husband as I smoothed the final touches of my outfit. Theres a layer of dust on the balcony; the laptop will soon be hidden. Give it a wipe.
He answered calmly from the kitchen, You stopped working there, so the dust builds up. He slung a kitchen towel over his broad shoulder, cradled a freshly washed mug, and wore a knit apron over his Tshirt. He moved to plant a kiss on my cheek a habit now, since Id started wearing lipstick but I pushed him away, irritated.
Must I be the one to grind at home? Is the office not enough for me?
When you worked from home we at least saw you, he said.
Thank heavens thats over, I announced, swinging my handbag strap over my shoulder with a hint of pride. Clean, laundry, vacuum, toys, dinner please, a thank you?
He sighed, Dont fuss about the washing. The dishwasher does the dishes, the robot vacuums, and the girls are just children, after all.
Fine, if you think so. Im more useful at the office than at home. Someone has to earn the money, I snapped, then slammed the door as I left the room.
My mornings were scheduled to the minute: up at six, a quick run (Id only recently taken up jogging), a contrast shower, breakfast, makeup and hair on the go. Even though the traffic in central London could be horrendous, I left early enough that nothing ever held me up, just as it had on that particular day.
A year earlier, Andrews mornings were similar, except he never exercised; he liked to linger a few minutes in the warm bed with his beloved wife. His job was a short commute away, so traffic never troubled him. By six or seven he was home, helping me with dinner or tidying up, playing with the girls, often tucking them into bed before returning to a few more chores.
Then everything shifted. Our younger daughter, Lily, two years old, had finally settled after a relentless bout of colds during her first year at nursery. Our elder daughter, Emily, a thirdgrader, was now walking to and from the school on the other side of the road by herself, even taking the tram two stops to ballet lessons a skill Andrew had taught her.
When the Harper firm offered me my old office post, I hesitated. Home life was comfortable, yet a tug toward the outside world, toward society, pulled at me. The promise of a rapid promotion sealed my decision.
Three months later I received my first raise, then another, and a flexible schedule that suited me perfectly. My family rarely saw me, but they understood; Andrew explained everything. I could no longer be the perfect housewife, mother, and devoted wife. I arrived home late, exhausted.
Andrew and I finally sat down and talked. He never meant to complain; the idea of me quitting had never even crossed his mind. We agreed to swap roles: I would focus on work without looking back, and he would take on the thankless domestic side of life.
Eventually youll find something remote, I coaxed him at first, almost embarrassed that a man should now be cooking porridge, hanging and ironing laundry, ferrying our daughter to the dentist and the younger one to the speech therapist. Youll manage, I know you will.
Youre clever, he whispered, kissing my crown. Those were among our last evenings together as a team. Youre doing well at work, so everythings fine at home, he encouraged, praising me.
Andrew threw himself into the household duties. The endless texts about which laundry went where, who needed to be picked up at what time, all ceased. He handled the chores with ease; the girls didnt irritate him as they sometimes did my exhausted self. Meanwhile, at the office I was valued, respected by colleagues and superiors alike, trusted with any assignment. The compromise let me flourish both as a woman and as a professional, and I felt a dizzying ascent.
One night, the girls and Andrew met me at the front door, the dinner already cooling. I untied the same silk scarf, the days pressures layering one upon another. The Harpers arent coming?
What? I snapped, annoyed.
You said
I glared at Andrew, almost disdainful, as if he were a subordinate overstepping his bounds.
I told you, its for the weekend!
You mentioned today.
Andrew, have you forgotten how to listen to me? I said, irritation clear as I stormed into the sitting room. Whats this mess? Why didnt you change Lilys clothes? Who snagged the curtain? I tugged at the fabric wildly. Did you let them play ball inside again? Isnt that forbidden outside?
Andrew, Emily, and Lily stood mute, unsure how to defend themselves. Such accusations had become frequent lately.
Is this how you expect guests? I gestured at the chaos.
They have kids too; we were just playing.
Andrew! Look at yourselfshaven head, stretchedout shirt, vacant stare.
He tried to keep his mood light, winking at the girls, as if my jokes were harmless.
Come to the kitchen, well feed you. Exhausted? he asked gently.
Yes! This attitude drives me mad. Cant you do what I ask? Even a fool could manage.
A flash of anger crossed his face, but he chose not to argue in front of the children. I moved to the kitchen and found another grievance: You ordered dinner, but thought of me? I dont like spicy, greasy food. Make me tea, since Im still hungry.
Make it yourself! he retorted, hoisting Lily onto his back and lifting Emily like a feather. Its late, were brushing teeth, bedtime soon. Tomorrow the girls have nursery and school. By the way, Lily had a photo shoot last week; the pictures have been on the mantle for two days. You never noticed.
They left, chattering. In the bathroom, the childrens chatter and water splashing faded, and the house fell silent. Ten minutes later Andrew returned to the kitchen; I was still at the table, nursing my bitterness instead of a steaming cup of tea.
Calmed down? he asked. Whats wrong? Work trouble?
No, work is fine; its home
Nina, youre losing yourself! Andrew leaned in, eyes hard. Im not your assistant, not your secretary, not your subordinate. I never nagged you over small things when you were at home, even when there was cause. Youre not a robot; if you slip, well fix it together.
Its easy for you to say! I used to juggle the girls and work from home. Now theyre older, they understand. You always said the dishwasher washes, the washing machine does laundry, food can be ordered. Why cant you handle simple tasks?
His lips twitched with anger, but he held himself.
What have you become? A scullion, a nothing, a housekeeper. Youll soon grow a belly from it.
Nina!
Dont shout, I see what youre saying.
Andrew stormed to the bedroom. When I followed, he grabbed a pillow and headed for the living room, delivering his final line: Tomorrow Im going back to work! Find yourself another househelp.
You coward! All because of dirty plates you cant handle?
He slung the pillow over his shoulder and left. I fumed, then realised that Andrew could not return to work yet; tomorrow was not an option. I didnt chase him that night, apologized in the morning, and agreed to give him time to find someone to pick up Lily, drive Emily, and handle the domestic grind. My wait a little longer stretched into three months; his bosslike tone at home became the norm. I left him a daily list of chores and checked them each evening, sending reminders to him and the girls if anything was missed.
One day youll have to fetch Lily yourself, Andrew declared one evening.
And you?
I cant. Im meeting friends.
Are you serious? Im working till seven, eight, even ten, and youre off drinking with mates! I wont let you go! I have a planning meeting at seventhirty tomorrow.
Im not asking permission; Im informing you. Your schedule is always a crisis.
I said no!
Andrew slipped on his coat in the hallway, Where are you going? I wont let you leave! I shouted.
Im not your employee or housekeeper. Goodbye. He slammed the door, and I hurled a string of insults after him.
He never returned that night. The next morning I sent him messages with instructions who to pick up, where to go but received no reply. Later that day an unexpected call from Lilys nursery asked me to collect her; I raced across the city, sending Andrew angry texts en route, only to hear silence. He did not come home that night.
My patience wore thin. I was not jealous; I simply wondered why he stayed. Men like him did not simply disappear. Yet he kept silent, and I answered only with a stream of harsh messages. I had to manage everything on my own, and after two weeks I was utterly spent nerves frayed, sleepless nights, a disgruntled boss, nannies turning down the girls one after another.
I called Andrew, demanding he return.
Ill pick up the girls on the weekend, but Im not coming back.
Youre serious? Youve gotten used to a life without strain? I wont carry your children any longer
Im filing for divorce, he said, hanging up, knowing I would have nothing sensible to say. I was speechless, unable to believe he could be so callous. The children heard my shouts, saw my tears, and knew their mother was fighting a losing battle.
Years later, Emily asked, Mum, will Dad ever come back?
Hell sit by my side for a while, perhaps, but who needs him? Hes not essential to us, I replied, confidence masking the ache.
Emily walked away, understanding that her father would not return to the way things were, and that I would not change.
Andrew eventually reclaimed his old job, remarried a year after the divorce, and occasionally collected the girls for a week or two. That suited me. The only irritation was that my exhusband, now a mediocre handyman, seemed to glide back into a comfortable life without ambition, while I, successful and attractive, found few suitors beyond fleeting encounters that vanished after the first meeting. I began to wonder what was wrong with me.
Looking back, I see how the roles we swapped pulled us in opposite directions, how pride and stubbornness built a wall that neither of us could climb. Yet the memory of those frantic mornings, the clatter of dishes, the soft rustle of silk scarves, remains a testament to a time when we tried, in our own flawed ways, to balance love, work, and the endless demands of home.
