I still remember the day I overheard my husbands conversation with his mother.
Did you buy that sausage again? his mother asked sharply. I told you it was terrible!
Mary froze by the fridge, a bag of groceries clutched in her hands. George didnt even greet her when he came home from the workshop.
Good evening, love, she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. I bought the one on sale. Moneys tight right now.
Moneys tight? George snapped. We can barely make ends meet, and you waste it on nonsense!
What nonsense? Mary felt a sting of hurt rise inside her. I only buy what we need!
George waved his hand and stalked off to the bedroom. Mary stood in the kitchen, the handles of the bags clenched in her fingers. They had been married for eight years, and for three months the arguments had begun over how she cooked, where she put things, how much she spent. He had never been this fastidious before.
She started putting the groceries on the shelves, her hands trembling. She wanted to cry, but forced herself not to. Dinner had to be ready; Lucy, their nineyearold daughter, would be home from school any minute, and she could not let her see her mother in tears.
That evening the family ate in silence. Lucy sensed the tension and kept to herself, finishing her soup quickly and then asking to do her homework in the living room.
Go on, sunshine, Mary said, planting a kiss on Lucys head.
When Lucy left the room, George finally spoke.
I need to visit my mother this weekend. She isnt feeling well.
Alright, Mary replied. Shall I come with you?
No, Ill go alone. You stay here; theres a lot to do.
Mary wanted to argue, but she stayed quiet. In recent months she had learned to swallow her words. Once they used to discuss everything, argue, then make up. Now a wall seemed to have risen between them.
On Saturday George left at dawn. Mary turned to the chores: washing, cleaning, preparing lunch. The routine that had once felt ordinary now seemed a heavy burden. Anxiety lingered like a shadow she could not shake.
Lucy played in her bedroom while Mary tidied the master room. She opened a window for fresh air and heard voices on the balcony next door neighbours, she thought. She was about to shut the window when she recognised Georges voice.
George stood on the balcony of his mothers flat. Evelyn, Georges mother, lived in the flat directly above theirs in the same block. Mary had once welcomed the proximity, thinking it convenient, but now she felt uneasy.
Mother, I cant go on like this, George said, his tone plaintive.
You must be firm, dear, Evelyn replied. A wife should know her place.
Marys heart pounded. She knew she shouldnt be eavesdropping, yet she could not move away from the sill.
She doesnt understand anything, George continued. I tell her one thing, she does another.
Thats exactly it, Evelyn said. Youre too soft with her. You need to keep her in check.
George raised his voice slightly. I cant keep shouting at her.
And who says youre shouting? Evelyn retorted. Just be stricter. Let her feel youre the head of the house, or shell go soft.
A shiver ran down Marys spine. Soft? She worked from sunrise to nightfall, cooking, cleaning, raising Lucy, and even parttime at the local library to help the familys finances. Was that softness?
Im trying, Mother, George sighed. But sometimes I feel sorry for her.
Pity doesnt help, Evelyn said sternly. Youre the man, the familys leader. If youre gentle, shell sit on your neck. All women are like that.
Not all George muttered.
All! I raised you right. Youre kind, caring. But that kindness is a weakness at home. You must hold your wife firmly.
Mary stepped back from the window, her legs feeling weak. She covered her face with her hands and sank onto the bed, the noise in her head like a vacuum cleaner whirring.
It wasnt George who had suddenly changed; it was Evelyns constant meddling. Mary recalled that four months earlier Evelyn had stayed with them for a week, and after that visit George became a different man.
She remembered the subtle shifts: Georges increasing trips to his mothers, his colder, more demanding tone after each visit, his new habit of nitpicking little things that had never bothered him before.
One afternoon Lucy stood in the doorway, eyes wide with fear.
Are you crying, Mum?
Tears had already slipped down Marys cheeks. She dabbed them quickly.
No, darling, just my eyes are itchy. Maybe dust.
Really?
Really, Mary forced a smile. Go on and play. Ill have lunch ready soon.
When Lucy left, Mary sat on the bed again, wondering what to do. Should she confront George? Should she reveal she had overheard? That would spark a fight, and he would accuse her of spying, pushing him further away. Should she stay silent, living with the knowledge that his mother was turning him against her?
The rest of the day passed in a haze. Mary prepared lunch mechanically, tasting nothing. She spoke to Lucy, but heard none of the words.
George returned in the evening, dropping his keys on the hallway table.
Dinner ready? he asked, skipping the usual greeting.
Yes, Ill heat it up.
She set the pan on the stove, her hands moving on autopilot while Evelyns words echoed: Keep her in check. Softness is a flaw.
Whats wrong? George asked, sitting down. You seem off.
Nothing, she replied, placing a plate before him. Just tired.
Youre always tired, he muttered. What do you do all day, sitting at home?
I work at the library, Mary said softly.
Thats a parttime job, brings pennies.
At least I bring something in, George shot back. Didnt you tell me I couldnt work?
I never said that, Mary whispered. Just dont argue.
The night stretched on, Lucy asleep. Mary sat at the kitchen table with a cooling cup of tea, while George watched television in the next room. They were strangers sharing a roof.
She thought back to their first meeting, when they were both twentythree. Mary had been a shop assistant in a bookshop; George had come in looking for a gift for a friend. They chatted, went to a café, had a series of walks, laughter, and gentle kisses. He had been attentive, tender, caring.
Even then Evelyn had hinted that Mary wasnt suitable a girl from a modest background, lacking education. George brushed it off, saying he loved Mary and that was enough. They married despite Evelyns disapproval, welcomed Lucy, and endured early hardships together, sharing sleepless nights, child illnesses, and the constant pinch of money. George had been a true rock.
Then Evelyn began visiting more often, calling George several times a day, inviting him over. He kept going, and his visits multiplied.
One day Mary decided to talk to Evelyn, not to argue but to speak plainly, woman to woman. She knocked on Evelyns front door.
Come in, Evelyn said, a hint of surprise in her voice.
The flat was furnished with old but sturdy pieces, lace doilies on the tables, photographs of George at various ages lining the walls none of Mary or Lucy.
Tea? Evelyn offered.
No, thank you. I wont stay long.
They sat at a small table, Evelyn eyeing Mary cautiously.
I wanted to discuss us, Mary began. Youve probably noticed things have been strained lately.
Yes, Evelyn said, nodding. George has told me.
Im asking if you could not interfere in our marriage.
Evelyn lifted an eyebrow.
Interfere? Hes my son! I have every right to be involved in his life.
Being involved is one thing, steering him against me is another.
What do you mean? Evelyns tone grew colder.
I heard you on the balcony yesterday.
A tense silence fell. Evelyns face turned pale, then flushed.
So you eavesdropped?
I didnt mean to. I just opened a window for air and heard.
You said I should keep her in a tight grip.
And what of that? Evelyn asked. I was speaking the truth. Youre too lenient, youve become soft.
I work from dawn till dusk! I care for the family, I raise Lucy, I still manage a parttime job at the library. Is that not enough?
Yes, but why is the house always messy? Why is George thin as a rail? Why do you waste time on a library job when a wifes place is at the stove?
We dont live in the nineteenth century! Mary snapped.
Thats precisely why families fall apart, Evelyn declared, standing. Women have forgotten their purpose. They chase careers, independence, and end up with unhappy husbands and abandoned children.
Lucy isnt abandoned! I give her all my time!
Please, Ive seen how you interact with her always rushed, always nervous. She needs a calm mother.
Mary realised the conversation was at an impasse. She rose.
Fine. Know this: I wont give up. This is my family, and Ill fight for it.
Evelyn smirked. Remember, hes my son. Hell always listen to me, not to you.
Mary left, tears welling, and only when she reached her own flat did the flood break. She sat at the kitchen table, weeping until the sobs ran out.
That night George returned, looking grim.
Did you go to your mother? he asked.
Yes.
Why?
I wanted to talk.
He sighed heavily.
She called, said you were rude to her.
I wasnt rude! I just asked her not to meddle.
She says shes just giving advice.
George, dont you see whats happening? Shes turning you against me!
Its nonsense, he brushed off. Mother just wants me happy.
Are you happy? Mary asked, meeting his eyes. Tell me honestly, are you happy now?
He fell silent, eyes drifting away.
Im tired, he finally said. Tired of the constant accusations, the tears, the endless arguments.
Then lets try to change things. Lets go back to how we were.
Things cant go back, he muttered, moving to the bedroom.
For the first time in their marriage Mary wondered if perhaps they should not stay together at all.
That night she could not sleep; she lay awake watching the ceiling while George slept, his back turned to the wall. Between them lay a chill as cold as an iceberg.
Morning came; George was already at work, leaving without a word. Mary took Lucy to school and then walked to the library. Her manager, Mrs. Allen, noticed her downcast look.
Whats the matter? she asked, after a moment of quiet.
Mary, though reluctant, spilled everything the balcony conversation, Evelyns visits, Georges change.
Mrs. Allen listened, never interrupting.
Men are often weaker than women when it comes to maternal influence, she said finally. Your husband is a mothers son, plain as day. Hell absorb her views easily.
But it wasnt like this before! Mary protested.
Before you lived apart, now the mother lives next door and can intrude constantly, Mrs. Allen explained. Shes using that.
What should I do?
First, dont give up. Second, try to win George back by reminding him of who you were together. Third, think of yourself are you willing to fight forever for someone who wont fight for you?
Those words lodged in Marys mind. She spent the day recalling their early romance, the bouquets George used to bring, the tender words, the way he held her hand in the delivery ward. Somewhere inside that cold man still lived the George she loved. She only needed to reach him.
That evening she cooked his favourite dish fried potatoes with mushrooms set the table nicely, lit a few candles.
George walked in, pausing at the doorway.
Whats this? he asked.
Dinner, Mary replied, smiling. Shall we eat together, like before?
He sat, tentative, as Mary ladled the potatoes onto his plate and poured tea.
Remember our first summer at the lake? Mary asked. You nearly drowned trying to show off your swimming.
George chuckled, a fleeting smile crossing his face.
Would you forget that? he said. You kept on scolding me for an hour.
Because I was scared, Mary said. I thought Id lose you.
They talked a little about the past, and George even managed a few genuine smiles. Hope flickered.
Just then the phone rang. George glanced at the screen.
Mother, he said, stepping into the hallway.
Mary heard fragments of the conversation: Yes, Mum No, everythings fine Youre right I understand
When he returned, his expression was closed again.
I have to go to my mothers. Shes unwell.
Its already evening, Mary noted.
Yes, its urgent.
He left without finishing his meal. Mary sat at the table, the candles guttering, tears slipping into the dish, but she did not wipe them away.
Lucy emerged from her room.
Mum, why are you crying?
Just because, love. Go to sleep.
Did you argue with Daddy?
No, everythings fine.
Lucy, ever perceptive, hugged her.
Dont cry. I love you.
I love you too, darling, very much.
George returned late, looking weary.
Hows your mother? Mary asked.
Her blood pressure spiked.
George, we need to talk seriously.
Its not now. Im exhausted.
When then? We barely speak any more!
Tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came. Georges days were a blur of work, visits to his mothers, brief, strained evenings at home. Mary realised this could not go on.
She wrote a long letter to George, explaining that she loved him but could no longer live under such tension, that his mother was tearing their family apart, and that something had to change or they would lose each other.
George read it but did not answer. That evening he returned, looking sullen.
I read your letter, he said. Youre dramatising.
Dramatising? We dont even talk normally! You pick fights over everything! Weve become strangers!
Youre being stubborn, refusing to change! he snapped. My mother is right; youre lazy and difficult. She wants a perfect wife.
What perfect wife? Mary asked. One who never complains, never tires?
Exactly, he replied. Youre not that.
She felt something break inside her.
Fine, she said quietly. If thats how you feel, maybe you should look for a perfect wife elsewhere.
Georges face paled.
What are you saying?
Im saying Im tired. Tired of fighting, of proving myself. If Im so bad, why do you stay?
He whispered, Dont be foolish.
Its not foolish. Its reality, Mary replied. Think about it. Ill be in my room.
She went to the bedroom, shut the door, and lay down, feeling a great weight lift as she finally voiced what she had kept inside.
The next morning George left for work without a goodbye. Mary took Lucy to school and then visited her old friend, Sally, whom she had known since school.
Whats happened? Sally asked, opening the front door.
Everything has fallen apart, Mary sighed.
Sally listened, then said, Your husband needs a good shove. Hes grown too comfortable with you always being there, always forgiving. He needs to feel the house empty, to realise what hes lost.
How? Mary asked.
Go away for a while. Stay with your parents. Let him fend for himself cook, clean, look after Lucy. Hell see what you bring to the family.
The idea lingered, tempting yet feeling like blackmail.
Its not blackmail, Sally replied, reading her thoughts. Its a wakeup call. When youre always there, he takes you for granted, like furniture.
That same day Mary called her parents, who lived three hours away by train.
Come and stay with us, dear, her mother said. Well look after you.
Mary packed a few bags, told Lucy they were going to Grandmas for a holiday. Lucy cheered. Mary sent George a brief text: Were heading to my parents for a week. You have time to think. I need a break too.
She turned off her phone, took Lucys hand, and left the flat.
On the train Lucy fell asleep, resting her head on Marys shoulder. Mary watched the countryside roll by, pondering the future. Would George come back? Could he stand up to hisMonths later, George stood on the doorstep, humbled and grateful, and finally asked Mary to rebuild their life together, this time as true partners.
