Margaret was frying meatballs when a knock sounded at the front door. She slipped out of the kitchen, apron still tied, to answer.
Mrs. Hart, its for me, her daughter called, stopping her halfway. Ill get it.
Alright, I didnt expect anyone, Margaret replied.
Come on, hurry up and finish your meatballs, the girl snapped, glancing back from the doorway.
Why your? I bought the mince myself, Margaret protested.
Mum, close the door, the daughter rolled her eyes.
Had you said that earlier Margaret turned back, shut the kitchen door behind her, and switched off the gas under the pan. She lifted the apron, stepped out of the kitchen, and headed for the hallway where her daughter was pulling on a coat. Beside her stood Ian, Lucys friend, eyes fixed on the pair like a lovestruck puppy.
Good evening, Ian. Where are you off to? Stay for dinner, Margaret asked.
Good evening, Ian smiled, looking questioningly at Lucy.
Were in a rush, Lucy replied, not meeting her mothers gaze.
Maybe youll join us after all? Ive got everything ready, Margaret repeated.
Ian hesitated.
No! the daughter snapped. Lets go. She took Ians arm and swung the door open. Mum, could you close it?
Margaret reached for the door but left a sliver ajar, the scent of cooking drifting out as voices rose from the street.
Youre being harsh with her, a neighbour called. It smells wonderful, Id love a meatball.
Lets hit the café instead. Im fed up with her meatballs, the girl muttered.
They couldnt possibly tire me. I love your mums meatballs; I could eat them every day, Ian replied.
Lucys retort was lost in the clamor as footsteps faded upstairs.
Margaret finally shut the door, walked into the living room, and found her husband, Brian, perched before the television.
Brian, lets eat while its still hot, she said.
Right, lets go. He rose, crossed the kitchen, and sat at the table.
Whats on the menu? he demanded.
Rice with meatballs and a salad, Margaret answered, lifting the pan.
Youve told me a dozen times I dont eat fried meatballs, Brian grumbled.
I added a splash of water, they turned almost steamfilled, she said, holding the lid.
Fine, but this is the last time, he warned.
At our age losing weight is dangerous, Margaret muttered, plating the rice and meatballs.
What age? Im only fiftyseven. This is the prime of a mans life, Brian declared, skewering a meatball and taking a bite.
Are you all conspiring against me? Margaret snapped. If you wont eat, Ill stop cooking. Think a restaurants better?
Then dont bother. You could use a few pounds off yourself, you know. You wont fit through the door soon enough. Brian polished off his meatball and jabbed at another with his fork.
Do you think Im fat? Ive ripped my head off trying to please you, bought new jeans, a leather jacket, a baseball cap, even shaved my hair to hide the baldness. Who am I trying to impress? Certainly not you. Margarets voice cracked with hurt.
Let me finish my meal, Brian said, scooping rice but never bringing it to his mouth. Pass the ketchup, he demanded.
Margaret slammed the ketchup bottle onto the table, stared at him in silence, and left the kitchen. The untouched plate sat as a mute accusation.
She retreated to her daughters room, sank onto the sofa, and tears welled in her eyes.
Cooking, trying my best, and they they never thank me. Brian flirts with younger women. He calls me fat. My daughter looks at me like Im just staff. If Im retired, can they treat me like an old maid? Id still work if they didnt cut me out. Experienced staff is a phrase they toss at the young. I wake before everyone, even though Im not working, just to make breakfast. The whole day I spin around, never a moment to rest. Ive let myself go, and now theyre sitting on my throat, dragging me down. She swallowed a sob, wiped her cheeks with trembling hands.
She had always believed they had a good familynothing perfect, but not worse than anyone else. Her daughter was at university, doing well. Brian didnt drink, didnt smoke, earned a decent wage. The house was tidy, the food tasty. What more could a man want?
Margaret stood before the wardrobe mirror, examined herself. Yes, Ive put on a few pounds, but Im not that heavy. My cheeks still hide the wrinkles. Ive always loved to eat, Im a decent cook. They just dont need it any more. When I worked, I styled hair, curled it. Now I clip it at the back so it doesnt get in the way. Who am I, polishing heels and hair? I should lose weight, maybe dye my hair. She sat on the bed, lost in thought.
The next morning she didnt rise early as usual. She lay still, pretending to sleep. Im retired; I can stay in bed a little longer. Let them make breakfast for themselves, she muttered.
The alarm rang. She shifted and faced the wall.
Whats wrong with you? Youre ill? Brian asked, his tone void of sympathy.
Yeah, Margaret whispered, burying her face in the duvet.
Mum, are you sick? her daughter called from the hallway.
Yeah, have your own breakfast, Margaret croaked.
The daughter huffed, stalked to the kitchen. Soon the kettle sputtered, the fridge door creaked, muffled voices floated up. Margaret stayed under the covers, playing the sick role to the bitter end.
Brian entered, his expensive cologne filling the roomthe same aftershave shed bought for him years ago. He and Lucy drifted out, leaving a heavy silence. Margaret lifted the duvet, shut her eyes, and slipped into sleep.
An hour later she awoke, stretched, and shuffled to the kitchen. Dirty mugs sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table. She considered cleaning, then shook her head. Im not a servant. She headed for the shower, then rang an old school friend.
Ellie! Its been ages. How are you? Still enjoying retirement? the voice chirped.
Ive missed you. Im bored, havent visited my parents graves in ages. Dont mind if I crash at yours? Margaret replied.
Of course, come over whenever, Ellie said. When?
Right now, Im heading to the station.
Oh dear, Ill bake some pies then.
Margaret packed a small bag, left a note on the kitchen table, and swept the crumbs aside. On the road to the bus station she hesitated. Do they really need a break from me? They never value my work. She decided, If there are no tickets, Ill go home. The ticket office was bustling; a queue snaked around the bus doors. She inhaled, slipped to the back of the line.
At the station, Ellie greeted her with a hug, tea, and warm pastries. Tell me everything, she urged.
Honestly, Im scared theyll think Ive changed, Margaret confessed.
Good for you. Maybe a little makeover? Lets hit the salon tomorrow, get you looking fresh. Valerie works there, remember? She used to be the schools underachiever, now everyone books her weeks in advance. Ellie laughed. Well turn you into a knockout, make Brians elbows ache.
That night Margaret tossed and turned, replaying the days chaos. Did they hate me or were they just relieved? she thought.
The next morning Valerie greeted her at the salon, ushered her into a chair, and began reshaping her hair, tinting her brows, giving her a fresh cut. Margaret closed her eyes, feeling the world drift. No more, thank you, she whispered after a while.
Alright, well book you for eightoclock tomorrow. Dont be late, or well lose the slot, Valerie warned.
Ellie gushed, Look at you! Who would have guessed? They left the salon, hand in hand, heading for the shopping centre.
Ill come back another day, Margaret suggested hesitantly.
No, well go now. You need a new look for the old coat you wear, Ellie insisted, pulling her toward the mall.
Margaret emerged in loosefit trousers, a light cardigan, and a soft beige sweater, clutching bags containing a new dress, a trench coat, and a pair of shoes. She felt younger, lighter, more confident. At Lilys house, a tall man with striking white hair and dark moustache greeted them.
Hello, ladies, he said, admiring Margaret. You look marvelous.
Who Margaret asked, puzzled.
Thats Peter Hart, your old school mate, Ellie whispered.
Peter, now a retired colonel with a slight limp, smiled. Come in, lets celebrate your transformation. Weve got a bottle of wine.
They all sat around the kitchen table, sipping wine, swapping school stories. Margaret blushed, a mix of wine and lingering admiration.
Do you still have a crush on me? Ellie teased as Peter left.
Enough, Margaret replied, Im married.
Later, alone, she decided to return home. Ellie tried to stop her.
Just arrived and leaving? Stay a week, show some backbone, Ellie urged. Nothing will happen to you. Stay a while, enjoy the theatre tickets Peter got for us. When was the last time you went?
Back at the local youth theatre for the Christmas show with Lucy, Margaret murmured.
Ellie teased, Lets parade that new dress.
Three days later a call came.
Mum, Dads in hospital! Come quickly, Lucys voice trembled.
Margarets heart pounded. She grabbed her bag, and Peter drove her to the station.
If you need anything, Im here, he said.
Thanks, Peter.
On the bus, she called Lucy. The daughter recounted how shocked shed been at Margarets sudden disappearance.
And Dad? Lucy asked.
Its hard to say. Hes been unfaithful. I saw him leaving the neighbours flat several times, Lucy confessed. He never came home after you left. Yesterday his other womans husband showed up, shouting. He broke a rib, but its nothing. He also had a brain bleed, but the ambulance got him in time.
Margaret listened, stunned, realizing she shouldnt have left. She arrived home at dusk; the hospital was already closed.
Mum, youve changed so much. I barely recognize you, Lucy said, her tone now respectful.
I was scared youd never come back, so I tried to teach you a lesson. You and Dad stopped seeing me as a person, Margaret replied.
Sorry, Mum, youre to blame. Retirement made you give up caring for yourself. Youve become an old lady. Will you forgive Dad? Lucy jabbed.
Margaret scanned the room, feeling the comfort of home. Everything felt familiar again.
The next morning she rose early, boiled chicken stock, and drove to the hospital. Brian, now older with a grey beard, wept when he saw her, begging forgiveness. She fed him broth from a spoon.
Two weeks later Brian was discharged. As they left the taxi, a couple passed by; the womans eyes darted away. Margaret sensed her rivalslim, auburn, youthful. Brians shoulders slumped, his gaze fixed on the ground.
Are you staying? he asked at home.
Am I not thin enough now? I havent lost weight, Margaret joked.
I asked for forgiveness, I was a fool. Fry those meatballs, will you? Ive missed your cooking, he pleaded.
Margaret sautéed the meatballs, the kitchen filling with aroma.
It smells amazing! Lucy, fresh from university, declared.
They sat together as they once did, when Lucy was still at school, Brian never nagged, and Margaret could stand at the stove for hours just to please him. Margaret looked at her family, grateful they were alive, healthy, and needed her.
Life isnt always smooth, especially when old age creeps in. The body cant do what it once did, but the spirit can stay young. Accepting that is hard, yet essential.
Everyone learns their lesson; the important thing is they do it together. As the old saying goes, A good wife, a warm homewhat more does a person need to face old age?
