I was standing by the fridge, clutching a few bags, when I heard my wife, Margaret, whisper a fragment of a conversation between me and my mother.
Did you buy that sausage again? I told you its terrible!
Margaret froze, the bags trembling in her hands. She hadnt even gotten a hello from me when I walked in from work.
Good afternoon, love, I tried to keep my tone calm. I grabbed the one that was on sale. Moneys a little tight at the moment.
Moneys tight? I raised my voice. Were barely scraping by! And youre spending on rubbish!
What rubbish? Margarets hurt rose like a tide. Im only buying what we need!
I brushed past her and disappeared into the bedroom. She stood there, fingers gripping the handles, her eyes glossy. Wed been married eight years, but for the past three months the little spats had turned into fullblown argumentsher cooking, where she put things away, how much she spent. Hed never been so particular before.
She began to put the groceries away, hands shaking, fighting back tears. She knew she couldnt break down in front of our nineyearold daughter, Emily, who would be home from school any minute.
Dinner that night passed in silence. Emily, bright and observant, sensed the tension and ate her soup quickly, then asked to do her homework at the kitchen table.
Alright, sunshine, Margaret said, planting a kiss on Emilys forehead.
When Emily left, I finally spoke.
I need to visit my mum this weekend. Shes not feeling well.
Okay, Margaret replied. Should I come with you?
No, Ill go alone. You stay home, theres plenty to do.
She wanted to argue, but she kept quiet. Over the months shed learned to swallow her complaints. We used to discuss everything, argue, make up. Now a wall seemed to have risen between us.
On Saturday I left early. Margaret tackled the houseworklaundry, cleaning, preparing a lunchthings that had never seemed so heavy. Anxiety gnawed at her as she moved from room to room.
Emily was playing upstairs while Margaret tidied the bedroom. She opened a window for fresh air and heard voices on the balcony next door. At first she thought the neighbours were chatting, but then she recognised my voice.
My mother, Helen Clarke, lived a floor above us in the same block. Margaret had once thought that was convenient.
Mum, I cant go on like this, I said, my tone unusually plaintive.
You need to be firm, son, Helen replied. A wife must know her place.
Margaret froze, the window frame pressing against her cheek. She knew she shouldnt eavesdrop, but she couldnt move away.
She doesnt understand a thing, I continued. I tell her one thing, she does another.
Thats exactly why youre too soft with her, Helen snapped. You should keep her in an iron glove. Ive always said so.
I cant keep shouting at her, I muttered.
Then be stricter. Let her know youre the head of the house, or shell run wild.
A shiver ran down Margarets spine. Running wild? She worked from dawn till dusk, cooking, cleaning, looking after Emily, and also parttime at the local library just to bring a little extra cash into the household. Was that running wild?
Im trying, Mum, I sighed. But sometimes I feel sorry for her.
Pity wont help, Helen warned. Youre the man, the familys pillar. If youre soft, shell sit on your neck. All women are like that.
I tried to argue, Not all
All! she declared. I raised you well, youre kind, but in marriage that kindness is a weakness. You must hold your wife firmly.
Margaret backed away from the window, her legs wobbling. She covered her mouth, sank onto the bed, and the room seemed to fill with the whir of a vacuum cleaner.
So it wasnt I who had changed. It was Helens constant nudging. I remembered that four months ago Helen had stayed with us for a week. After that visit I became a different man.
The little things added upmore trips to my mothers, a colder, more demanding tone after each stay, nitpicking at habits Id never noticed before.
One morning Emily asked, Mum, are you crying?
Tears slipped down Margarets cheeks before she could stop them. She wiped them quickly.
No, love, just a tickle in my eyes. Probably dust.
Really?
Really, Margaret managed a smile. Off you go, play a bit. Ill get lunch ready.
When Emily left, Margaret sat on the bed, wondering what to do. Should she confront me? Admit shed overheard? That would spark a fight, and Id accuse her of spying, pushing us further apart. Or should she stay silent and live with a motherinlaw who seemed to steer me against her?
The rest of the day drifted like fog. Margaret cooked lunch but tasted nothing. She talked to Emily, but the words barely registered.
I came home that evening, tossed my keys on the hall table.
Dinner ready? I asked, skipping a greeting.
Yes, just heating it up, she replied, setting a pan on the stove. Her hands moved on autopilot while Helens voice echoed in my headkeep her in an iron glove, she had said.
Something wrong? I asked, sitting down.
Youre not yourself, Margaret said, pushing a plate toward me. Just tired.
Right, thats the story again, I muttered. Always tired. What do you do all day, just sit at home?
I dont just sit, she shot back quietly. I work at the library.
Thats a parttime job, earning peanuts.
At least Im earning something. Did you ever stop me from working?
I didnt. I just dont see the point. Id rather you keep the house spotless.
She clenched her teeth, reminding herself not to let the conversation spiral.
Later, after Emily was asleep, Margaret lingered at the kitchen table with a cooling cup of tea while I watched TV in the living room. We were strangers sharing a flat.
She thought back to the first time we metboth twentythree, me buying a gift for a friend at a bookshop where she worked, us chatting, coffee, walks, laughter. Shed been caring, attentive, and even then my mother, Helen, had made it clear she didnt think I deserved a girl from a modest background. Yet Id brushed her off, saying I loved Margaret and that was enough.
Wed married despite Helens disapproval, welcomed Emily, weathered sleepless nights, cheap meals, and tight finances. Id been a rock.
Then Helen started visiting more often, calling several times a day, inviting me over. I went, went, went.
The next day Margaret decided to speak to Helen, not to argue but to try and understand. She knocked on Helens door.
Come in, Helen said, a hint of surprise in her voice.
The flat was cosy but oldfashioned, lace doilies on the tables, pictures of me at various ages on the wallsno pictures of Margaret or Emily.
Would you like tea? Helen asked.
No, thank you. I wont stay long, Margaret replied.
They sat.
I wanted to talk about us, Margaret began. Youve probably noticed things havent been smooth lately.
Helen nodded. James told me.
Im asking if you could give us a bit more space, Margaret said. Im not asking you to stop caring, just not to interfere in our marriage.
Interfere? Helens tone hardened. Hes my son. I have every right to be involved in his life.
Being involved is fine, but steering him against me isnt.
What do you mean? Helens voice grew cold.
I heard you on the balcony yesterday.
Helens face went pale, then flushed.
You eavesdropped?
I didnt mean to. I was just opening a window.
You said I should keep her in an iron glove, Helen said sharply. I was telling the truth. Youre too lenient, and thats why things are falling apart.
Margarets anger rose. I work from morning till night! I look after the house, Emily, and I still have a parttime job. Is that not enough?
Helen scoffed. Then why is the house always a mess? Why does James look gaunt? Your cooking is poor, your housekeeping worse. And that jobwhat for? A woman belongs in the kitchen.
Margaret felt the room close in. We dont live in the 1950s!
Helen snapped, Exactly why families are breaking down. Women want careers, men are left miserable.
Margaret stood, her voice steady. Im not giving up. This is my family, and Ill fight for it.
Helen smirked, Remember, James is my son. Hell always listen to me, not you.
Margaret left, tears finally spilling down her cheeks as she reached her own flat. She sat at the kitchen table, the silence deafening.
That evening I came home, my face drawn.
Did you see your mother? Margaret asked.
Yes.
Why?
I wanted to talk.
I sighed. She called, said youd been rude to her.
I didnt! I snapped. I just asked her not to meddle.
Shes just giving advice.
Igor, you dont get it. Shes turning you against me! I shouted.
Its nonsense, I brushed it off. Mum just wants me happy.
Are you happy? Margaret asked, eyes searching. Honestly?
I hesitated, then admitted, Im exhaustedyour constant tears, the nagging, the fights.
Then lets try to fix this, like before, she suggested.
It cant be like before, I replied, stepping into the bedroom.
She stood in the kitchen, suddenly considering that perhaps we shouldnt stay together at all.
That night I couldnt sleep. I lay awake, hearing the creak of the house, feeling the cold distance between us, as if an iceberg sat between our backs.
Morning came, I left for work without a word. Margaret took Emily to school and headed to the library.
My boss, Mrs. Allen, noticed my mood.
Whats wrong? she asked.
I told her everythingthe balcony conversation, Helens visits, the strain with Margaret.
She nodded, Men are often swayed by their mothers. Its a real thing.
Did it always happen? I asked.
No, its because your mother lives nearby now. She can feed you her opinions daily.
What should I do?
First, dont give up. Try to bring me back to the way we were. Second, think about yourselfdo you really want to keep fighting for someone who wont fight for you?
Her words lingered.
That afternoon I went home, hoping to find some peace. Margaret had prepared my favourite: fried potatoes with mushrooms, candles lit, the table set nicely.
I stood in the doorway, surprised.
Whats this? I asked.
Dinner, she said, smiling. Shall we eat like we used to?
I sat, took a bite, and a faint smile returned. We talked about the summer we went to the lake, how Id nearly drowned trying to show off my swimming.
She laughed, You were scolded for an hour afterwards.
Because I was scared youd drown, I admitted.
The conversation was brief, but it felt like a crack in the ice.
Then my phone buzzed.
Mom, I have to go, I said, checking the screen. Shes not feeling well.
Margaret frowned. Already? Its late.
Yes, its urgent.
I left halfeaten food on the table, the candles flickering.
Emily asked, Mum, why are you crying?
Just a bit tired, love, Margaret replied, pulling her close. Everythings fine.
Emily, wise beyond her years, hugged me tighter.
The next days blurredmy trips to my mothers, my attempts to cook and clean on my own, my growing awareness of how much Margaret actually did.
I finally called Helen.
Mum, I cant let you keep meddling, I said.
She was hurt but stubborn. Fine. Ill keep my distance.
When I got home, Margaret was waiting, eyes hopeful.
Do you want to stay? she asked.
I need a bit more time, I said. A few days to think.
She nodded, Okay.
I spent a couple of days at my parents house three hours away, away from the daily pressure. I walked, helped my dad in the garden, talked with my mum about everything. When I finally called Margaret, there were a handful of missed calls and angry texts, but also a message that softened: I miss you and Emily. Come back, please.
I answered, Ive thought a lot. I see now that you were right. Helen was steering me. Ill stop letting her influence us.
She asked, Will you come back?
Ill be home tomorrow.
The train ride back was quiet, but my mind was clearer.
When we arrived, I met Margaret and Emily at the station with a massive bouquet of roses. Emily squealed, running into my arms.
Im sorry, I said, handing her the flowers. Ive learned a lot these weeks.
Margaret smiled, Well see how it goes.
At home, the table was set, and I attempted to cook. It wasnt perfect, but Margaret praised the effort. Delicious, she said, genuinely.
Later, after Emily was asleep, we talked openlyabout my mothers domineering ways, my feelings, our future.
My mum was overprotective. She raised me alone after my dad died when I was ten. Shes used to controlling everything, and I fell into that habit, I confessed.
Its not about control, Margaret replied. Its about partnership.
I admitted, I was selfish, I let her dictate how we lived.
We discussed Helens role. I told her Id set firm boundaries; if she couldnt respect them, our contact would be limited.
She seemed to understand, though it took time.
Life slowly fell back into a rhythm. I helped more around the house, spent quality time with Emily, and occasionally cooked a decent meal. Helen visited only on holidays, keeping her distance.
Looking back, I still hear her old line about keeping a wife in an iron glove, but now I smile, because patience, love, and a bit of stubbornness have won the day.
