“Youre the one to blame, Mother,” the voice echoed in the hallway.
Anne Smith was frying meatballs when a knock sounded at the front door. She wiped her hands on a towel and stepped out of the kitchen.
“Mom, it’s for me,” her daughter Emily called from the doorway, halting her halfway. “I’ll answer.”
“Alright,” Anne said, a hint of curiosity in her tone.
Emily rolled her eyes. “What are you waiting for? Keep frying your meatballs.”
Anne frowned. “Why your meatballs? I bought the mince myself…”
“Mom, shut the door,” Emily snapped, rolling her eyes again.
“If you’d just said so,” Anne muttered, retreating to the kitchen and pulling the door shut just enough to leave a crack. She turned off the gas beneath the pan, slipped off her apron, and left the kitchen.
In the hallway Emily slipped on her coat. Beside her stood Ian Clarke, a friend of Emily’s who kept glancing at her with a lover’s gaze.
“Hello, Ian. Where are you off to? Stay for dinner?”
“Good evening,” Ian smiled, his eyes flicking to Emily.
“We’re in a hurry,” Emily replied without looking at her mother.
“Perhaps you’ll change your mind? Everything’s ready,” Anne called from the kitchen doorway.
Ian hesitated.
“No!” Emily shouted. “Let’s go.” She took Ian by the arm and opened the front door. “Mom, could you close it?”
Anne leaned in, but left the door ajar, the faint clatter of a playground drifting up.
“Why are you so harsh with her?” a voice from the courtyard asked. “It smells delicious; I wouldn’t turn down a meatball.”
“Let’s grab a bite at the café,” Emily muttered. “I’m fed up with your meatballs.”
“They could never get boring,” Ian replied. “I could eat your mother’s meatballs every day.”
Emily’s reply was lost in the distant murmur of staircases.
Anne finally shut the door fully and slipped into the living room, where her husband Bob was lounging in front of the television.
“Bob, it’s time for dinner while it’s still hot,” she said.
“Huh? Sure,” he stood, passing her into the kitchen and taking a seat at the table.
“What’s on the menu?” he demanded.
“Rice with meatballs, a side salad,” Anne announced, lifting the skillet.
“I’ve told you a hundred times I don’t eat fried meatballs,” Bob grumbled.
“I added water, they turned almost steamed.” Anne held the lid, eyes on the stove.
“Fine, but this is the last time.”
“At our age, losing weight is unwise,” she said, plating a serving of rice and meatballs for him.
“What age is that? I’m fiftyseven. That’s the prime of a man’s life,” Bob declared, spearing a meatball with his fork and taking a bite.
“Did you all conspire today? Emily ran off, youre acting like a child. I’m done cooking; let’s see how you manage without me. Think the café is any better?”
“Then stop. You should lose a few pounds yourself, or you won’t fit through the door,” Bob finished his meatball, reaching for another.
“Are you saying I’m fat? Ive broken my back trying to keep up, bought new jeans, a leather jacket, a baseball cap, even shaved my head to hide the bald spot. Who am I trying to impress? Not you. Yes, I’m heavy. Who am I supposed to compare myself to?” Anne asked, hurt curling her voice.
“Just let me eat,” Bob lifted his fork toward his mouth, stopped, and dropped the bite back onto his plate. “Pass the ketchup.”
Anne fetched a jar of ketchup, slammed it on the table with a thud, and left the kitchen, the untouched dinner sitting solemnly on her plate.
She retreated to Emily’s bedroom, sank onto the sofa, and tears welled up.
“I cook, I try, and they… I do everything for them, yet gratitude never returns. My husband looks elsewhere, calls me fat. My daughter treats me like staff. If I’m retired, can they still step on me? I would work if they didnt cut my hours. They say experienced staff are useless; give the jobs to the youngsters. What can the youngsters do?”
She thought of rising early even without a job just to make breakfast, of endless spinning through the day with no rest. “I’m to blame; I’ve spoiled them. Now they sit on my neck, legs dangling.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, she wiped them away with her hands, suppressing a sob.
She had always believed her family was decentimperfect but not worse than anyone else’s. Emily was in university, doing well. Bob didnt drink or smoke, earned a steady salary. Their home was tidy, the food tasty. What else could he want?
Anne stepped to the mirror on the wardrobe door, examining herself. “Yes, Ive put on a few pounds, but I’m not that heavy. Wrinkles are soft on my round cheeks. I always loved to eat. I cook well. Apparently they dont need that. When I worked, I curled my hair; now I pin it at the nape so it doesnt get in the way. Why should I be on heels and fussing with my hair now? I should lose weight, maybe dye my hair.”
The next morning she lingered in bed, pretending to sleep. “Im retired; I can stay under the covers a little longer. Let them make their own breakfast.”
The alarm rang. She stirred and turned to the wall.
“Are you ill?” Bob asked, his tone void of concern.
“Yes,” Anne whispered, burying her face in the duvet.
“Emily, are you alright?” her daughter called from the bedroom.
“Stay in bed, have breakfast yourselves,” Anne croaked.
Emily huffed and drifted to the kitchen. Soon the kettle whistled, the fridge door clanged, muffled voices rose from the hallway. Anne stayed wrapped in the blanket, playing the part of the sick woman.
Bob entered, the scent of his expensive aftershave filling the air the same cologne Anne had bought for him years ago. He and Emily slipped out, leaving a heavy silence. Anne tossed the duvet aside, closed her eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.
An hour later she awoke, stretched, and padded to the kitchen. Cups lay unwashed, crumbs scattered across the table. She thought of cleaning, then decided, “I’m not a servant.” She headed to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and dialed an old school friend.
“Emma! It’s been ages,” the voice on the line sang, unchanged by time. “How are you, old retiree?”
Anne confessed she missed the world outside, that she hadnt visited her parents graves in years, and wondered if she could stay at Emmas.
“Of course, come over. When?”
“Right now, Ill catch the train.”
“Oh dear, Im about to bake some pies.”
Anne packed a small bag for a few days, swept crumbs to the side, and left a note on the kitchen table that shed gone to a friends and might be late returning.
On the way to the station she hesitated. “Should I really leave? They never appreciated me.” But she told herself, “If there are no tickets, Ill come back.” The ticket office was bustling, a queue snaked around the bus doors. She sighed and slipped to the back of the line.
Emma met her at the platform, embracing warmly. They drank tea with stillwarm pies, words spilling out faster than the tea could cool.
“Tell me everything,” Emma urged.
Anne breathed out the whole mess, and Emma listened, nodding.
“Turn off your phone,” Emma suggested.
“Is that too drastic?” Anne asked.
“Just right,” Emma replied. “Tomorrow well go to the salon, give you a new look. Valentina works thereyou remember her from school, the one who barely passed? Now shes the top stylist. We’ll shop, make you a knockout. Let your husband bite his own elbow.”
That night Anne tossed and turned, replaying the conversation.
At the salon Valentina greeted her with a smile, settled her into a chair, and began reshaping her hair, tinting her eyebrows, and cutting her locks. Anne kept her eyes closed, halfasleep, as Valentina coaxed her into a makeover.
When the mirror was finally unveiled, Anne barely recognized the radiant woman staring backlighter, chic, almost unrecognizable.
“That’s enough for today,” she pleaded.
“Your next appointment is at eight tomorrow. Dont be late,” Valentina instructed firmly.
Emma marveled, “Look at you! Who would have guessed?”
Anne, still tentative, asked, “Can we go another time?”
“No, we must go now. Beauty demands sacrifice.” Emma dragged her into the shopping centre.
Anne emerged in loosefit trousers, a soft pastel top, and a sandcoloured cardigan, clutching bags of a new dress, a stylish jacket, and a box of shoes. She felt younger, more confident, as if a weight had lifted.
Outside Lucy Jones’s house, a tall man with stark white hair and dark trimmed beard approached.
“Hello, ladies,” he said, admiring Anne. “You look splendid.”
Anne blinked at Lucy.
“Dont you recognize? Its Peter Harper,” Lucy whispered.
“Peter?” Anne asked.
“Yes,” the man confirmed, smiling. Anne finally remembered him from school he had been skinny and unremarkable then.
Lucy suggested, “Lets go to my place and celebrate your transformation. We have a bottle of wine.”
They all sat at Lucys kitchen table, sipping wine, swapping school stories. Anne blushed, half from the wine, half from the lingering glances of Peter.
“He still loves you,” Lucy said when Peter left.
“Drop it,” Anne retorted. “Its been years.”
“You look like someone I could fall for again,” Lucy added.
“Does he still live nearby?” Anne asked, changing the subject.
“Hes a retired colonel now, came back two years ago after a serious injury overseas. His wife left him. He limps when he walks far.” Lucy explained.
“I’m married,” Anne protested.
That night Anne decided to return home, but Lucy refused.
“Just arrived and youre leaving? Stay a week. Nothing will happen to you. Live a bit, enjoy the new dress,” Lucy urged.
She lingered a few more days, then finally her phone rang.
“Mom, where are you? Dad’s in hospital! Come quickly,” Emily shouted.
An urgent thrum rose in Anne’s chest. She packed a bag, and Peter drove her to the station.
“If you need anything, I’m here,” Peter said.
“Thank you, Peter.”
On the bus Anne called Emily. Her daughter confessed that their father had been unfaithful, that she had seen him leaving a neighbours flat, that hed been missing nights, that a violent fight had broken his ribs, even a brain bleed, but the ambulance had arrived in time.
Anne listened, stunned, feeling the urge to stay. Yet she drove home by evening; the hospital was already closing.
“Mom, youve changed so much. I barely recognize you,” Emily said softly, finally respectful.
“I was scared you’d never come back. I thought maybe you’d found someone.”
“I found no one. I just wanted to teach you a lesson. You and Dad stopped seeing me as a person.”
“Sorry, mum, but youre to blame. You retired, stopped looking after yourself, turned into an old woman. Your dad will be jealous. Will you forgive him?” Emily babbled.
Anne looked around the familiar room, feeling the warmth of home.
The next morning she rose early, made chicken broth, and visited the hospital. Bob, his beard now peppered with grey, wept at the sight of her, begging forgiveness. She fed him the soup with a spoon.
Two weeks later Bob left the hospital. As they stepped out of the taxi, a man and a woman passed by. Bob flinched, turning away. The woman averted her gaze. Anne recognized her as a sharpeyed, redhaired rival. Bob slumped, shoulders hunched, trying to hide.
“Are you not leaving anymore?” he asked at home.
“Am I not thin now? I havent lost weight,” Anne replied brightly.
“I asked for forgiveness. I was a fool. Fry those meatballs, will you? Ive missed your cooking.”
Anne fried a fresh batch, the kitchen filling with aroma.
“It smells wonderful!” Emily, now back from university, exclaimed, joining them at the table.
They ate together as they once had, when Emily was still at school, Bob never criticized Anne, and she could stand at the stove for hours to make him happy. Anne felt a surge of gratitude, seeing her family alive, mostly healthy, and realizing she still mattered.
Life in a family is never perfectly smooth. Age brings its own burdens, the body changes, yet the spirit can stay youthful. Accepting that is hard, but we strive to keep the old strengths alive.
Everyone learns their lesson; the important thing is that they walk the road together. After all, you cannot swap the horse at the river crossing; you must stay in the saddle, even if the horse grows old.
“A good wife, a warm homewhat more does a person need to face old age?”
