April 17
I was frying mince patties in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I slipped out of the saucepans heat to answer it.
Mom, its me, my daughter Lily called from the hallway, stopping me halfway. Ill get it.
Alright, I didnt hear you I replied, a little confused.
Why are you standing there? Go on, finish your patties, Lily snapped, turning back toward the front door.
Your own, you said? I bought the mince for the recipe I tried to protest.
Mom, shut the door, Lily rolled her eyes.
Could have told me earlier, I muttered as I went back to the kitchen, closing the door behind me. I turned off the gas, lowered my apron and left the stove.
In the hallway Lily was pulling on her coat. By the entrance stood Ian, Lilys friend, eyeing her with a lingering smile.
Good evening, Ian. Are you heading somewhere? Stay for dinner? I asked.
Hello, he replied, glancing at Lily.
Were in a rush, Lily said, ignoring me.
Perhaps youll join us after all? Everythings ready, I offered again.
Ian hesitated.
No! Lily cried sharply. Lets go. She slipped her arm around Ians and opened the door. Mom, could you close it?
I reached for the door but left it ajar, just enough to hear the street chatter beyond.
Youre being rude to her, a neighbours voice floated up from the park. Smells good, I wouldnt mind a patty.
Lets grab a bite at the café. Im fed up with your patties, Lily muttered.
Theyre never enough for me, Ian replied. I could eat your mothers patties every day.
I didnt catch Lilys retort. Voices from the staircase faded as they walked away.
I shut the door fully and slipped into the sittingroom. Robert, my husband, was glued to the telly.
Robert, dinners ready while its still hot, I called.
Right, lets eat. He rose, passed me, and settled at the table.
Whats on tonight? he asked, impatiently.
Rice with patties, and a salad, I answered, lifting the pan.
You know I dont like fried patties, he complained. Ive told you a hundred times.
I added a splash of water, they turned out almost steamed, I said, holding the lid aloft.
Fine, but this is the last time.
At our age losing weight isnt advisable, I remarked, plating the rice and patties.
What age is that? Im only fiftyseven. For a man thats the prime of life. He speard a patty and took a bite.
Are you all conspiring today? Lilys voice echoed from the hallway. Im not having this, youre shirking. Ill stop cooking and see how you manage without me. Think a café is healthier?
Then dont bother cooking. You could lose a few pounds yourself. You wont fit through the door soon enough, Robert finished his patty and reached for another.
Is that how you see me? Fat? Ive spent my whole life trying to look presentablenew jeans, leather jacket, baseball cap, even shaved my head to hide balding. Who am I doing this for if not for you? Im still overweight, compared to whom? I said, hurt.
Just let me eat in peace, Robert said, scooping rice with his fork but never bringing it to his mouth. Pass the ketchup, he demanded.
I fetched the ketchup, slammed the jar on the table and walked away, leaving my untouched plate behind.
I retreated to Lilys room, sank onto the sofa and let the tears fall.
I cook, I try my best, and its never enough. I do everything for them, yet I get no gratitude. My husband flirts elsewhere. To him Im just the chubby one. My daughter looks at me like Im staff. If Im retired, can they still treat me like a servant? I would still work if they didnt cut my hours. They say experienced staff arent needed, only the young. What do the youngsters even know?
I get up before anyone else, even though Im not working, just to make breakfast. The whole day Im on the move, never a moment to rest. Im to blame for letting myself go. Now they lean on my shoulders and drag me along.
Enough, I thought, wiping my cheeks with my hands. I always believed we had a good family. Not perfect, but not worse than anyone elses. Lily got into university and does well. Robert doesnt drink, doesnt smoke, brings home a steady income. The house is tidy, the food is tasty. What more could he want?
I stood before the mirror on the wardrobe door, examined myself. Yes, Ive put on a few pounds, but Im not huge. The wrinkles are softer on my round cheeks. Ive always loved a good meal, Im a decent cook. They just dont care. When I worked, I used to style my hair, curl it. Now I shave the back of my head so it doesnt get in the way. What, should I be juggling heels and a perfect hairstyle? I should lose weight, maybe dye my hair.
The morning passed slower than usual. I stayed in bed, pretending to sleep. Im retired, I can afford to linger until its light. Let them make their own breakfast, I thought.
The alarm finally buzzed. I stirred and turned away from the wall.
Whats wrong? Are you ill? Robert asked, devoid of sympathy.
Just fine, I replied, burying my face in the duvet.
Mom, are you sick? Lily entered the room.
Yes, have breakfast yourselves, I whispered weakly.
Lily huffed, annoyed, and headed to the kitchen. Soon the kettle whistled, the fridge door swung, and muffled voices drifted from downstairs. I stayed under the covers, playing the sick role to the very end.
Robert entered, wearing the expensive cologne I had bought for him. He lingered, then left with Lily, and the flat fell silent. I pulled the duvet back, closed my eyes and fell asleep.
An hour later I woke, stretched, and padded to the kitchen. Dirty mugs sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table. I thought of cleaning, then thought, Im not a servant. I showered, then called an old school friend.
Ellie! How are you, dear? Still enjoying retirement? she chirped.
I explained I missed the bustle, that I hadnt visited my parents graves in ages. Dont be shy about staying over, she said. When?
Right now, Im heading to the station.
Oh then Ill bake some scones for you, she replied.
I packed a small bag for a few days, swept the crumbs aside and left a note on the kitchen table saying I was off to a friends, unsure when Id be back.
On the way to the station I hesitated. Will they manage without me? They never appreciate my efforts, I wondered. If there are no tickets, Ill return home, I decided. The bus queue stretched to the doors, I inhaled and took my place at the back.
At the station I met Lydia, an old mate. We hugged, sipped tea with warm scones and talked nonstop.
Good you came. Tell me everything, she urged.
I sighed and poured out the whole saga. She listened, then suggested, Give the phone a break. Tomorrow well go to a salon, give you a fresh look. Valentina works thereremember her from school? Shes popular now. Well shop, make you a knockout. Let your husband bite his own elbows.
That night sleep eluded me; I kept wondering, Did they take offense? Are they happy for me?
The next day Valentina welcomed us, perched me in a chair, trimmed my hair, shaped my eyebrows, even coloured my lashes. I almost fell asleep as she worked. She insisted on full makeup; I wanted to quit, but Lydia coaxed me to the end.
When I looked in the mirror, a younger, striking woman stared back. Valentina was already arranging a manicure. Thats enough for today, I pleaded. I cant take more.
Okay, well book you for eight oclock tomorrow. Dont be late, or the crowd will move on, Valentina warned.
Lydia gasped, Look at you! Who would have guessed? We left the salon, heading for the shopping centre.
Maybe another time? I asked.
No, lets go. A new haircut with a fresh outfit, thats what we need, Lydia urged, pulling me into the store.
I emerged in loosefit trousers, a light cardigan and a soft blouse, feeling both exhausted and pleased.
In my hands were bags containing a new dress, a trench coat and a pair of heels. I felt younger, braver, as if Id finally taken care of myself. Thank heavens Lydia had nudged me toward change.
Outside the store a tall, silverhaired gentleman with dark moustache approached. Hello, ladies, he said, admiring me. You look magnificent.
I stared at Lydia, bewildered.
You dont recognise me? Its Paul Johnson, she whispered.
Paul? I repeated.
Yes, your old classmate. Back then he was lanky and unremarkable, the man confirmed, a grin spreading.
Lydia suggested, Come over to my flat, well celebrate your makeover with a bottle of wine. We three sat in her kitchen, sipping, recalling school days. I flushed, partly from the wine, partly from the attention Paul gave me.
Hes still smitten with you, Lydia said when Paul left.
Stop it, its been years, I protested.
You look like someone could fall for you all over again, Lydia replied.
How does he still live nearby? I asked.
He left the army, became a retired colonel. Came back two years ago after a serious injury. His wife left him, but hes on his feet now, though he limps a bit. Take your time, think it over, Lydia advised.
Im married, I said, irritated.
That night I decided to head home, but Lydia refused to let me go.
You just arrived and youre leaving? Show some backbone. Nothing will happen to you. Stay a week, see how it feels. By the way, Paul booked theatre tickets. When was the last time you went to the theatre?
The youth theatre for the Christmas show with Lily, I replied.
Lydia teased, The youth theatre, Christmaslets give that dress a spin.
Three days later, my phone rang.
Mum, dads in hospital! Come quickly, Lilys voice trembled.
My heart raced. I rushed to the station; Paul offered me a lift.
If you need anything, Im here, he said.
Thank you, Paul, I whispered.
In the bus Lily recounted how my sudden disappearance had shocked her. She confessed her father had been unfaithful, seen leaving a neighbours flat, and that hed been involved in a violent altercation the night before, breaking two ribs and suffering a brain haemorrhage. The ambulance arrived just in time.
I listened, stunned, feeling that I should stay. By evening I was back home, but it was too late to reach the hospital.
Mom, you look different. Hard to recognise you, Lily said, her tone oddly respectful.
I was scared youd never return, that youd find someone else, I confessed.
I havent found anyone. I just wanted to teach you a lesson. You stopped seeing me as a person, Lily replied.
Sorry, Mum, but youre to blame. You retired, stopped looking after yourself, turned into an old woman. Your dad will be jealous now. Will you forgive him? she jabbed.
I glanced around the room, grateful for the familiar walls, the familiar comforts.
Morning came, I boiled chicken broth and drove to the hospital. Robert, now sporting a fullbeard, wept when he saw me, asked forgiveness. I fed him soup from a spoon.
Two weeks later Robert left the hospital. As we stepped out of the taxi, a man and woman passed us. Robert flinched, turned away. The woman avoided my gaze. I realised she was my rival: a slender, redhaired younger woman. Robert slumped, embarrassed, and hurried inside.
Are you staying? he asked at home.
What, am I still plump? I havent lost weight, I replied with a laugh.
I asked for forgiveness. I was foolish. Fry those patties, will you? I miss your cooking, he pleaded.
I fried the patties, served a hearty dinner.
Smells amazing! Lily, now back from university, exclaimed.
We sat together as we used to when she was still at school, Robert never criticised my cooking, eating everything and praising me. I felt content, willing to stand at the stove for hours just to make him happy.
Looking at my family, I felt grateful that were all alive, mostly healthy, and that I still matter.
Life isnt always smooth, especially as age creeps up. The body isnt what it was in youth, but the spirit can stay young. Acceptance is hard, yet we cling to the desire to reclaim lost vigor.
Everyone learns their lesson. The important thing is were together. You cant change the horse at the river crossing; you can only hold on as it carries you forward.
A good wife, a cosy homewhat more does a person need to face old age?
