A wife should be at least ten years younger than her husband. Thats what nature intended a younger mate beside you!
Emma barely managed to keep from bursting into laughter. Of course James had defended his doctoral thesis the previous year and, at last, become a Dr.but that didnt give him licence to stitch his favourite subject into every conversation. He spent his spare time studying spiders, and, as everyone knows, a few spiderladies wouldnt mind a little romance themselves
She giggled at the memory, then answered aloud:
When you proposed, didnt you know there was only a year between us?
Exactly! Thats the problem youre older than me!
By a year.
Does it matter? Its the fact that counts!
Whats the point of all this? Emmas patience was wearing thin.
Lately James seemed to have a habit of launching a fresh barb at her every day. Most of them were negative, sometimes dressed up as a backhanded compliment, the sort that would be called an insult on social media. Your hairs getting thinner, Your clothes are out of fashion, Youve put on weight the list went on, and each remark cut a little deeper.
Im talking about nature, James replied one evening. About how a species secures its greatest wellbeing. You keep turning it into petty squabbles. At least read a book sometime.
Emma snarled, feeling as though a wild animal had risen inside her. He constantly hinted that she didnt measure up to him intellectually. At first it seemed a harmless joke, but after his dissertation defense his tone changed, as if hed been handed a new badge of superiority.
* * *
When they married, James was a PhD student with hardly a penny to his name. He lived in a university hall, took odd jobs wherever he could, and dreamed of great scientific breakthroughs. He was just twentyfive. They often met in HydePark, where Emma walked her terrier, Baxter. James liked to think it was destiny they lived on adjacent streets and happened to cross paths each week when he was off to the lab and she was out for a stroll. Emmas quiet charm struck him so hard that he pushed past his shyness and introduced himself.
Emma, raised by her grandmother after a strained relationship with her own parents, had never gone to university. Her mother preferred the bottle to her daughter, and her father was no better. Grandmother Margaret, already in her seventies and often ill, had raised Emma, who helped with chores from school age. Emma never pursued higher education; she did finish a vocational college as a seamstress. When Margarets health improved briefly, Emma worked in a small garment factory, until that too shut down.
They survived on Margarets modest pension, taking in a boarder to make ends meet. Emma slept on a cramped balcony, while the tworoom flat was barely enough for the three of them. So when James asked her out and soon after proposed, Emma felt she was living a dream.
Im no envyinducing bride, she would mutter to herself. I have nothing to offer but a plain face and no dowry.
Dont say that, James replied gently. Youre the most wonderful woman I know. Ill find a second job, well rent a place together, and well look after your grandmother.
He really did take night shifts after his lab work to bring in extra cash. Their plans for a cheap rental never materialised, however; Margaret passed away and left the tworoom flat to Emma. The young couple moved in, and with no rent to pay, their finances improved. James kept his post at the university, while Emma took occasional sewing orders from home, starting with simple skirts and dresses and later tackling more complex pieces.
A few years later their son, Leo, was born. Emma devoted herself to him, working from home only when she could sew something quick. She made sure Leo grew up bright and curious. Jamess salary finally reached a respectable level, so there was always enough bread and butter on the table. Yet his laboratory work left him exhausted, and the thought of grand scientific ambitions faded beneath the daily need to feed his family.
Years passed. Leo excelled at school, earning a gold medal, then earned a place at a reputable university in London. He breezed through his studies and dreamed of following his fathers footsteps, though he chose a different field. James swelled with pride, telling anyone who would listen how brilliant his boy was.
Look at that lad, hell be an academic one day, colleagues joked, nudging James to finish his own dissertation.
Its too late for me, James waved them off.
Better late than never! Youve gathered so much data; it would be a waste to let it go.
James finally thought, Why not? and began drafting his thesis once more. Emma hovered like a hen, sweeping away crumbs of paper and keeping the kitchen quiet so he could concentrate. James, who had never been much help at home, now refused to take out the trash or heat his lunch, fearing any distraction from his genius thoughts.
At first Emmas devotion spurred him on. He pulled allnighters at his desk, but the work kept looping back on itself calculations needed redoing, tables required reformatting. Frustration mounted, and James started snapping at Emma.
Why do you always make the same soup? he complained, slamming a bowl of pea soup on the table. I cant eat the same thing every day!
Its not the same, Emma retorted. I made it yesterday, before that was a beef stew.
No, yesterday was definitely pea, James insisted.
Fine, then the day before Emma tried to stay calm.
Do better!
She pursed her lips and slipped into another room.
Each day James grew more petulant, whinging about cold tea, wrinkled shirts, or the way Emma folded laundry.
Why is the tea cold? he hissed after she brought him a cup. It tastes like waste!
Heat it up in the microwave, Emma shrugged.
The more insolent James became, the less Emma wanted to indulge him. The final straw came when a large order for school graduation aprons arrived. Emma wanted everything perfect for the children, recalling her own school days with a smile. She spent hours washing, cooking, and sewing, then settled down to watch her favourite cooking show.
Can you turn it down? James shouted five minutes later. I cant concentrate!
Emma lowered the volume, though she couldnt understand how his voice carried through a closed door.
I said turn it down! he repeated, louder.
She complied, but he snatched the remote and turned the sound nearly to zero.
Your programmes are for idiots! he barked. Only idiots watch them!
Its my favourite show! Emma snapped, trying to retrieve the remote. Why did you mute it?
You dont need any sound the pictures are enough, he waved it off. Youd be better off watching something intelligent.
Im exhausted, I just want to relax! she pleaded.
You dont even work, you just fry a few cutlets, he sneered. Read a book instead, maybe youd learn something.
Emmas lips pressed together in hurt. The relentless youre foolish echoed in her mind. When James finally defended his doctorate, his disdain for Emmas intellect resurfaced, turning into a fresh rock in their marriage.
* * *
One evening Emma ruined a cherry cake when James was in a foul mood.
Whats this black crust? he snarled, tossing a piece onto the plate.
I overcooked it, Emma sighed. I was busy with a new order for a sports jacket.
You should be cooking properly, not burning pastries! he snapped. Those orders dont bring money, they just distract you. Youd be better off reading.
Ive been sewing half my life, Emma retorted, hurt. It brings in money, even if its modest. If I chased more orders, I could earn better.
Who needs those clothes? James scoffed. No shops will buy them.
I use good fabrics, she argued. Retail prices are the same, but the quality is better.
And who wants those tracksuits? he jeered. Young people wear them, but theyre cheap.
My friends daughter suggested I start a label, Emma said, defending herself. It could be profitable.
Youll never manage it, James laughed. Id say youre a hopeless entrepreneur.
Ill figure it out on my own, Emma declared. Im not a child any more. If I want to open a boutique, Ill do it.
Im 95percent sure youll fail, he replied, smirking.
Thanks for the confidence, Emma muttered, then, looking at the ruined cake, announced, If you dont like it, dont eat it. Wash the dishes yourself.
From that moment Emma set herself a goal: to prove she could succeed, first to herself, then to James. With her son grown, she finally had the chance to pursue the dream shed postponed. She saved a few pounds each month for advertising, and a friends daughter offered to post the ads online. At first business was slow.
Still not taking off? James teased.
Emma kept quiet. Gradually, orders trickled in mums on maternity leave, and anyone who liked comfortable clothes. The friends daughter handled the socialmedia side, photographed the garments, and even modeled a few pieces herself. Emma even posed, showing how the outfits looked on women of different ages and shapes.
Business started to grow.
Still glued to the sewing machine? James ribbed when he returned from the lab, finding Emma surrounded by fabric and a mountain of orders.
Theres food in the fridge, Emma said. Heat it yourself if you want.
James huffed, offended.
* * *
Emma enjoyed being her own boss. The income was irregular at first, but it steadied, and her earnings soon matched Jamess salary.
Youll soon be earning more than him, her friends joked.
Maybe, Emma smiled.
One night James came home to find only a plate of meatballs in the fridge.
No dinner? he asked, sounding hurt.
I only managed the meatballs, no sides. If you want, go buy some bread or make an omelette, Emma replied.
He lingered, eyeing the seam she was stitching, then complained again.
You spend all day on silly things instead of feeding your husband!
I cooked the meatballs. If you helped in the kitchen sometimes, nothing would be a problem. I have more work now than you, Emma said calmly.
Why do I need a wife who makes tracksuits? he blurted. Id rather have a proper lady.
Im tired of your condescending remarks, Emma snapped. Im not hindering your dissertation, so stop hindering me.
Fine, Ill compare dissertations to rags, James muttered.
To each his own, Emma shrugged.
The turning point came at the universitys New Year party. Emma arrived in a dress she had sewn herself; it turned heads. Compliments flew from male colleagues, some women smiled, others stared enviously. When asked where the dress came from, Emma proudly mentioned her tiny workshop and even showed the name of her online shop on her phone.
Your wifes a real businesswoman, a colleague chuckled, glancing at James, who looked dejected. Shell support you in your old age.
Yeah, a businesswoman, huh, James muttered, eyeing the admiration Emma received.
From that night James grew more tolerant of Emmas sidehustle. When she hired a young seamstress to help, he finally admitted that his wife now ran a bonafide business.
I doubted you, Emma said with a soft grin.
Her success impressed James, even if he never openly praised it. He stopped teasing her for being uneducated or a simpleton. Occasionally he even helped by chopping potatoes when the fridge only held meatballs. The dissertation no longer loomed over them, and their marriage found a steadier rhythm.
In the end, Emma learned that respect and partnership matter far more than titles or degrees, and James discovered that supporting the one you love can be the most rewarding research of all.
