It took me fifteen years to realise that my marriage was a bit like those new year gym memberships you start off brimming with good intentions but after a while, the place is empty and you can barely find the motivation to go.
Everything kicked off on, honestly, a completely ordinary Tuesday. Id just got home from work and found Steve sprawled out on the sofa, one hand lost in a bag of crisps, glued to yet another rerun of some zombie series hed already watched twice.
Whats for dinner? he asked, not even bothering to look away from the telly.
Something inside me snapped you know, like when you reset your laptop back to factory settings after its just not working anymore.
I dont know, love. What is for dinner? I replied, dropping my bag by the door.
He looked at me, totally baffled, like Id just started speaking Mandarin.
What do you mean you dont know? You always do dinner.
Ah, do I now? Fascinating new insight. Anyway, see you later Im out for dinner with the girls.
His face was a poem. Or more like a haiku: short, but somehow still full of feeling.
That night, I ate grilled sea bass, sipped a glass of white wine and laughed so hard my cheeks hurt. I got home around eleven. Hed ordered pizza, and the kids were over the moon.
Mum, why dont we eat like this more often? the younger one asked, ketchup smeared right across his nose.
The next week, I really upped the ante. Literally.
Im off to Greece this Friday, I announced over breakfast.
He nearly choked on his tea.
Greece? What about the kids?
Theyre all yours. You are their father, arent you? I have total confidence in you.
But Ive got meetings! Important work, you know!
I looked him dead in the eye.
Funny, that. Ive had important work for the past fifteen years too. And yet I always made it work, didnt I? Im sure your brilliant mind, which you love talking about so much, will figure something out.
And so I left. On my own. Well, technically with a cousin, but thats beside the point.
On the first day, I received seventeen messages:
Where are the PE kits?
How do you turn the washing machine on?
Is the pasta supposed to be with hot or cold water?
Can the kids have cereal for dinner?
I replied to just one:
Google is your friend.
By the third day the messages had changed tone:
The kids want chicken nuggets again.
Do they always have this much homework?
Why are there so many parents evenings?
I ignored them. I was too busy, honestly sipping an iced coffee next to the sea and getting happily lost in a book, without anyone interrupting me every five minutes.
When I came home, the house looked like it had survived a minor apocalypse. There were socks genuinely on the ceiling (to this day I have no idea how), the dog was wearing one as a hat, and our daughter had redecorated her bedroom in purple with my lipstick.
Steve was curled up on the sofa in the foetal position.
Youre back, he croaked. Thank God.
So, how was it? I asked, tanned and blissfully calm.
I just dont How do you do all this every single day? Its impossible.
Almost like having a full-time job, isnt it?
Silence. The zombies on TV groaned. He sort of did too.
Sorry, he whispered finally. I really am.
Things genuinely changed after that. He can now cook three solid dishes. Well, two and a half, because the spaghetti is sometimes still crunchy. He knows where the washing machine lives, understands how school meetings work, and has realised that the question, Whats for dinner? isnt allowed unless hes the one rustling up the answer.
As for me I started going away every three months. Sometimes on my own, sometimes with friends. Never ever feeling guilty.
Last week our neighbour, Janet, stopped me, eyes wide:
Do you really just leave the kids with your husband and pop off somewhere?
Just like that, I said. Hes their dad, not the babysitter.
But what if something goes wrong?
Then hell figure it out. Just like I always had to, while he was off at his important meetings (pub, if were honest).
She fell a bit quiet. Funny thing I saw her at the airport a month later, off to Italy.
Turns out, karma isnt always out for revenge. Sometimes its just a patient teacher, making sure you actually learn the lessons you shouldve picked up long ago. And if you dont, well the universe can throw you straight into an intensive crash course.
Now, Steve even brags to his mates that he can do our daughters plaits. Well, they look more like sailors knots but, to be fair, its the effort that counts.
Last night, he asked me,
Are you planning on going anywhere soon? Just so I can, you know, mentally prepare.
Im thinking Portugal for my birthday.
He gave this long, resigned sigh.
How long?
Ten days.
Alright. I actually know where the first aid kit is now.
I kissed him on the forehead, the way you do when a brave kid gets their injection.
Tell me, am I the only one who reckons there should be a compulsory Home Survival 101 course before marriage, or is this just one of my mad ideas?
