I dont eat leftovers cook something fresh every day. My 48-year-old partner handed me a list of five womens duties. Heres what I did.
When Steve opened the fridge on Saturday morning, pulled out a Tupperware of my stew from last night and declared, Maggie, you know I dont eat leftovers. Could you rustle up something fresh, please? I stood by the stove, coffee mug in hand, and stared at him as if hed just landed from another planet. Not because he wanted some food that happens but because there wasnt the slightest hint of a question in his voice, just an expectation. As if it was some unwritten law that the woman of the house must cook on demand, and reheating dinner from the night before was an affront to his comfort.
Im forty-five. Im independent, well-employed, have my own flat in Manchester, and a life I built over the years since my divorce. Id invited Steve to move in last month, not to have a live-in housekeeper, but because I wanted to share my life with someone who seemed mature and sensible. As it turned out, my definition of mature needed revisiting.
He seemed wonderfuluntil he actually moved in.
Wed met in a fairly typical way, through a dating app. Steve was forty-eight, divorced, working as a delivery driver, and renting a tiny flat in Salford. In messages he was polite, and in person, charming. He brought flowers, cracked jokes, never asked about my salary or bragged about himself.
We dated for three months, and things ran smoothly. Not a hint of oddness or red flags. Hed stay over at weekends; wed cook together, watch films, go for walks. Hed help with the washing-up and suggest popping out for groceries, always with a kind word thrown in. I honestly thought Id finally met a grown man without baggage.
Then he said he was fed up with paying rent, and that it made sense for me to move in with you, since we spend most of our time together anyway. I was all for it were adults, right? Whats the point in dragging it out?
The first week was fine. He cleaned up after himself, cooked from time to time, kept his things tidy. But by week two, small things started to creep in, things I tried to ignore at first.
Except those small things became rather significant.
He stopped rinsing out his tea mug. When I asked why, he shrugged: You do the dishes in the evening anyway, saves us both doing extra work. Then there were the odd socks left by the sofa. I asked if he could put them in the laundry basket he just laughed, Oh Mag, its a tiny thing. Dont fuss.
Each day hed ask me to fetch, bring or do something, even when he was nearer. Mag, could you pass me the remote? Mag, grab us a glass of water? Mag, have you seen my charger? And all this while I was working from home, not sitting idle, and he only came back in the evenings. I started feeling less like a partner, and more like a live-in maid in my own flat.
And then that stew morning happened. And then, later that evening, he presented me with his list.
Steve sat opposite me on the sofa, phone in hand, looking serious.
Ive been thinking, we ought to sort out how we do things around here so theres no confusion. Made a listits only logical, he announced.
I braced myself, expecting a grown-up discussion about divvying up the choreswho does what, what suits us both.
He opened his notes app and began reading
First point: Cooking. Its a womans job to cook daily, preferably something different each day. I dont eat leftovers, so it must be freshly made. I blinked, stunned. He kept going, unfazed.
Point two: Washing and ironing. Thats a womans department, fellas cant be expected to get it right. My shirts should be ironed and ready for Monday. I could feel a wave of anger and disbelief rising.
Point three: Cleaning. Deep clean once a week, dusting regularly. Im at work all dayyoull have more time for that. His voice was flat, like reciting a job description rather than talking to his partner.
Fourth: Intimacy. Minimum twice a weekits vital for harmony. I clenched my fists, watching him swipe his phone with the calm of a man reading football fixtures.
Fifth: Finances. Bills fifty-fifty, but you buy the food, seeing as youre home more and do the cooking. Ill just cover my own bits otherwise. He finished, beaming as if hed just solved world peace. Fair, yeah?
I fell silent for a few moments, then asked quietly, Steve, what about your duties on this list? He actually looked puzzled. What do you mean? I bring home the money, dont I? Isnt that a contribution? I work as well, I replied. From home, yes, but I earn just as much as you. Yeah, but youre just at home, arent you? Not like me driving about, out in the rain, tiring myself out.
I got off the sofa. So what you want is a free housekeeper, basically? He frowned. Housekeeper? No, this is just normalbloke provides, woman keeps the home. Its always been that way. Always? Maybe in the 1950s, I said. Its the 21st century, Steve. He sighed like he was talking to a child. Women are just better at this, Mag. Men are the hunters, women keep the hearth.
I didnt sleep a blink that night. I lay awake, listening to Steve snore beside me, oblivious to my turmoil. As though that list of demands and my assigned place in it were perfectly acceptable.
By five in the morning, Id made up my mind. I quietly packed his belongings into two shopping bags, set them by the door, and wrote a note:
Steve, Ive read your list. Heres mine:
1) Find yourself another hearth-keeper.
2) Your things are by the door.
3) Leave the keys in the post box.
4) Dont call. Good luck finding a maid willing to work for relationship harmony.
I left before he woke up, went round to my friends, and over a cup of strong coffee, spilled the whole saga. She just shook her head, Thank goodness you saw through him before it was too late. Imagine a year down the line!
Three hours later, Steve messaged: Are you seriously overreacting to this? I thought you were a grown-up. I didnt replyjust blocked his number.
So whats behind lists like that? Its been two months. Ive had plenty of time to think, and Ive realised this: One, Steve didnt want a partnerhe wanted staff, plus perks. A woman to cook, clean, iron, organise intimacy on schedule, and never expect anything in return. Two, for him, this was normala woman past forty was no longer a person with boundaries, just someone obliged to be grateful for male attention and keep house. Three, theres more men like this out there than youd thinkthey come across as reasonable, but when youre settled in, the demands appear.
The most vital truth Ive learned: better to be on my own and free, than with someone who just wants a live-in servant. Im forty-five; Ive earned the right to live by my terms. No lists, no chores dumped solely on me, and no man who only sees a function, not a person.
And if that means going soloso be it. Id rather be alone than in the company of someone who treats me like a housekeeper.
What about you? Would you have left after seeing that list, or tried to compromise? Why do so many men over forty-five start looking for a maid rather than a partner? Have you ever moved in with someone and found they suddenly changed, laying out new rules?
