It took me fifteen years to realise that my marriage was like one of those gym memberships you sign up for in January full of good intentions at first, and empty for the rest of the year.
It all began on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. I came home from work to find him stretched out on the sofa, hand deep in a bag of crisps, watching the same zombie series for the third time.
Whats for dinner? he asked, eyes not leaving the screen.
Something inside me snapped. It was like hitting reset on a computer everything wiped clean, back to factory settings.
I dont know, darling. What is for dinner? I replied, dropping my handbag by the door.
He looked at me, utterly lost, as though Id suddenly started speaking Latin.
What do you mean, you dont know? You always cook.
Oh really? Fascinating observation. Well, Im off to have dinner with the girls. See you later.
His face was pure poetry. More like a haiku, actually short, but packed with meaning.
That evening I ate grilled fish, drank chilled white wine, and laughed so much my sides ached. Came home around eleven. Hed ordered pizza and the kids were thrilled.
Mum, why dont we always have dinner like this? asked the youngest, sporting a smear of ketchup across his nose.
The next week, I took it a step further. Literally.
Im heading to Greece this Friday, I announced over breakfast.
He nearly choked on his tea.
Greece? What about the kids?
Theyre with you. You are their father, arent you? I have complete faith in you.
But Ive got meetings! Works important this week!
I looked him square in the eye.
What a coincidence. Ive had important work for the last fifteen years. Somehow, I managed. Im sure you, with that brilliant mind you love telling everyone about, will be just fine.
So off I went. Technically with a cousin, but thats not the point.
On the first day, he sent me seventeen texts:
Wheres the PE kit?
How do you use the washing machine?
Do you cook pasta with hot or cold water?
Is it OK for the kids to have cereal for dinner?
I replied once:
Google is your friend.
By Day Three, his messages had changed:
The kids want chicken nuggets again.
Do they always get this much homework?
Why are there so many parents evenings?
I didnt reply. I was busy, sipping iced coffee by the sea, reading a book without being interrupted every five minutes.
When I came home, the house looked like a minor disaster had passed through. There were socks on the ceiling to this day, I have no idea how they got up there. The dog was wearing one on his head like a hat, and my daughter had redecorated her room in purple using my lipsticks.
He was curled up on the sofa, foetal position and all.
Youre back, he croaked. Thank goodness.
How did it go? I asked, tanned and utterly tranquil.
I I just dont understand. How do you do all this every single day? Its superhuman.
Almost like a full-time job, isnt it?
He fell silent. The zombies on the telly groaned. So did he.
Im sorry, he whispered at last. Really sorry.
Things have changed since then. Hes learned to cook three decent meals. Well, two and a half sometimes the spaghetti is still a bit crunchy. He now knows where the washing machine lives, how parents evenings work, and that Whats for dinner? isnt a valid question if hes not the one making it.
I started travelling every three months. Sometimes alone, sometimes with friends. Never with any hint of guilt.
Last week, the neighbour caught me in the front garden, eyes wide.
Do you really just leave the kids with your husband and go?
Thats right, I confirmed. Hes their dad, not a babysitter.
But what if something goes wrong?
Then hell learn. Just like I did, all those years when he went to his important meetings that always ended at the pub.
She went quiet, thoughtful. I spotted her at the airport a month later, about to fly off to Italy.
Turns out, karma isnt always vengeful. Sometimes its a patient teacher, giving you the lessons you were supposed to learn ages ago. Refuse to learn willingly, and it signs you up for an intensive course in reality.
Now my husband even boasts to his mates that he can braid our daughter’s hair. The results look more like nautical knots, but its the effort that counts.
Last night, he asked me,
Are you going anywhere soon? Just so I can mentally prepare.
Im thinking about Portugal for my birthday.
He sighed, resigned.
How many days?
Ten.
All right. At least I know where the first aid kit is now.
I kissed his forehead like youd kiss a brave child about to have their jabs.
Am I the only one who thinks there ought to be a compulsory course in Domestic Survival 101 before you get married, or are there more of you out there like me?
Because, in the end, life will always teach you if not gently, then thoroughly that partnership means sharing the real work, not just the sofa.
