My husband was forever comparing me to his mother, and I suggested he pack his bags and move back in with her.
“Did you skimp on the salt again? How many times do I have to say, its bland as grass,” Matthew said, pushing away a steaming bowl of stew and reaching for the salt. “Mum always says, Best to undersalt the pot and oversalt the back, but shes got the knack, Lizzie. She has a feel for food. You, you just follow the recipe. Theres no soul in it.”
Elizabeth watched in silence as Matthew generously heaped salt onto the vegetables shed been simmering for an hour. That spring inside her, wound tight over three years of marriage, tensed again. She took a deep breath and turned to the window, out at the lamplights flickering to life in the autumn dusk.
“I cooked as the nutritionist suggested, Matt,” she replied softly, putting clean mugs on the rack. “You had awful heartburn last week, remember?”
“Oh, dont start hiding behind the doctors!” her husband huffed, chewing a piece of meat. “Just admit it, cookings not your strong suit. Remember Mums cabbage rolls last weekend? Neat, little, just right. And that sauce! Real cream, proper tomatoes, not your supermarket ketchup. Mum knows how to make a house feel like home; you walk in and it smells of baking. Here, its always bleach or something.”
Elizabeth bit her lip. The flat smelled of cleaning products because shed just scrubbed the entire kitchen after Matthews attempt to fry eggs and bacon had left grease trails up to the light fittings. But there was no point mentioning itMatthew had a rare gift for glossing over his own errors while blowing her every imagined shortcoming out of proportion.
Supper droned on with the television muttering in the background, and Matthews running commentary on how a household should be run. Elizabeth nodded along absently, her thoughts wandering to tomorrows report at work. She was a senior financial analyst at a major logistics company; quarter-ends always left her wrung out and empty. All she wanted in the evenings was peace and quiet. Instead, it was a daily chorus: why couldnt she be more like the saintly, irreproachable Mary Watson?
Mary Watson, her mother-in-law, was formidable and energetic, and, to give her credit, certainly house-proud. However, her idea of cleaning was bordering on disaster reliefevery stick of furniture dragged about, and dust banished from cracks no one else could imagine. Matthew had grown up worshipping his mothers devotion; now he sincerely couldnt fathom why Elizabeth wouldnt sacrifice her life on the altar of domesticity.
As the evening drifted into night, the tension hung in the air. Matthew settled on the sofa, tablet in hand, while Elizabeth got out the ironing board to press his shirts for the next day. She set everything up and reached for his blue shirta good, thick fabric, but tricky to iron.
“Seriously, youre at it again?” Matthews voice startled her; he stood leaning on the doorway, arms folded, eyeing the way she was steaming the collar.
“What now, Matt?”
“Thats not how you do it! Youre creating creases. Mum always irons the sleeves first, then the back, collar at the very end, always with a damp cloth. Youre using direct steam, the fabricll shine! Youll ruin the shirt. As always.”
Elizabeth put the iron safely on its stand. The steam hissed from it, voicing her own exasperation.
“If you know how to do it better, maybe you should have a go,” she suggested, voice neutral.
Matthew huffed, rolling his eyes. “Here we go again. Say one thing, get your back up. I just want to help you do it properly. Mum says a woman should look after her husband’s wardrobe; its the familys face. But youre always busy. Work, reports but the house gets neglected.”
“The house neglected?” Elizabeth looked around their spotless sitting room. “Its clean, laundered, theres dinner on the table. I work as hard as you, and, come to think of it, earn more. Why exactly am I meant to take evening classes in household management, Mary Watson style?”
“Always money with you!” Matthew scowled, as if in pain. “Its not about money, its about care. Mum worked all her life as a librarian, yet the house was always perfectmeals, baking, Dad always smart as a pin. And you Ehh, Lizzie. Iron it your way. Ill wear it creased, let everyone see what sort of wife I have.”
He stormed off to bed, leaving Elizabeth with the cooling iron and a lump of frustration in her throat. For a moment, she wanted nothing more than to just pack a bag and leave. But where would she go? Or rather, whythis was her flat, left to her by her grandmother long before she was married. Matthew had arrived with one suitcase and an ancient laptop, but over three years had made himself very much the lord of the manor, and she the unsatisfactory housekeeper.
The next few days passed in a state of chilly truce. Matthew would sigh dramatically at the sight of a speck of dust or smother his food in salt before tasting it. Elizabeth responded with silence, throwing herself into work. Saturday was loomingthe usual day to visit her mother-in-law for lunch.
Saturday morning began in a whirlwind, with Matthew nagging his wife.
“Liz, youre dawdling again! Mum cant stand it when were late. And wear that blue dress, not those jeans. Mum says you look like a teenager in jeans, and youre thirty-eight. Time to look the part.”
Elizabeth, who was fastening her trousers, paused.
“Im comfortable in jeans, Matt. Were having a family lunch, not meeting the Prime Minister.”
“Its about respect for elders,” Matthew retorted. “Mums put herself out cooking, and youll turn up like a scruff!”
In the end, Elizabeth wore jeans and a plain white blouse. The drive was a silent one, Matthew staring determinedly out the windscreen, fingers drumming irritably on the steering wheel; their car, she reminded herself, which she mostly paid for.
Mary Watsons flat enveloped them in the aroma of baking and fried meat. Mary, a robust woman with a bouffant hairstyle, opened her door, wiping her hands on a starched apron.
“Oh, here you are! At last. Matthew, youve lost weight! Doesnt your wife feed you?” she cooed, hugging her son and giving her daughter-in-law a curt nod. “Come in, Lizzie, guest slippers are there. Careful, Ive just polished the floor.”
Lunch was its usual performance. Mary dished up the best bits for her son, fussing over his pale complexion.
“Here, have some duck, Matthew. Roasted with apples, cooked for three hours. Not like young women do nowadaystoss things in a slow cooker and call it food. Thats not food, thats animal feed. Isnt it, Lizzie?”
Elizabeth smiled politely, poking at her salad. “Everyone has their own pace, Mrs. Watson. A slow cooker saves time.”
“Time! What for, Facebook? In our day, we worked full time, raised children, kept spotless homes. Now you all have robot hoovers and dishwashers, but theres still no homey feeling. I was at yours last weekthe curtains looked grey, windows grubby. Embarrassing, Lizzie. A womans face is her windows.”
Matthew nodded vigorously, chewing duck. “I keep telling her, mum! Lets do the windows and wash the curtainsand she says, Ill book a cleaner. Imagine? Strangers traipsing about your flat for cash!”
“A cleaner?” Mary looked scandalized, as if Elizabeth had proposed opening a gambling den. “Have you lost your senses? A womans touch should be felt in every nook and cranny. Letting strangers in brings trouble. No wonder you dont have children and argue all the time.”
That was a low blow. The subject of children was painfulshe and the doctors were working on it, but things simply werent happening. Mary knew, but never missed a jab.
“We dont argue about cleaners, Mrs. Watson,” Elizabeth said firmly, lowering her cutlery. “We argue because Matthew compares me to you.”
A deadly silence fell. Matthew coughed, choking on his drink.
“Whats wrong with aspiring to the best?” Mary responded, astonished. “Of course Matthews proud of his mother. He wants a wife to match. Youd do better to start jotting down my recipes while you can! Matthews used to a certain standard of care.”
“Exactly!” Matthew chimed in, dabbing his mouth. “Dont start, Lizzie. Mums rightyou could be softer, more attentive. Just look at how everything sparkles here. At ours? Dust on the skirting boards for days!”
Something inside Elizabeth snapped at that moment. She looked at her husband, smug and comfortable, radiant in his mothers approval. At her mother-in-law, beaming with victory.
“Thank you for lunch, it was lovely,” Elizabeth said, standing.
“Leaving already?” Mary was taken aback. “What about tea? I made a Victoria sponge!”
“No, not both of us. Im leaving. Matthew can stay for a cuppa, soak up the family atmosphere.”
“What are you doing, Lizzie?” Matthew hissed as she slipped on her shoes in the hall. “Sit down, dont make a scene!”
“Ive got a headache, Matt. Ill go home. You can come when youre ready, take a cab or drive, up to you. The keys are in your pocket.”
She stepped into the autumn air, took a deep breath, and for the first time in ages felt light. A plan slid into place in her mind as if it had been waiting for years.
Instead of relaxing that evening, Elizabeth got the suitcases from the loftthe same ones theyd taken to Spain last summer. She opened Matthews wardrobe, methodically packed his clothes. Shirts, jeans, socks, underwear, even his prized record collection and that bloody mug. She worked calmly, no tears, folding everything neatly, including the suit he insisted needed ironing with a damp cloth.
Matthew came home late, nearly eleven, smelling of his mothers baking and self-satisfaction.
“What drama was that?” he began as soon as he kicked off his shoes. “Mum was so upset, her blood pressure shot up. I had to give her her pills. Youre selfish, Lizzie. All about you.”
He walked into the bedroom and stopped dead. Three huge suitcases and a few boxes sat in the middle of the floor. The wardrobe hung empty.
“Whatare we going somewhere?” he asked uncertainly.
Elizabeth closed her book and met his eyes.
“We arent going anywhere. You are.”
Matthew gave a weak laugh. “Very funny, Lizzie. Lets put this away and get some sleep. Im exhausted.”
“Im not joking. Ive packed your things. Clothes, shoes, documents, your records, even your mug. Ive booked a removal van. Nine oclock tomorrow.”
Matthews face reddened.
“Youre chucking me out? Of my own home?”
“Of my home, Matt,” Elizabeth said quietly. “Lets be precise. This flat is mine. We lived together here, but clearly youre miserable.”
“Miserable? Ive done everything for you! Tried my hardest!”
“Exactly. And nothing here lives up to your standards. Not the food, not the cleaning, not me. I spent years trying and realised its a losing race. I cant, and dont want to, compete with Mary Watson. Whats the point?”
“But were a family!” he protested, suddenly deflated.
“A family supports each other, not nitpicking and comparing. Youre unhappy heremy bland stews and dusty skirting boards drive you mad. And Im tired of never being enough. This is the perfect solution.”
Elizabeth gestured towards the luggage. “You can go home. To your mum. With her perfect roast dinners and perfectly ironed collars and someone ready to devote everything to you. Youll be happy. And Ill finally have peace, without worrying Ive scorched your shirt collar.”
Matthew stared, mouth opening and closing like a beached fish. His eyes flashed in anger.
“You dont think Ive got any rights to this flat? I helped do it up! I put up the wallpaper, we did the bathroom! Ill take you to court!”
Elizabeth sighed. Shed expected that. “Youre a solicitor, arent you Matt? You know the law. This flatmy pre-marital property. The refurb? Yes, we redecorated. But Ive kept all the receiptstiles, builders fees, all paid by me. You bought the wallpaper, yes, five rolls at twenty pounds each, and the paste. Lets say £120 in all? I can transfer it to you tonight, or cash, your choice. As for sticking it to the walljust maintenance, not capital work. We can go to court, but youll pay more on legal fees.”
Matthew wilted. His job as a mid-level manager paid for groceries and petrol, but all the real spending had always come from Elizabeths career.
“So youre ending our marriage over a bowl of stew?” he said, voice trembling. “I love you, Lizzie! Its just the way I am my mum Fine, I wont compare anymore!”
“For a week? A month?” Elizabeth asked, tired. “Its not the stew, Matt. The problem is, youve never grown up. Youre still Mums boy, not a husband. You want a mother; I want a partnera grown man. We want different things. I want to come home and relax, not face a never-ending performance review.”
They spent the night apart: Elizabeth in the bedroom, Matthew tossing restlessly on the sofa. In the morning, the removers arrived. Suitcases and boxes went down to the van.
Matthew stood in his coat, hopeless. “Lizzie, pleasemy mum will have a fit if I turn up with all my stuff. What do I tell her?”
“The truth. That I dont measure up to her high standards, and youre back home. Shell be over the moon. After all, she always said I wasnt the right one for you. Now, dream come true.”
She shut the door behind him, turned the lock, andunexpectedlylaughed. Not with hysteria, but relief. The silence in the flat was dazzling. No one to scold, to criticise, or to demand.
A week later, Elizabeth was still revelling in solitude. She booked a cleanermiracle of miracles, the flat sparkled without “bad energy”bought ready meals from the deli or ate out with friends, and spent her evenings in the bath, reading or watching series, with no one to iron shirts for.
The phone rang Thursday night: “Mary Watson” lit up the screen. Elizabeth sighed but answered.
“Elizabeth! Whats this nonsense? Why did you throw Matthew out? Hes run me ragged!”
“Good evening, Mrs. Watson. I didnt throw him outI returned him to his family. Youre the one who said Im untidy, cant cook, and your house is perfect. I decided Matthew deserved the best.”
“Dont get cheeky!” her mother-in-law snapped. “Hes a grown manlying on my sofa, demanding food, leaving socks everywhere! Hes ruined my routine, my blood pressures up! I need peace, not Mum, bring this, Mum, iron that, Mum, wheres my tea. I told him to go to his wife! He says, Lizzie never appreciated me.”
“You see?” Elizabeth replied calmly. “He wants the care hes been accustomed to. I cant provide thatI have a job.”
“What job? A wife should be at her husbands side! Take him back! He said yesterday my gravy was too salty! Can you imagine? He said it to me!”
Elizabeth almost laughed.
“Sorry, Mrs. Watson, but I wont take him back. Were getting divorced. He can stay with you, or rent a flat and learn to be independent.”
“Divorced? Elizabeth, be sensible. Wholl want a forty-year-old divorcée? Matthews a good-looking man”
“Splendid. A good-looking man with a perfect mothera real prize for someone else. Ill be just fine. Goodbye, Mrs. Watson.”
She hung up and blocked the numbers.
A month later, they met for the decree nisi at the registry office. Matthew looked rumpled, his shirt badly ironed, dark circles under his eyes.
“Cant we give it another go, Lizzie?” he said, eyes on the floor. “Mum its impossible living with her. She nags nonstop. I thought she loved me, but she just wants to boss me about. I realised how good I had it with you. Quiet, calm. So what if your stew was bland, at least you didnt peck my head.”
Elizabeth looked at him, pitying but resolute.
“You only noticed once you were in my place. Thats not love, thats comfort. You want an accommodating environment, not a wife. Im not an environment, Im a person.”
“Ill rent somewhere! Ill do everything myself!”
“Do. Learn. Grow up. But not with me. Ive got used to not being compared to anyoneand I dont want to give that up.”
They left the court as strangers. Matthew trudged off to the bus stop, shoulders hunched. Elizabeth got into her car, where a travel agency brochure sat on the seat. Shed long dreamed of visiting Italy, but Matthew was always protesting it was too expensive, insisting a week at his mums with the vegetable patch and river was better.
Now thered be no vegetable patch. Just her, her future, and her choices. She started the car and turned up the music. An entire life stretched before her, promising to be flavourfulhowever much someone might complain it lacked salt.
Sometimes, to gain peace, you have to stop comparing yourself to someone elses standardsand live by your own.
