Hey love, listen up Ive got to tell you about the nightmare I had with my motherinlaw, Ethel Whitaker, and how I finally threw in the towel on being the good housewife.
Blythe, darling, whos cutting the cucumbers like that? Those arent cubes, theyre bricks! How on earth do you expect a man to chew that? Ethel hovered over my shoulder while I was frantically finishing the potato salad. I gripped the knife so hard my fingertips went white. The guests were due in half an hour, but Ethel had shown up two hours early, to help, and spent the whole time shuffling spice jars and commenting on every little move I made.
Ethel, this is a potato salad. Everything gets mixed together. Mark loves it when the veg still has texture, not when it turns into mush, I said, keeping my voice even.
Oh, you dont know Mark at all! I raised him, fed him for thirty years. Hes always wanted everything neat and tidy. Hes too polite to tell you straight, but hes a delicate lad, thats my doing. And did you see his shirt this morning? It was wrinkled. Shame on you, Blythe. A wife should make sure her husband looks sharp down to the pins, she scolded.
I took a deep breath and set the knife down. I work until seven, Ethel. Mark gets home at six. Hes got his own hands, and the iron sits out where he can see it.
Ethel pressed her hands to her chest, the massive amber brooch catching the light. Hands? A mans job is to bring home the bacon. Keeping the house cosy, tidy, spotless is a womans holy duty. If you cant manage, maybe you should quit your job or get up at the crack of dawn. I used to be up at five, whipping up fresh pancakes before my shift. And you? Youre probably stuffing yourself with premade stuff, arent you?
I cook every day, I snapped. Now excuse me, I need to pull the roast from the oven.
Dinner went by in a strained silence. Mark sat at the table, his face buried in his plate, pretending not to notice the electric charge in the room. Hed always been a bit of an ostrich hide your head in the sand, or in a bowl of soup, and hope the drama sorts itself out.
After tasting the roast Id marinated for a day, Ethel wrinkled her nose. Well its edible, I suppose. The meats a bit tough, overcooked, and theres not enough salt. Mark, do you want some extra?
Fine, mum, its tasty, Mark mumbled with his mouth full.
Tasty for him hes never had a carrot that wasnt sweet. And the floors? Look at that laminate. The corners are grey. Your robot vacuum buzzes about but does nothing. You need a cloth, your hands, get down on your knees! Thats real cleanliness. You treat the house like a cold, impersonal office. Bad housekeeper, dear, sorry for the bluntness. Who else will tell you the truth if not your own mother?
I set my fork down, feeling something snap inside me. Five years of marriage, five years trying to be perfect. Id been the chief accountant, sharing the mortgage with Mark, then doubleshifting in the kitchen every night, washing, scrubbing, baking, starching, all for a crumb of approval. And the verdict? Bad housekeeper.
I glanced at Mark. He kept chewing, not looking up, as if protecting me. Hed gotten used to it. It was easier for him: mum criticises, I try harder, and he just consumes the outcome.
So Im a bad housekeeper? I asked quietly.
Dont take it to heart, love, Ethel waved a hand, shovelling another bite of that overcooked meat onto her plate. Its a fact. There are proper, cosy women, and then there are the modern, careerdriven ones. Look, theres dust on the cornice I saw it last time. Its an eyesore.
Alright, I said, a calm, almost strange smile spreading across my face. I hear you, Ethel. Thank you for the honesty.
That evening, when Ethel finally left, lugging a container of cake with a comment about it going mouldy if we didnt finish it, Mark flopped onto the sofa in front of the telly.
Phew, what a day, he yawned. Blythe, can you bring me a cuppa? Theres still that cake left.
I stood by the window, looking out at the nightlit streets.
No, Mark.
What? No cake? Mum ate it all?
No tea. Actually, Im not bringing it.
He stared at me, puzzled. What, youre mad at mum? Come on, shes just old and grumbling. Dont let it get to you.
Im not mad. I just figured out something. Your mum called me a bad housekeeper, said everything I do is soulless, the meats dry, I dont see the dust. I thought, why should I keep hurting you and myself with my inadequacy? If I cant run the house properly, Ill just stop trying. No point in embarrassing myself.
Mark snorted, thinking I was joking. Fine, enough whining. Come over, Ill hug you.
I didnt move. I grabbed a book and slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door firmly.
Monday morning broke for Mark in a different way. Usually hed wake to the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon. A neatly ironed shirt would hang on the back of his chair, socks in a tidy pile. Today the flat was silent. The kitchen was empty, the stove cold as a dead heart.
Blythe? Mark called, peeking into the bedroom. Breakfast?
There are eggs and ham in the fridge, bread in the tin, I replied calmly, applying mascara.
But you always cooked! Im late!
Im late too. And since Im a bad housekeeper, I might ruin the food. Better you do it yourself. Men are providers; you can get yourself a breakfast.
Cursing under his breath, Mark shuffled to the kitchen. Coffee spilled over the hob, the eggs burned on the bottom and stayed runny on top. He choked down a dry ham sandwich, threw on yesterdays shirt that looked dull, and left for work angry and hungry.
That evening the same pattern repeated. Mark walked in hoping for dinner. I was on the sofa with a face mask, flipping through a magazine.
Whats for dinner? he asked, tripping over his own trainers left on the floor.
I ordered sushi, already ate it, I said, voice muffled by the mask. Didnt order for you, maybe Id rather not. There are frozen dumplings in the freezer, supermarketstyle.
Dumplings? Ive been at work all day! I want proper homecooked food! Borscht!
Borscht is a bit much. With my lack of talent Id probably ruin it. Your mum already said I cook without soul. Dumplings are easier water, salt, ten minutes, done.
Mark wanted a fight, but my icy stare stopped him. I had to boil the dumplings, then wash the pot because Id reminded him I left streaks on the dishes.
The week dragged on. Dust that I used to wipe away every other day now swirled in the sunlight. The sink filled with a mountain of dishes Mark only washed what he needed at the moment, and I only used one plate and cup before cleaning them and putting them away in my own little cupboard.
The laundry basket grew into an Everest of his socks, tshirts and jeans. I had no problem with my own laundry Id drop it off at the launderette on the way to work or handwash what I needed.
Mark looked like a wilted plant, angry and a bit thinner, surviving on toast and instant noodles.
Saturday morning the doorbell rang. It was Ethel, dropping in unannounced for her weekly inspection.
Open up, love! I brought pancakes, thought you might be starving on dry toast, she chirped, stepping into the hallway.
Her eyes fell on the pile of shoes by the door, then she marched into the living room and saw a film of dust on the TV screen where someone (probably Mark) had scribbled Wash me. Empty mugs with dried tea bags and a pizza box sat on the coffee table.
Oh my God! she gasped, clutching her chest. Whats happened here? Are you two sick? This place looks like a barn!
I emerged from the bedroom in a silk robe, hair brushed, book in hand.
Good morning, Ethel. Its just a flat, not a farmhouse. No professional cleaner here, I said.
What professional cleaner? Look at this! This is an absolute health hazard. Mark, son, how do you live like this?
Mark shuffled out of the kitchen, a stale ginger biscuit in his hand, his shirt crumpled, a stain on his trousers.
Mum, thats how we live he muttered.
Blythe! Ethels voice rose. Grab a cloth right now! This is an embarrassment! Ill start a deep clean and youll help me. How can you let your husband live in such filth?
I slipped into a chair, crossed my legs, and opened my book.
No, Ethel. I wont pick up a cloth. You told me last Sunday Im a bad housekeeper. You said I wash wrong, I have no talent. I accepted your criticism. Why should I keep doing something Im terrible at? Im focusing on what Im good at work and rest, I said calmly.
Youre youre mocking me? she sputtered. I was trying to help you!
My trainings over. Ive been expelled for poor performance, I replied.
Mark! Say something! Ethel shouted.
Mark looked at me, then at his mother, then at the pile of dirty dishes.
Mum, you really pushed her. She cooked, she cleaned, and you kept finding fault. She got fed up, he said.
Im not fed up, Mark, I corrected. Im optimizing. If my effort is judged as zero or negative, it makes sense to stop spending energy on it.
Ethels face turned beet red. So thats it? Youre optimizing? Fine, Ill do it myself! A helpless daughterinlaw needs a mother to rescue her son!
She ripped off her coat, grabbed a rag, and launched herself at the mess. The next three hours were a symphony of scrubbing, vacuuming, and endless commentary: Shame! Look at this grease! Theres cobwebs! My dear boy!
I sat there, sipping coffee Id made just for myself, watching the chaos. I didnt offer help, didnt apologise. I just observed.
Mark tried to help, only to get swatted away: Dont get in my way! Go eat, Ive got the cleaning!
By evening the flat sparkled. Ethel, sweaty and redfaced, collapsed onto the sofa, her blood pressure spiking.
Water she croaked.
I handed her a glass and a tablet. Thanks, Ethel. Youre a cleaning wizard. I could never have done it.
She glared at me, but her anger was spent.
I wont let this go, she whispered. Mark, you must divorce her. She doesnt love you, shes lazy and selfish.
Mark stood by the window, stomach full of his mums meatballs, the flat spotless, but feeling sick. He realised the whole scene was humiliating. He knew Ethel would leave, and hed be stuck with me. If I kept my strike, the next week would be another nightmare, and Ethel couldnt keep coming back she was getting old.
Mum, Ill call a cab for you, he said softly.
Youre kicking me out? tears welled in Ethels eyes.
No, just think you need a break, I said.
When the door shut behind her, a sterile silence filled the flat.
Mark walked to the kitchen where I was chopping a simple salad.
Blythe, he started, hesitant.
Hmm?
Maybe thats enough. Ive learned my lesson. Mum she
What lesson, love? I turned, knife in hand. That you can live in a pigsty for a week, then a motherinlaw swoops in, cleans everything, and you just watch?
No. I realised Im miserable without you. Ive taken cleanliness and good food for granted, assuming theyd just appear.
It doesnt just appear. Its my time, my evenings, my hobbies I give up. And when I hear useless, I dont want to do anything, I replied.
Ill talk to my mum, Mark said firmly. Ill tell her to stop commenting on your cooking or cleaning. Otherwise we wont invite her again.
Thats words, Mark. I need actions.
Ill help. Really. Lets split duties. Ill vacuum, take out the rubbish, wash dishes in the evenings.
I raised an eyebrow. Dishes? Every night?
Yeah. And Ill do breakfast on weekends. Ill learn to fry eggs the way you like.
I thought it over, weighing his promise.
Fine. Onemonth trial. If you break the deal, I go back on strike. And trust me, your mum wont come back for a cleanup, her back cant handle it.
Deal. And dinner tonight? Anything normal?
No, tonight were having leftovers from my mums meatballs. Tomorrow well see how you perform.
The next week was an eyeopener. The robot vacuum needed a brush change, dishes multiplied like rabbits, and socks werent just tossed in a corner they had to end up in the basket.
Wednesday evening Ethel called.
Hows the place? Not buried under dust? Should I pop over Saturday and make borscht?
Im fine, Mum. Weve got borscht already. Blythe made it. Delicious, I said, wiping a pan.
Delicious, eh? I know her cooking, Ethel replied.
Mark! Enough. I said its delicious. Blythes a great housewife now. If you say another nasty thing, well be upset. I love my wife and it hurts when shes attacked, Mark growled.
A heavy silence lingered on the line before Ethel hung up.
Later, I stood in the doorway, smiling genuinely for the first time in ages, and wrapped my arms around Mark from behind, resting my head on his shoulder.
Theres still a bit of gravy on the knob, I whispered.
I see it, he muttered, rubbing it off. Now go relax. Youve earned it.
Ethel didnt call for two weeks. Eventually she drifted back, a bit lonely, and dropped by for a quiet visit. I served roast chicken with potatoes the skin golden, the aroma filling the whole block.
She cut a piece, chewed, and almost blurted out a complaint about too many spices or not enough salt. But she caught herself, met my eyes, and just said, Delicious, lovely chicken.
Thanks, I smiled. I tried hard.
And so tidy she glanced around, searching for a fault, but found nothing. Mark had already wiped the skirting boards before she arrived, fearing another cleaning crusade.
We cleaned together, he said proudly. Im now responsible for the dust.
Men with a rag Ethel started, then stopped. Well, as long as theres peace at home.
Exactly, I nodded, pouring her more tea. Peace and respect.
Ethels sharp critiques never vanished completely you cant change someones nature. But now theyre just a lowlevel mutter, barely heard. I finally understood that to be valued, sometimes you have to stop being the invisible hand that does everything and start showing what you actually bring to the table. And most importantly, Im no longer scared of being called a bad housewife. Being a happy woman matters way more.
