**Part-Time Husband**
“Brilliant. You got your wife pregnant, and now you’re running back to Mum’s apron strings? No, son, that’s not how this works. I won’t hide you.”
“It’s not about hiding! I’m not leaving for good… I just need a break, yeah? She’s either screaming, crying, apologising, then screaming again. My nerves are shot—even someone breathing wrong sets me off!”
“You’ll get your break in the afterlife,” Tamara snapped, stepping forward. “You married her—deal with it. This isn’t summer camp; it’s family life. Did you think you’d spend your whole life clubbing and watching films?”
Matthew looked away, shoulders hunching. He wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words. He dropped his bag, as if still determined to push past his mother’s protests.
Tamara moved to block him.
“No. No sleepovers. No dinners. If you won’t leave, I’ll call the police. I mean it. Oh, poor you—tired, are we?”
Matthew had always been like this. Eyes wide, guilty, but with a flicker of resentment underneath.
…Her son had been a master of dodging responsibility since childhood. While his older brother worked on the allotment, Matthew would complain of stomach aches and fake a fever. Tamara dragged him to doctors before realising her youngest was just very good at acting.
Once, when he “fell ill” before a test, she yanked him out of bed by his collar. He whined, sniffled, and moaned, but off to school he went.
“You’ll regret this when I drop dead in class!” he sulked. “Miss Thompson will blame *you* for sending me in sick!”
Tamara laughed, though even then, she knew it wasn’t funny. He’d spend hours building Lego castles, but clearing his plate was a tragedy. Homework only happened after shouting matches. Every problem ended with puppy-dog eyes and running to Mum.
She’d tried to stop it—but the habit of shirking responsibility stuck.
Katie, his wife, had a temper. At first, she’d been sweet, doting—practically walking on eggshells.
“She even brought me coffee in bed a few times. Mum, this is the wife I wanted,” Matthew had gushed.
Tamara wasn’t fooled. She knew people put on their best faces early on. Plus, Katie was only twenty-one—barely any life experience, but eager to please.
One dinner party was enough to reveal the fire beneath the angelic act. When Matthew asked for a fork instead of a spoon, Katie sighed sharply. When he teased her, she smiled—but her eyebrow twitched. And when Tamara’s niece criticised the salad, Katie bolted to the kitchen, muttering about a forgotten phone call.
Tamara doubted she’d called anyone. The kitchen was silent.
“Be careful with her, son. Are you sure this is what you want?” she whispered. “She’s not bad—you need someone to keep you in line—but…”
*But you don’t know what you’re signing up for*, Tamara thought, though she didn’t say it aloud.
“Mum, we’re fine. You’re too hard on her. She’s emotional, but that’s not a problem.”
Not a problem? Tamara saw advantages—Katie was driven, wouldn’t let Matthew slack. But was *he* ready for that?
Apparently not.
Six months after the wedding, Katie and Matthew arrived with a cake and beaming smiles.
“Mum, you’re going to be a grandma!”
Tamara nearly choked. Her throat tightened; her palms went damp. She adjusted her glasses and studied them. They looked like lottery winners.
“Are you serious?” she blurted. “Not even a year married, and already a baby?”
Matthew frowned—clearly expecting cheers. Katie’s smile faded. Pointless to argue now.
“What’s the big deal? We’re married, we’re a family,” he mumbled.
Tamara sighed. These two were children themselves! How would they handle a third? They had no idea what exhaustion even meant. But suggestions weren’t welcome—she’d only be blamed.
*Nothing I say will change it*, she thought.
She was wrong. Fate handed her the wheel anyway.
It started small. Matthew began stopping by for lunch. Said he missed her, valued her care. Then the truth slipped.
“Katie can’t stand the smell of meat, fish, even eggs. Lives on salad. I just want a proper meal,” he admitted.
Soon, he came for dinners too.
Tamara didn’t mind. She thought she was helping—Katie wouldn’t have to cook, and a fed man was a happy man.
But Matthew pushed further.
“She nagged me all morning,” he complained. “Broke a nail before her friend’s birthday. Kept asking if it was embarrassing. How should *I* know? I barely noticed!”
Tamara listened, nodding. He whined about work, about Katie waking him to chat, about hunting down exotic fruit for her cravings.
Eventually, Tamara got angry—not at Katie, but at *him*. She remembered pregnancy well. Where was his support? Instead, he hid at her place—binge-watching, gaming, “just resting.”
“Last night, she lost it because I bought peach yogurt instead of strawberry. Said I never listen,” he moaned.
“Maybe you don’t,” Tamara said flatly.
He waved her off. A week later, he arrived with a bag.
“She’s gone to her mum’s. We need space—or we’ll split.”
Tamara glared. This news didn’t sit right.
“You’ll split if you keep running. Turn around and go to her. She needs you, even if she’s cranky. You’re her husband—act like it!”
Then it poured out—how Katie’s fears annoyed him, how he hated hospital trips, how he’d even considered divorce…
Tamara saw through it. He wanted her to take his side, let him hide. No. She wouldn’t enable him.
“Did you think it’d be all roses? There’s a *person* growing inside her! When I was pregnant with you, I cried at shampoo ads! Your dad came home every night—because he loved me. Because I was scared and alone!”
“Mum, you don’t get it—”
“I get it perfectly! You chose her. You wanted a baby. Now *be a man*.”
“I just need till the birth—”
“First till birth, then till teething. No, Matthew. You don’t get to be a part-time husband. If I must, I’ll chase you off with a broom—but you’re not hiding here.”
They argued, but Tamara shoved him out. Then she texted Katie.
“He’ll be back in an hour. Katie, love—don’t push too hard, but don’t let him slack. He’s a handful, but he’ll learn.”
Katie read it instantly but replied ten minutes later. Just *thanks* and a heart.
…After that, Matthew stopped coming round. At first, he vanished—didn’t even call on Mother’s Day. Eventually, they spoke again, though colder now. Tamara didn’t mind. Pain was part of growing up. And if she let him hide under her skirt—he’d never grow at all.
