You know how people always say a wife should be at least ten years younger than her husband, like natures way of keeping a young mate nearby? I almost burst out laughing when Peter tried to spin that into a scientific fact. Sure, he finally got his PhD last year and became a candidate for a research post, but that doesnt mean you can start mixing his spiderstudies with everything else. Hes been poking around at all kinds of arachnids, and, as the joke goes, many a spider lady wouldnt mind a little romance herself
I cracked a smile and shot back, Didnt you know theres only a years difference between us when we got married?
Exactly! Thats the problem youre actually the older one.
One year.
Whats the point? Its the fact that matters!
Why are we even on this? I started to feel my temper flare.
Lately Peters been dropping comments about me left and right most of them negative, sometimes thinlyveiled as compliments, the sort that look like insults on social media. Hell say Ive put on weight, my hairs thinning, my clothes are out of fashion sometimes it even gets downright hurtful.
Im talking about nature, hed say. Its how a species maximises its wellbeing. You keep turning it into petty spats. Read a book, will you?
And there I was, practically growling like a beast. Hes always hinted that my education doesnt measure up to his. It used to feel like a harmless tease, but after he defended his dissertation, it felt like a whole new level of condescension.
—
When we first met, Peter was a broke PhD student living in a shared house, juggling odd jobs while dreaming of groundbreaking research. Hed just turned twentyfive. Wed often bump into each other in the park where I walked my terrier, Biscuit. Hed joke that fate must have arranged it our streets ran parallel, and wed cross paths whenever he headed to the university and I headed for a stroll. I was so taken by his charm that I pushed past my shyness and introduced myself. At first I was stunned, then I could hardly believe my luck that a dashing bloke actually noticed me.
My family situation was, to put it mildly, strained. Mum was more attached to the bottle than to her own daughter, and Dad wasnt much better. In practice, I was raised by my granny, who was already in her twilight years and often unwell. Id helped her since school, which is why I never got a university degree there were bigger priorities. I did manage to finish a vocational college for sewing, though. For a spell, when granny felt a bit better, I worked at a garment factory until it shut down.
Later, as grannys health worsened, we lived on her modest pension. To stretch the money, we rented out a room in her twobed flat lucky for us the flat had an extra room, and I made a cosy nook for myself on the balcony.
So when Peter asked me out and then proposed, I thought I was dreaming.
Im not a catch, Id always mutter to myself. Ive got no dowry, and Im far from a knockout
Peter would always counter, Dont say that, youre the loveliest girl I know. Dont worry, Ill pick up a second job. Well manage the rent and help your granny.
He really did pull night shifts after the lab to bring in extra cash. Luckily we didnt spend years crammed into tiny rented rooms. Granny passed away, leaving the flat to me, so we finally moved in together. Money started flowing a bit easier. Peter kept his research job, and I took occasional sewing orders from home first simple skirts and dresses, then more intricate pieces.
A couple of years later we had a son, Charlie. I threw myself into motherhood, only sewing occasionally, just simple things. I wanted him to grow up bright and clever. Peters salary finally steadied, enough for bread and butter. But he was still stuck in the lab, his energy drained by experiments, leaving little room for grand academic ambitions. How can I chase big science when I need to feed the family? hed sigh.
Time rushed on. Charlie excelled at school, won a gold medal, and earned a place at a top university in London. He was keen to follow in his dads scientific footsteps, though he chose a different field. Peter swelled with pride and kept bragging to colleagues, Look at that son, one day hell be a fellow of the Royal Society! Theyd tease, Maybe you should think about your own dissertation now.
Im too old for that, Peter would wave off.
Better late than never! Youve gathered enough data already. Dont let it go to waste, theyd reply.
One day Peter thought, why not? He started drafting his thesis while I hovered like a hen, dusting him off, making sure he didnt get distracted. He stopped doing the usual chores no taking out the rubbish, no reheating his soup I wouldnt even let him put a readymade dish in the microwave for fear it would pull his focus.
At first that care spurred him on; he burned the midnight oil, but progress was slow. Calculations needed redoing, tables reformatting. Frustration built, and his temper snapped at me.
Why do you keep making the same pea soup? he snapped when I set a bowl down.
Whats the big deal? I only made it yesterday; before that it was beef stew.
No, yesterday was definitely pea soup, he insisted.
Fine maybe the day before, I muttered, I do try to vary things, you know.
Try harder! he growled.
He began to act like a petulant child complaining about cold tea, about my ironing a shirt, about everything else. One evening, after a long day of sewing, I turned on my favourite cooking show.
Can you turn it down? he shouted through the door. I cant concentrate!
I lowered the volume, but somehow his voice still carried. Five minutes later he was at it again, I said turn it down!
I already did, Pete.
He snatched the remote, cranked the sound down to almost nothing. Your brains boiling from that rubbish TV!
Its my favourite programme! I hissed, trying to grab the remote back. What are you doing? Why did you mute it?
You can watch it without sound, he shrugged. Just the pictures, thats enough.
I want the sound!
The TVs screaming! You cant think with that on! You should watch something smarter, not this drivel.
Im exhausted, I just want to relax!
Relax? You dont even work. Youve just boiled some cutlets. Instead of watching TV, read a book. Maybe youd get a bit smarter.
I pressed my lips together, hurt again by his endless youre not bright enough mantra.
When Peter finally defended his thesis, things got worse. He kept saying I wasnt his intellectual equal, and that became a huge wedge between us.
—
One evening I botched a cherry pie Id overcooked it a bit, and Peter, already in a sour mood, flung a slice at me.
Whats this, charcoal? he shouted. The bottom was indeed blackened.
I got distracted, the dough stuck, it burned, I sighed. Id wanted that cherry pie so badly I ate the slightly burnt piece straight from the oven.
Why are you forgetting? Did a crow tell you? he jabbed.
Im swamped with a coat order, I muttered.
Instead of sewing, you should learn to cook properly, not burn pies. Those orders arent bringing in much. You should be reading more, expanding your mind.
Ive spent half my life sewing, I shot back, it brings in some money. Its modest, but its something. If I chased more orders, I could earn decently.
Who needs those ragged coats? No shops will stock them.
I use decent fabrics. In stores they cost the same, but the quality here is shoddy
And whos buying those sporty jumpers? You think youre opening a boutique for a bunch of teenagers?
My friends daughter suggested I start a line. Sportswear made from the fabrics I sew is pricey in shops now. I want to get a foothold.
Nothing more to add? he sneered, almost laughing. Looks like weve got a little entrepreneur.
My friend says
Your friends are clueless, just like you, he retorted. Read a book instead.
I finally snapped, Ill figure it out myself. Im not a girl anymore. If I want, Ill open my own workshop. Think I cant?
Im ninetyfive percent sure you cant.
What? Thanks for the confidence! I huffed, then turned to the ruined pie and said, If you dont like it, dont eat it. Wash the dishes yourself. Im a klutz with a peasized brain. Ill just read a book instead.
That night I set a goal: prove I could make it work, first for myself, then for Peter. My son was grown, I finally had the chance to do what Id missed out on in my youth.
I saved up a few pounds for advertising. My friends daughter offered to help post ads online. At first, business was slow.
Business not taking off? Peter teased. I stayed quiet.
Gradually orders trickled in mums on maternity leave, people who liked comfy clothes, ordering trousers or jumpers. The friends daughter took photos, even modelled the outfits herself, showing them on women of different ages and sizes. She handled client messages, socials, and promotion, taking a cut, which I didnt mind.
Business started to climb. Orders kept coming.
What, youre still at the sewing machine? Peter joked when he got home. Sure enough, I was stitching a batch of matching jumpers for a big family.
Foods in the fridge, I called. Heat it up yourself or need help?
He muttered something annoyed.
Working for myself felt right. The income wasnt steady every month, but it was growing, and the friends started saying, Soon youll be earning more than your husband. I didnt argue.
One night Peter came home to find only a plate of meatballs in the fridge.
No dinner? he asked, a bit hurt.
I only managed the meatballs, no sides. You could grab some bread or fry an egg if youre hungry.
He didnt even look at the sewing. He hovered over a jacket I was stitching, critiquing the seam.
You spend all your time on these frivolous things instead of feeding your husband.
I made the meatballs. If you cooked occasionally, nothing would be a problem. Ive got more work than you now, I replied. Why do I even need a wife like this? You sew tracksuits, yet you talk like a fashion model.
Your patronising comments are getting old, honestly. Stop distracting me; Im trying to write my dissertation, so dont get in the way.
Dont compare a dissertation to a few pieces of cloth.
Everyone does what theyre good at, I shrugged.
Peter might never have acknowledged my success if not for one night at the labs New Year party. I showed up in a dress Id sewn myself; it turned heads. Men complimented it, some women envied it, and younger lab techs asked for the shop link. When they asked where the dress came from, I proudly mentioned my tiny workshop and even pulled up my online store on my phone.
Your wifes a real businesswoman, a colleague joked to Peter, who stood looking dejected in the corner. Good, shell look after you in old age.
Seems weve got a business lady after all, Peter muttered, halfgrinning at how enthusiastically I talked about sewing.
From that night onward he became a bit more tolerant of my side hustle. When I hired a young seamstress as an assistant, he finally admitted my venture was now a proper business.
You doubted me, I said, smiling without any malice.
His pride grew, even if he never fully owned up to it. He stopped calling me uneducated or a klutz. He even started chopping potatoes for dinner when the fridge only held cutlets, and the dissertation no longer hung over his head like a cloud.
