You need a housekeeper, not a wife.
Mum, Rosies chewed my pencil again!
Sophie burst into the kitchen clutching the sorry remains of a coloured pencil, hotly pursued by Rosie the guilty Labrador, thumping her tail eagerly. Jane glanced up from the hob, where a soup bubbled and sausages sizzled in protest. A third pencil that day.
Pop it in the bin and get a new one from the drawer. Oliver, have you finished your maths?
Almost! drifted the reply from the lounge.
Jane knew that almost from her twelve-year-old meant he was on his phone, the exercise book beside him untouched. Still, she had sausages to tend, soup to stir, four-year-old Jacob to catch before he reached the dogs bowl, and the laundry spinning away in the machine that mustnt be forgotten.
Thirty-two years old, three children, one husband, a mother-in-law, a Labrador, and herselfthe lone functioning cog in the entire contraption.
Jane rarely fell ill. Not through robust health, but for the simple reason that she couldnt afford to. Who would cook the meals? Ready the children for school? Walk Rosie? The answer was always the same: no one.
Jane, is supper ready yet?
Mrs. Thomas appeared in the doorway, leaning on her walking stick. Eighty-five, quick-witted and with a healthy appetite.
In five years of living together, Jane could count on one hand the number of times the old woman had lifted a finger to help around the house.
Ten minutes, Mrs. Thomas, Jane replied.
The old lady nodded and shuffled to the sitting room. Sometimes, though not often, shed settle Jacob to sleep with a storyJack and the Beanstalk or Goldilocksher selection was meagre, but Jacob listened with wide-eyed delight. The rest of the time, Mrs. Thomas watched her soaps and awaited her next meal.
The clock on the wall displayed half-past five as the lock clicked. David stepped through the door, shouldering the weariness of a marathon runner.
Is dinner ready?
No greeting. Jane gestured at the laid table. David passed to the loo, washed his hands, and took his place. The television sprang onthe remote seemed a permanent feature of his hand.
Today Sophie got top marks in reading, Jane tried.
Mhm, he muttered.
And Oliver needs help with his science project.
Mhm.
That mhm was all she could expect. When supper was done, David relocated to the sofa. His workday was over, his mission complete. Hed brought home the moneynothing more was his concern.
Later, when the children slept, Jane opened her laptop. Remote work for an online shopprocessing orders, replying to customers, arranging deliveries. Not much, but it was her own. Plus, the rent from a flat shed let out these past four years.
We should move, flickered the usual thought. But then the ordinary objections: Oliver was settled in his school, Sophie used to her nursery, loss of rental income Jane closed the laptop. Tomorrow. Shed think on it tomorrow.
December brought not only festive bustle but flu. Her temperature soared to thirty-nine degrees in just hours. She ached, her throat was aflame, her head pounding. Jane barely made it to bed.
Mum, youre poorly, Oliver declared, popping his head into her room.
David followed, sporting a look of vague concern, but it was clear his worry wasnt for her.
Just dont make Nan sick. At her age, flus a serious matter.
Jane closed her eyes. Of courseMrs. Thomas. How could she forget.
The next three days were a feverish blur. High temperature, a drenched pillow, parched lips. In all that time nobodynot her husband, nor mum-in-law, nor childrenbrought her a glass of water. The kettle was in the kitchenten steps awaybut Jane took those ten steps alone, bracing herself against the wall.
Everyone was only worried for Mrs. Thomas. Dont go into Mummys room, shes ill. Wear a mask when you pass her door. Maybe she should sleep somewhere else? Shethat is, Janewas now the houses source of infection, a thing from which more important family members must be shielded.
A week on, the virus made the rounds. Jacob firstsnuffly, hot and whiny; then Sophie. David ostentatiously retired to bed with a low fever. Mrs. Thomas went last, making the grandest show of it all.
Not even well herself, Jane rose. Chicken broth, chemist, thermometer, a mop, the laundry as ever. The same old routine, but her legs felt like rubber.
David, please mind Jacob for an hourneed to go to the chemist.
Her husband rolled his eyes tragically, but agreed. Sixty minutes latershed timed ithe returned Jacob to her.
Im tired. Ive a bit of a temperature too.
Thirty-six point eightJane checked.
Spring proved no friendlier. Another virus, more poorly children, endless sleepless nights. Jacob fretful, Sophie refused her medicine, Mrs. Thomas demanded special meals. And in the middle of chaosa perfectly healthy David.
David, help with the children, please?
Jane, I helped last timeon the weekend. This is during the week and Im shattered from work.
He shruggeda simple gesture, speaking volumes. In the evenings, he sat at table, awaiting dinner. Sick children, an exhausted wife, the flat in disarraynot his problem.
One evening, as Jacob finally slept and the older ones did their homework, Jane approached. The TV was buzzing away with a football match.
Why wont you help me? Why is it you never help me?
David didnt look up. Didnt answer. Only turned the volume up.
Jane stood there a long moment, staring at the back of his head. Everything was crystal clear, even in silence.
The next day, she retrieved the big bags from the wardrobe. Childrens clothes, toys, documents. Oliver froze in the doorway.
Mum, are we going somewhere?
To Grandma Lilys.
For long?
Well see.
Sophie squealed with joyGrandma Lily always made her favourite pies. Jacob, not understanding but just in case, dragged his stuffed bunny along.
In the last minute, she remembered another crucial family memberRosie the Labrador. She would go too.
David lay on the sofa. Bags, packed things, children in coatsnone of it pulled him from the telly. When Jane closed the door behind her, he probably just changed the channel.
Lily Turner took in her daughter and grandchildren with no fuss. She fed them, hugged them. Fifty-eight years old, a teacher for three decadesshe understood well enough without a word.
Stay as long as you need.
On the third day, the phone began to ring. David.
Jane, come back. The house is a tip. Theres nothing to eat. Your mothers always nagging.
No I miss you. No Im lost without you. Only the discomforts of life upturned.
David, you need a housekeeper, not a wife.
What? Wheres this coming from
Did you even once say you missed the children?
A silence stretchedlong, telling.
I brought home the money, he said at last, What else do you want?
Jane ended the call. It was finished, and the relief was strange but real.
A fortnight later, Janes tenants moved out of her flat. The move took a day. New school for Oliver, new nursery for Sophieit transpired such things were easier than she imagined.
Their final conversation was just thatfinal. All the unspoken hurts, all the sleepless nights spent alone with ill childrenonce dammed, now spilled out.
Twelve years as an unpaid servant! Jane raged down the line. Not oncedo you hear? Not once did you ask how I felt, or even how I was! Ive had enough!
She blocked his number. And filed for divorce.
Court lasted twenty minutes. David didnt object. He signed the child support forms, nodded to the judge, and left. Maybe something dawned on him, but more likely, he too was simply tired of struggling.
That evening, Jane sat in the kitchen of their familiar-yet-new home. Oliver read in his room. Sophie drew at the table, tongue between her teeth in concentration. Jacob played with his blocks on the rug.
Quiet. Peaceful. Rosie curled up at her feet, muzzle on her paws.
There was still supper to make, cleaning to do, work in the evenings. But now she did it for those who truly were her family. And shed make sure to raise them to be better, kinder, not to grow up like their father.
MumSophie looked up from her drawingyou smile more now.
Jane smiled again. Sophie was right.
