Do you really need all that? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I stared across the kitchen table at Emma.
Exactly how convenient it is! Im scrimping every penny for myself, wandering about like I own the place, and you want to spend a fortune on a restaurant for our anniversary? Isnt that a bit over the top? she snapped, her hands planted firmly on her hips.
Emma, its a milestone. He should feel it. You dont turn thirty every day, I retorted, a hint of irritation creeping in.
And what about a month ago? Was that just a fake celebration? I managed a decent party at home and you didnt flinch, she shot back, her eyes narrowing.
Emma glowered at me, her face a storm of frustration. It wasnt just the fact that my birthday plans would set us back about a hundred pounds. She felt, on the stark contrast, like a servant or a penniless relative.
I merely confirmed her suspicion.
Youve always said you dont need much, I muttered.
She froze, eyebrows rising. Yes, there had been a point, but those words never came from a place of comfort.
Right, Emma said slowly. I said I could do without a new dress, I could bake the cake myself, I could do my own nails and pedicure without a salon. Because I want to finally move into my own flat, not because I enjoy living in a cellar.
I pursed my lips, clearly not eager to dissect the heart of the matter. I acted like a petulant teenager: I want it my way and thats final.
Youre only twentyeight. Youve got your whole life ahead. Im at a round number and I want this to feel like a proper celebration, not just a quiet night in.
Emma lowered her gaze. A quiet night in exactly how its turned out.
She recalled the week shed spent planning her birthday menu, ticking off ingredients, hunting for bargains. She bought vegetables on clearance a few wilted, but still usable for a salad. She scoured coupons, compared prices, even baked a cake from an online recipe using sour cream and condensed milk, not because she loved cooking, but because it was cheaper.
Despite the thrift, the birthday went off nicely. Guests smiled, praised the salads, devoured the homemade pizza. She smiled too, in her old dress, nails painted with cheap clear polish.
The cash gifts covered most of the costs. Emma pretended she was content, but later, alone in the bathroom, tears streamed down her face from selfpity, exhaustion, and the constant need to stretch everything: the dress, the hair, the family celebrations.
In the three years wed lived together, frugality had become her second name. She knew how to wring extra cash back on a loaf, bought cheap processed cheese instead of proper Cheddar, and could spot a genuine discount from a gimmick.
Clothing? As long as it was clean and holefree, she didnt care about looks, image or brand names. Those were luxuries for people hunting for the cheapest toothpaste, not for those desperate to have a place of their own.
Having our own flat is important, I said, trying to be supportive. Then you wont be pushed around on a whim, and you wont have to spend half your salary on rent.
But my contribution to the household budget was limited to handing over my paycheck. That was, admittedly, some amount. Couples with separate finances frightened Emma, as did women who had to save for maternity leave. I handled money like a teenager whod rather spend it on chips and soda than on bills.
It wasnt surprising; Emma was the one calculating utilities, transport, groceries. She trimmed expenses to stash a planned sum, booked haircuts with apprentices to stay under budget, and sometimes the outcomes were poor, but always cheap.
We were inching toward our goal, but it felt like we were walking sidebyside rather than handinhand. Emma never told me how much effort it cost her, never complained, never nagged. She stayed silent when I ordered a pizza for lunch just because Im too lazy to go to the canteen and want to treat myself.
Jack I really dont need much, Emma finally said, averting her eyes. Just a bit of basic human respect. I dont like scrimping, but I do it because Im thinking about our future together. Sometimes I feel we have no future at all.
I work, Emma, I snapped, irritation flaring. I bring the money home. What more do you want? Do I not have the right to a celebration?
Seeing I wasnt in a compromising mood, I retreated toward the bedroom. Emma was left alone in her cheap robe, the only lamp in the chandelier flickering, thoughts of a mortgage wed never afford at this pace swirling in her mind.
Her heart throbbed with pain and doubt. Was she really overreacting? Was I right?
The next day she met her friend Claire for coffee. Emma needed someone to talk to.
Listen, I can see you didnt come over just to admire the linoleum patterns, Claire said, noticing Emmas gloom. Whats happened?
Emma sighed, placed her hands on the table, and recounted yesterdays row. She explained how it hurt when a joint dream was funded by only one person, how my birthday seemed to outweigh hers.
Emma, youre clever, thats for sure, Claire smiled after Emma finished. So youre cutting back on yourself and expecting me to carry you?
Emma started, Well, were saving
Exactly, Claire cut in. You save, I splurge. Does he ever have to deny himself something? Does he ever thank you for all this?
Emma shrugged. Her husband wasnt ungrateful; he just believed this was how things ought to be, that domestic magic would sort itself out.
Does he know what it costs to be a woman? Claire pressed on. Manicures, pedicures, hair, waxing, decent lingerie, not grannys petticoats Thats just the baseline. Are you his partner or his convenient mum in a threadbare robe, the one who does all the counting, organising, doing?
Stop Emma tried to protest, lacking confidence.
I wont stop. Want the truth about why hes so eager to splurge on a restaurant? Because he knows youll bend. Youll wear out your shoes, stop dyeing your hair with cheap colour, but youll still cave. Hell feel like a king after all, its a milestone dinner.
What am I supposed to do? Emma asked, flustered.
Stop being such a doormat. Find a boyfriend with a flat. That would solve everything. Claire laughed.
Claire!
Fine, fine, backup plan. Stop cutting yourself short. He wants a restaurant? Let him. But you need a dress, shoes, a proper clutch, a good hairstyle, and gold earrings to match. If youre going out, dont show up in a tracksuit with stretchedout knees.
Getting a dress is easy. I still have my schoolleavers gown
Emma, are you listening? Stop skimping on yourself!
Emma exhaled, realizing the switch would be tough, but she acknowledged Claire had a point.
Alright. Ill give it a try
That morning Emma told me she needed to book a salon appointment manicure, haircut, styling. I was surprised, but just shrugged.
Later she showed me a pair of shoes she liked.
Look, black, versatile. Theyll go with almost any dress, and I can wear them later too.
Eight hundred pounds? Emma, I could upgrade my computers memory for that! I blurted.
Its my birthday, I have to look decent. Were going to a restaurant, after all. Ive already picked a boutique; take me there, well choose the dress together.
I huffed but didnt argue, perhaps hoping shed change her mind. She didnt. By evening she was already eyeing earrings.
How about these? Theyre nice and cheap only two hundred pounds. Others of the same weight run thirtyplus. Ill need a clutch to match, but that comes after the dress.
I could see the calculations flashing in his eyes, a nervous gulp, a pale face, and a mutter:
Maybe we should just skip the restaurant home is fine too.
Emma just smiled. We settled on a quiet family celebration after all. Did we reconcile? Not completely. Did I understand anything? Perhaps a little. But Emma finally realised that if she doesnt respect herself, no one else will.
