Im the wife, Im expected to
What’s for dinner tonight? I ask, closing my eyes. My fingers hover over the laptop keyboard, and for a heartbeat I think that if I keep them shut the question will disappear on its own. It doesnt. I pull away from the screen, where dozens of tabs with work documents flash. David stands in the doorway, watching.
Did you open the fridge? he asks.
I nod.
And what?
Just there are some pots and containers, he says, shrugging.
The tension from the last few hours of work starts to turn into irritation.
So it didnt give you any idea? Like, that you should heat up the food? David frowns.
Why should I do it? Im home exhausted from work. And you cant even serve your own dinner? he snaps.
What do you think Im doing? I swivel the laptop toward him, the screen crowded with spreadsheets, slides and chat windows. Im working too, even if its from home. I get tired as well. Yet I found the time to make dinner. All you need to do is heat it and put it on a plate. Is that really that hard? My voice trembles on the last words. Im on the brink of a breakdown.
David stalks out, muttering under his breath, Shes become so bitter lazy she doesnt love me, doesnt value me
I grab the headphones from the table, crank up the music, and let his voice drown in the beat. I stare back at the screen, but I cant focus. Lines of a report swim before my eyes while my mind runs in circles. How did I end up here? When did things go wrong?
It used to be different. Very different. I always loved cooking; it was my small joy, a way to unwind after a long day. David and I used to joke that Id bewitched him with food.
On our third date the restaurant reservation fell througha glitch in the system gave the table to someone else. David was disappointed and apologized, but I suggested we go to my flat instead.
I fed him homemade lasagne, garlic bread and a fresh salad. He sat at my tiny kitchen table, tucking the food into his cheeks, eyes rolling with delight.
I think Im falling in love, he said, and I laughed.
After we moved in togetherDavid moved into my premarriage flatI cooked constantly: Frenchstyle meat, braised lamb, elaborate soups, weekend pies. He got used to it, so accustomed that he stopped noticing how much time and effort I poured into the kitchen. Back then I worked a ninetofive job with no control over my schedule. I came home exhausted, yet I still stood at the stove because I could see David waiting, his anticipation feeding me.
Now everything has changed. My career is soaring. Ive switched to remote work, earned a promotion, and now lead major projects. My schedule is tighter, responsibilities heavier. I simply dont have the energy to tend to David the way I used to. My meals are basic: chicken and rice, spaghetti with meatballs, vegetable stewstuff thats quick, filling, without fuss. Thats when David starts objecting. At first he drops hints, then outright complaints.
The past two months feel like hell. Im racing against a crucial deadline for a highprofile clienta project that determines my bonus and future promotion. I work twelvehour days, sometimes having to drive into the office to discuss revisions directly with senior management, rather than waste time on endless emails.
David is perpetually dissatisfied. The house isnt clean enough, the food is too simple, I spend too little time on him. Arguments break out over every little thing. He tries to force me into cooking elaborate dishes, throws tantrums over an untidy stovetop. I snap, I shout, I cry. We make up briefly, but the cycle repeats.
Finally the project is delivered. I feel squeezed like a lemon, every muscle aching with fatigue. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, barely able to blink, let alone cook or clean. I just want to lie there and think of nothing.
From the hallway comes the sound of Davids shoes. He walks into the bedroom a minute later, looking annoyed.
The fridge is empty. Whats for dinner? he says.
I turn my gaze slowly toward him.
There are frozen dumplings in the freezer, I reply softly.
I dont want dumplings! he grimaces. I want baked fish with vegetables.
The thought of getting out of bed hurts me almost physically. My body refuses to move, my brain refuses to cooperate.
You could order takeaway. Theyll bring whatever you want, I suggest.
Then why did I marry you? he asks sharply, his tone making me tense. I prop myself up on my forearm and look at him more closely.
So I can eat food delivered? he continues, voice rising. Cooking is a wifes duty. Youve become lazy lately. Ive tolerated it, but this is too much!
Something clicks inside me. Anger replaces fatiguehot, bright, giving me strength. I spring from the bed and shout:
Im not obligated! Wheres that written? Who signed it?
Im tired of eating whatever you throw at me! David yells back. Ive had enough!
So cook yourself! I step toward him. The kitchens over there! Im not stopping you!
Its your responsibility! Its a womans job! You must look after your husband! he insists.
Im exhausted! Ive been buried in work for two months! You never even wash your own plate! You never tidy up, never cook! Why should I be the only one caring for you while you sit on a readymade meal?
Davids face reddens.
Because Im a man! I bring home the money! he says.
I jab my finger into my chest.
And I bring home money too! Not less than yours! Yet you treat me like a servant!
Youre a bad wife! You dont know how to care for a family! he shouts.
Inside me the anger cools into a frosty calm.
Then find someone else! Find a woman who will serve you. Im done! I say.
David freezes for a moment.
What? I walk past him to the wardrobe, pull out his suitcase and start stuffing clothes inside.
You heard me. Leave. Right now. I say.
Eleanor, what are you doing?! he protests.
Leave! Im tired of being your servant. I want to be a partner, not a cook and cleaner. Since you cant see that, were not meant for each other. I stand firm, opening the door for him.
He cant believe whats happening. He tries to explain, to excuse himself, but Im unyielding. I see him out the door and refuse to let him back in.
A week passes. David calls every day, texts, begs for forgiveness, promises to change. I dont answer. I need time to think, to sort myself out.
I recall everything: how David never offered to help with the house, how he took my care for granted, how he devalued my exhaustion, how he assumed I must serve him simply because Im his wife. I realize hes been living off my shoulder, unaware of the burden.
He shows up again with flowers. I sigh, but we need to talk.
Im filing for divorce. I dont need you anymore. I tell him.
He looks baffled.
Why? I promised Id change!
I dont need promises. I needed a husband, not a servant. Youre the latter. Thats a different thing. I shake my head.
The divorce goes through quickly. The flat is mine, so theres nothing to split. David moves back in with his parents. I stay alone.
And it feels lighter. I start cooking again, but only for myself. I experiment with new recipes, revisit old favorites. I roast duck with apples just because I feel like it, I make elaborate desserts because they intrigue me. When Im wiped after work, I order a pizza and eat it straight from the box on the sofa while the television blares. No one judges me, no one demands anything. And that freedom feels wonderful.
