Send Michael back to his mothers house, I snapped.
We live like weve never learned how, Michael shouted, eyes blazing. You know what drives me mad here? That youre happy with everything!
Whats wrong, love? I asked calmly, but the tremor in his left eye made me smile cruelly.
Cause yesterday I forgot the toilet isnt where it should be in a proper houseits smack in the middle of the bath. I knocked my knee into the cistern and now Ive got a bruise the size of your little makeup bag!
What makeup bag, dear? I stretched the words, watching his eye twitch. The tiny one for lipstick? Or the big one where you keep my nailpolish tools I havent used in two months because every penny disappears into your manly whims?
He muttered something, and the question died there.
God, how did we end up like this? Four months ago I was the happiest bride in England. I had Michaelhandsome, clever, dependable, or so I thought. I owned a flat in a brandnew tower block that needed a full refurbishment, bought with the proceeds from selling my grandmothers cramped twobedroom in the city centre.
What could have gone wrong? Everything. Absolutely everything.
It began when my prince on a white horse turned, in record time, into a professional whiner on the sofa.
Listen, love, Michael said, twisting his face into a grimace that distorted his good looks. Normal people finish the renovation before they move in. Not live in a concrete box like some
Like who, Michael? I pressed, feeling righteous fury rise. Like people who cant afford a £500amonth flat while the walls are being ripped out? Or what else?
He flushed. The truth was, for the past two weeks hed been crashing at his mothers spacious threebedroom council house, inherited after his late fathers untimely death.
Three months earlier hed quit his job and was now actively seeking work. In practice that meant scrolling through vacancies and attending a weekly interview, while most of his days were spent glued to his computer playing video games.
His mother, oblivious to her precious son loafing about, fed him the same excuses shed given me: the economy was in a slump, good jobs were scarce, he wasnt cut out for manual labour, and so on. Hed settled for a comfortable excuse.
Michael fell silent, and I pressed on.
Hows your mums place? Comfortable?
His face hardened.
My mother? What does that have to do with me? he snapped, and I knew my favorite refrain was about to begin. She just she worries about me! You should have seen her yesterday, upset because I told her weve been washing in a bucket for two weeksstill cant get the shower fixed!
We cant get it fixed? I shouted. We? Or someone who swore they could finish the whole job with their own two hands? Someone who claims to know how to wield a drill?
It seemed Id hit the sore spot: the entire renovation fell on my shoulders. I was the one with the drill, not him. Michaels contribution was to pop to the shop for a bag of chips. Cooking? He didnt know the first thing about it.
He opened his mouth to answer, but I cut him off.
Tell me, who thought putting the toilet in the middle of the bath was a good idea? Who was too lazy to read the plumbing plans?
At that moment Milo, my tabby, brushed past the windowsill table, nudging the commemorative mug Id bought for the housewarming. It shattered onto the floor, splintering into pieces.
I stared at the broken porcelain, certain it was a sign.
Michael, I said evenly, you really shouldnt be living in those awful conditions. Go back to your mums right now.
You youre kicking me out? Michael raised an eyebrow.
Im freeing you from misery.
I swung open the new front door, relieved that at least wed managed to replace the rickety old one that had barely held together on a handshake.
My mum will cook you a proper dinner, iron your shirts, wash your socks even install the toilet where it belongs! Ill manage on my own.
Michael tried a condescending smile, which turned into a grimace somewhere between a snarl and a sourlemon grimace.
Enough, Gwendolyn, he protested. Dont make a fool of me. I cant manage without you!
Why do you think that? I retorted, a smirk playing on my lips. Ive been doing this renovation alone for two months while youve been commuting to mums to whine about life. Yesterday I wired the washing machine myselfwatched three YouTube tutorials and got it working. You cant even follow a simple instruction sheet.
Fine, Michael laughed. She got the washing machine working thats a heroic feat. Any child could do that!
If a child can, why cant you? I shot back.
I didnt I couldnt! he began, his voice cracking.
Just didnt want to, didnt you? I pressed. What do you actually want, Michael? To sit on the sofa and criticize? To tell my mother Im a terrible partner because I force you to live in inhuman conditions?
He opened his mouth again, but I cut him off.
And if you complain to your mum again that Im starving you, Ill tell her the truthhow youre looking for work while you spend every spare minute shooting pixels in teenagestyle shooters, with no renovation, chores, or responsibilities at all.
Now the threats are out, Michael sighed. Alright, Ill go to mums. When youve cooled down well talk.
No talk, I said. Ive already said everything. Pack your things, say goodbye to your mother. Shell be thrilled.
Realising I wasnt bluffing, Michael smirked and began gathering his few belongings. It didnt take long.
Thank heavens I never married you, he muttered, as if that would ease the pain. Youd have driven me mad, and wed have ended up in court.
Exactly, I replied. So off you go. Safe travels. Milo and I will manage.
Ha! he laughed. Milo! Living with a cat is the sort of fate reserved for people like you. Wait, youll have a zoo of cats soonforty of them!
When he left, Milo hopped onto my lap, rubbing his head against my hand. I lifted him gently and pressed a kiss to his soft crown.
Alright, little chap, youre the man of the house now. Well get through this, wont we? Milo blinked both eyes, as if to say yes.
