So you dont need much, do you?
It works out nicely! I save every penny for myself, Im a mystery to everyone, and now youre planning a restaurant for your birthday? Isnt that a bit over the top?
Tom, its a milestone. It should be memorable. Not every day you turn thirty, he replied.
And a month ago I celebrated what, a practice run? I had a decent party at home, and youll still be fine.
Emma stared at Tom with a scowl, hands planted on her hips. She was livid. It wasnt just that his fancy dinner would cost them a hundred quid. It was the feeling of being treated like a servantintraining or a poor relative on a shoestring.
Tom only confirmed her suspicion.
You said yourself you dont need much!
Emma froze, eyebrows arching. Sure, shed said that, but not from a place of comfort.
Right, she answered slowly. I said I could do without a new dress, bake the cake myself, do my own manipedi because I want to move into my own flat, Tom, not because I enjoy being penniless.
Tom pursed his lips, clearly not keen to dig deeper. He acted like a petulant teenager: want it and thats that, the rest can go to hell.
Youre only twentyeight. Youve got your whole life ahead. I, on the other hand, have a round number. I want this to be a proper celebration, not just a sitdown.
Emma lowered her gaze. Sitdown exactly how it felt.
She recalled spending a week planning the menu for her own birthday, hunting down cheap veg on clearance a bit wilted but still saladworthy scouring flyers for discount codes, comparing prices at the local supermarket chains. She baked a cake from an internet recipe, using sour cream and condensed milk, not because she loved homecooking but because it was cheaper.
Despite the scrimping, the day turned out fine. Guests smiled, praised the salads, devoured the homemade pizza. She smiled too, in her old dress with nails painted in a modest clear polish.
The cash gifts almost covered the expenses. Emma pretended to be satisfied, but later, alone in the bathroom, she broke down pity for herself, exhaustion, the endless need to stretch a dress, a hairstyle, a family celebration.
In the three years shed lived with Tom, saving had become her second name. She knew how to wring extra cashback from a loaf of bread, bought cheap processed cheese instead of a proper block, and could spot a genuine sale from a gimmick.
Clothes? As long as theyre clean and not ripped, who cares? All those looks, images, and brand names are for people hunting for the cheapest toothpaste, not for those trying to secure a roof of their own.
Yes, having my own flat is important, Tom said, trying to be supportive. Then you wont be tossed out on a whim, and you wont have to spend half your salary on rent.
The reality was that Toms contribution to the household budget was limited to his paycheck. That was something, but Emma had heard horror stories about couples with separate finances, and even more about women who had to scrape together maternity money. Tom treated money like a teenager ready to splurge on chips and fizzy drinks.
No wonder Emma was the one calculating the bills for utilities, transport, groceries. She trimmed expenses to stash a planned sum, booked haircuts with trainee stylists to stay within budget, and sometimes the outcome was shabby, but at least cheap.
They were inching toward their goal, but more like two solo runners on parallel tracks. Emma never complained to Tom about the effort, kept silent when he ordered a pizza for lunch because he was too lazy to go to the canteen and wanted a treat.
You know, Tom I really dont need much, Emma turned away. Just a bit of genuine respect. I dont like scrimping, but I do it because Im thinking about our future together. Sometimes it feels like we have no future at all.
I work, Tom snapped, irritated. I bring home the money. What else do you want? Im not denied a celebration, am I?
Seeing she wasnt open to compromise, he retreated to the bedroom. Emma stayed in her cheap robe, under the single working bulb of the chandelier, thoughts drifting to a mortgage they were unlikely to reach at this pace.
Her heart throbbed with pain and doubt. Could she be overreacting? Was Tom right?
The next day she met her friend Lucy. Emma needed a sounding board.
Listen, I can see you didnt come over just to admire the linoleum pattern, Lucy noted, spotting Emmas gloom. Whats up?
Emma sighed, laid her hands on the table, and summed up yesterdays argument. She explained how it hurt when a shared dream was funded by only one side, how Tom placed his own anniversary above her birthday.
Youre clever, Ill give you that, Lucy smirked after Emma finished. So youre saving on yourself and expect him to carry you on his shoulders?
Well, were saving Emma began.
Yes, yes, Lucy cut in. You save, he spends. Does he ever deny himself anything? Does he ever thank you for the sacrifices?
Emma shrugged. Tom wasnt ungrateful; he just thought thats how things should be, that domestic magic takes care of itself.
Does he know how much being a woman costs? Lucy pressed on. Manicures, pedicures, hair, waxing, decent lingerie, not grannys bloomers Thats just the basics. Are you his lady or his convenient mum in a stretchedout robe who does all the counting, organising, and doing?
Stop Emma tried to protest, wavering.
I wont stop. Want me to tell you why hes so keen on the restaurant? Because he knows youll bend. Youll wear ripped socks, stop dyeing your hair with cheap colour, but youll still give in. And hell feel like a king. After all, its an anniversary at a restaurant.
So what do I do? Emma asked, flustered.
Stop being the perpetual nicegirl. Find a lover with a flat. That would solve everything.
Lucy!
Fine, fine. Spareplan. Stop cutting yourself short. He wants a restaurant? Let him. But you need a dress, shoes, a proper bag, a decent hairstyle, and gold earrings to match. If youre going out, go allout. You wont show up in a tracksuit with stretchedout knees.
The dress is easy. I can still squeeze into my graduation gown
Emma, are you even listening? Enough of the selfstarvation!
Emma exhaled. Switching gears wasnt easy, but she knew Lucy had a point.
Alright. Ill try
That morning Emma told Tom she needed to book a salon appointment manicure, haircut, styling. He was surprised but shrugged.
Later she showed him a pair of shoes she liked.
Look, black, versatile. Goes with almost any dress, and you can wear them again later.
Eight hundred pounds?! Emma, I could upgrade my computer for that!
What can I do? Its my birthday, I have to look decent. Its a restaurant, after all. Youll miss out on a present, but the anniversary will be unforgettable. By the way, Ive already scoped a boutique; youll drive me there and well pick a dress together.
Tom grunted, didnt argue. Perhaps he hoped shed change her mind. She didnt. By evening she was already eyeing earrings in front of him.
How about these? Cute, and cheap twenty pounds. Others of the same weight cost thirty. Well need a clutch to match, but thats after the dress.
Toms eyes widened as he did a quick mental tally, swallowed hard, went pale and muttered:
Maybe we should scrap the restaurant a night in works too.
Emma just smiled. They settled on a quiet family gathering. Did they make up? Not entirely. Did he grasp anything? Perhaps. What Emma realised, crystalclear, was that if you dont respect yourself, nobody else will.
