27April
Ive been turning this argument over in my head all day, and writing it down feels like the only way to make sense of it.
Mark kept insisting that for his 30th birthday he wanted to treat us to a dinner out at a nice restaurant in town. Its a milestone, he said, it should be a night to remember. I tried to argue that we could celebrate at home, that I could bake a cake and make everything myself, but he waved it off. Youre being cheap, he muttered, as if a simple restaurant meal worth about £120 were an extravagance.
I stared at him, hands on my hips, feeling the fury rise. It wasnt just the moneythough the bill would have been a few hundred poundsthat hurt. It was the way I felt reduced to a servant, a pennypincher, while he floated on his own terms.
Remember you said you didnt need much? Mark snapped, quoting my own words from months ago. I froze, eyebrows twitching. Yes, I had said that, but not from a place of comfort. I had said it because we were barely getting by, because I was saving every pound for a flat of my own, not because I liked living on the edge.
He tightened his lips, looking away as if the conversation were too messy to sort through. He behaved like a petulant teenager: I want this, and thats that. He didnt care about the rest of the picture.
Youre only twentyeight, youve got your whole life ahead, he said. Im turning thirty, I want a proper celebration, not just a cosy night in.
I lowered my eyes. A cosy night inyes, thats how it had been. Id spent a whole week planning a menu for my own birthday, hunting down cheap vegetables on clearance, assembling a list of ingredients from flyers and discount codes. Id baked a cake from an online recipe, using cheap cream and condensed milk, not because I loved to bake but because it saved money. The day turned out fine: the guests smiled, praised the salads, and devoured the homemade pizza. I wore an old dress, my nails coated in a thin coat of inexpensive clear polish. The cash gifts covered most of the costs, and I pretended to be pleased. Yet, later, alone in the bathroom, tears fellpart selfpity, part exhaustion, part the relentless need to stretch every pound for a dress, a hairstyle, a family celebration.
Three years with Mark have taught me that frugality is practically my second name. I can squeeze extra cashback on a loaf of bread, pick the cheapest processed cheese over a proper block, and spot a genuine sale from a fake one. Clothes? As long as theyre clean and dont have holes, I dont care about trends or labels. Those looks and brands are luxuries for people who can afford to think about toothpaste cost. What I really want is my own flatMark even agrees, saying, From there you wont be chased around on a whim, and we wont have to spend half our salaries on rent.
But his contribution to the household budget is limited to his paycheck. He never helps with the bills, the transport, the groceries. He treats finances like a teenager who can splurge on chips and fizzy drinks. I calculate the utility bills, the bus passes, the food costs, and I trim everything to stash a little away for a deposit. I book haircuts with trainee stylists to stay within the limit. Sometimes it works poorly, but its cheap.
Were both inching toward that goal, but it feels like were walking sidebyside rather than together. I never tell Mark how much effort this all takes; I dont whine, I just stay silent when he orders pizza for lunch because hes lazy and wants a treat.
Mark, I finally said, I really dont need much. Just a bit of simple respect. I dont enjoy scrimping, but I do it because Im thinking about our future. Sometimes I wonder if we even have a future.
What about you? I bring home the money. What else do you want? Dont I have the right to a celebration? he snapped, then retreated to the bedroom, leaving me in my cheap nightgown under the single working bulb of the chandelier, dreaming of a mortgage well never reach at this pace.
The next morning I met my friend Rachel for coffee. I needed someone to hear me out.
You didnt come over just to admire the linoleum, Rachel said, noticing my gloom. Whats wrong?
I told her the whole scene. I explained how it felt to invest in a shared dream while only one of us was paying. How his birthday seemed to outweigh my own anniversary.
Rachel smirked. So youre saving on yourself and expect him to carry you on his shoulders?
Its about saving I began.
No, its about you saving while he spends. Does he ever have to deny himself anything? Does he ever thank you for what you do? she asked sharply.
I shrugged. He isnt ungrateful; he just thinks this is how things should be, that the household magic runs itself.
Do you think he knows what it costs to be a woman? Rachel pressed. Manicures, pedicures, hair, waxing, decent underwearnot grannys knickers. Thats the bare minimum. Are you his partner or just the convenient mum in a threadbare robe who handles all the numbers?
I tried to protest, but my voice shook.
She continued, He says restaurant because he knows youll bend over backwards. Youll wear cheaper hair dye, maybe even tear your socks, but youll still give in. Hell feel like a king because its his milestone. What are you going to do?
Stop being such a pushover, she said. Find yourself a lover with a flatjust kidding. But stop skimping on yourself. If he wants a restaurant, fine, let it happen. But you need a dress, shoes, a clutch, a proper blowdry, even a pair of modest earrings. You cant go to a fancy dinner in a tracksuit with stretchedout knees.
I sighed. It was a lot to swallow at once, but part of me knew she was right.
That afternoon I told Mark I needed to book a salon appointmentfor a manicure, a haircut, a style. He looked surprised but shrugged. Later I showed him a pair of sleek black shoes.
Eight hundred pounds? I could upgrade my laptop for that! he muttered.
Its my birthday, I replied. I have to look presentable. Its a restaurant, after all. Ive already picked a boutique; you can drive me there and well choose a dress together.
He grunted but said nothing. By evening I was already picking out earrings.
How about these? I asked, holding up a modest pair. Only twenty pounds, cheap compared to the others.
He paled, his eyes flicking to his phone as if doing mental maths.
Maybe we should just stay home, he whispered.
I smiled faintly. We settled on a quiet family celebration. Did we truly make up? Not completely. Did he understand anything? Perhaps a little. What Ive learned is clear: if I dont respect myself, no one else will.
