It’s your own fault, Mum, Emily snapped, pausing at the doorway.
Anne was frying meatballs when the doorbell rang. She slipped out of the kitchen, apron still clinging to her waist.
Mom, Ill get it, her daughter called, voice cutting the hallway.
Fine, I didnt know Anne muttered.
Why are you standing there? Go on, keep cooking those meatballs, Emily said irritably, glancing back at her mother.
My meatballs? I bought the mince for them Anne protested.
Mum, close the door, Emily rolled her eyes.
If youd just said something earlier, Anne replied, retreating to the kitchen and pulling the door shut behind her. She turned off the gas under the pan, slipped off her apron, and left the room.
In the hallway, Emily threw on her jacket. Beside her stood Ian, Emilys boyfriend, watching her with a lovers intensity.
Hello, Ian. Where are you off to? Come have dinner with us, Anne called from the kitchen.
Good evening, Ian smiled, looking at Emily with a questioning glance.
Were in a hurry, Emily replied, not meeting her mothers eyes.
Maybe youll eat after all? Everythings ready, Anne repeated, hopeful.
Ian hesitated.
No! Emily snapped. Lets go. She grabbed Ians arm, opened the front door. Mum, could you close it?
Anne lingered at the threshold, leaving a crack ajar as voices drifted from the street.
Why are you so rude? It smells delicious, I wouldnt mind a meatball, a neighbour called from the pavement.
Lets grab a bite at the café. Im fed up with your meatballs, Emily muttered.
Theyre my favourite. I could eat Mums meatballs every day, Ian said, grinning.
Anne could not make out what Emily answered. The voices on the stairs faded.
She shut the door fully and slipped back into the living room where Brian, her husband, lounged in front of the TV.
Brian, lets have dinner while its hot, she urged.
Right, he rose, following her to the kitchen and taking a seat at the table.
Whats on the menu? he demanded.
Rice with meatballs, a salad, Anne replied, lifting the sizzling pan.
You know I never eat fried meatballs, Brian complained.
I added a splash of water, theyre almost steamed, she said, holding the lid aloft.
Fine, have it. But this is the last time.
At our age, losing weight is dangerous, Anne warned, plating the rice and meatballs for him.
At what age? Im only fiftyseven. This is the prime of a mans life, Brian retorted, spearing a meatball and taking a bite.
Are you all conspirators today? Emily has run off, youre acting like a child. Im done cooking. Lets see how youll manage without me. Think the café is better?
Dont cook then. You could lose a few stones; you wont fit through the door any more, Brian finished his meal, reaching for another meatball.
Excuse me? Anne flared. Do you think Im fat? Ive given everything, yet you treat me like a servant.
Just let me eat in peace, Brian muttered, poking at his rice, then demanded, Pass the ketchup.
Anne fetched the bottle, slammed it on the table, and left the kitchen, her own plate untouched.
She locked herself in Emilys bedroom, dropping onto the sofa, tears welling up.
I cook, I try, and they just No gratitude. He looks younger, flirts with other women. Im the fat one. My daughter treats me like staff. If Im retired, can they just walk over me? Id still work if they hadnt downsized. Experience isnt wanted, they want fresh faces. What can the young possibly do?
I get up before everyone, even though Im not working, just to make breakfast. I spin around all day, never a moment to sit. Its my own fault for spoiling myself. Theyve perched on my neck and gone on their merry way.
She wiped the salty trails from her cheeks, trying not to sob. She had always believed her family was decent, not perfect, but solid. Emily was at university, doing well. Brian didnt drink, didnt smoke, brought home a steady income. The house was cosy, the food tasty. What more could they want?
Anne stared at the mirror on the wardrobe door, scrutinising herself. Yes, Ive put on a few pounds, but Im not massive. The wrinkles hide behind round cheeks. Ive always loved food. I cook well. They just dont need it any more. When I worked, I styled hair, curled it. Now I tie it back so it doesnt get in the way. Why should I be fussing over heels and hair? I should lose weight, perhaps dye my hair.
She sat on the bed, lost in thought.
The next morning she lingered in bed, pretending to sleep. Im retired. I can stay in bed a little longer. Let them make their own breakfast, she murmured.
The alarm buzzed; she shifted and faced the wall.
You alright? Sick? Brian asked without sympathy.
Yeah, Anne whispered, burying her face in the blanket.
Mum, are you ill? Emily called from the hallway.
Go have breakfast yourselves, Annes voice drifted out, weak.
Emily snorted, stormed to the kitchen. Soon the kettle whistled, the fridge door slammed, muffled voices rose. Anne stayed under the covers, playing the sick role to the end.
Brian entered, a trace of expensive cologne lingeringshe had bought it for herself once. He and Emily left one after another, the house fell silent. Anne lifted the blanket, closed her eyes, and fell asleep.
An hour later she awoke, stretched, and shuffled to the kitchen. Dirty mugs sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table. She considered cleaning, then decided, Im not a maid. She headed for a shower, then called an old school friend.
Emma! Its been ages. How are you? Not too tired of retirement?
Anne laughed, explaining she missed being out, that she hadnt visited her parents grave in years.
Come over, Id love that. When?
Just now, Im heading to the station.
Great, Ill start the pies.
Anne packed a small bag, tidied the kitchen, left a note that shed be staying with Emma for a few days.
On the way to the station she hesitated, wondering if she was being too bold. If there are no tickets, Ill go back, she thought. The bus queue stretched, and she sighed, slipping in at the back.
Emma welcomed her with a hug, tea, and warm pies.
Tell me everything, Emma urged.
Anne poured out the chaos at homeher husbands criticisms, Emilys sharpness, her own feelings of being invisible.
Exactly. Let them have their drama. Turn off your phone for a bit, Emma suggested.
Is that too extreme? Anne asked.
Just right. Tomorrow well hit the salon, give you a new look. Youll see Paul thereremember him from school? Hes a stylist now.
That night Anne tossed and turned, worrying, Will they be angry? Will they think Ive changed?
At the salon Paul greeted her warmly, brushed her hair, shaped her brows, trimmed her. Anne nearly fell asleep in the chair, the lights buzzing. Paul insisted on makeup; Emma coaxed her to stay the course.
When Anne finally looked in the mirror, she barely recognised the vibrant woman staring backyouthful, confident.
No more, I cant take any more, she begged.
Okay, well book you for eight tomorrow morning. Dont be late, Paul warned.
Look at you now! Who would have guessed? Emma gushed as they left.
Can we go shopping later?
Not another time, Anne protested.
Come on, love, a new hairstyle needs a new outfit, Emma pulled her toward the mall.
Anne emerged in loose trousers, a light sweater, and a sandcoloured cardigan, carrying bags with a sleek dress, a jacket, and a box of shoes. She felt younger, slimmer, more alive.
Outside Emmas house, a tall, silverhaired man with dark moustache approached.
Hello, ladies, he said, eyeing Anne. You look smashing.
Anne stared, bewildered.
Thats Pete Hawkins, Emma whispered. He was your classmate, skinny back then.
Pete? Anne repeated.
Yes, hes a retired colonel, turned veterancharity worker. Hes back after a serious injury. He limps a bit now.
They invited Anne to a bottle of wine at Emmas place, reminiscing about school. Anne blushed, half from the wine, half from the attention.
Hes still in love with you, Emma said as Pete left.
Stop it. Its been years, Anne muttered.
How long has it been? Emma asked.
Enough that you could fall for you again, Emma teased, Lets try that dress.
A few days later, Annes phone rang.
Mum, Dads in hospital! Come quickly, Emily shouted.
Annes heart raced. She hurriedly packed, and Pete offered her a lift to the station.
Anna, Im here if you need anything, he said.
She called Emily from the bus.
Dad was cheating. I saw him leaving the neighbours flat, asked me not to tell you. Hes hurt, had a broken rib and a brain bleed, but the ambulance got him in time.
Anne listened, stunned, realizing she had almost walked away. She drove home, arriving late night, the hospital already closed.
Your mother youve changed so much, Emily said the next morning, her tone softer, respectful.
I was scared youd leave, that youd find someone else, Anne confessed.
No one else. I just wanted to teach you both a lesson. You stopped seeing me as a person.
Sorry, Mum, but youre to blame. You retired, stopped looking after yourself, turned into a old woman. Do you think Dad will be jealous? Will you forgive him? Emily jabbed.
Anne surveyed the room, grateful for her home, her family, her familiar walls.
She rose early, boiled chicken broth, and drove to the hospital. Brian, now older with a shaggy beard, wept at the sight of Anne, begging forgiveness. She fed him soup from a ladle.
Two weeks later Brian left the hospital. As they stepped out of the taxi, a sleek, redhaired woman crossed their path. Brian flinched, turning away. Anne recognised her as his rival, a young, fit brunette. He slumped, his shoulders drooping.
Are you not leaving now? he asked at home.
Am I not thin enough? I havent lost weight, Anne retorted brightly.
I asked for forgiveness. Foolish man. Fry those meatballs again, will you? I miss your cooking.
Anne obliged, the kitchen filling with the scent of sizzling meatballs.
Smells amazing! Emily, now back from university, exclaimed, joining them at the table.
They ate together as they once did, when Emily was still at school and Brian praised Annes cooking without complaint. Anne felt a surge of pride, ready to stand at the stove for hours if it meant keeping her family happy.
Life isnt always smooth, especially as age creeps in. The body weakens, the spirit stays restless. Acceptance is hard, but the longing to hold on to former strength remains.
Every lesson learned, they stayed together. After all, you dont change the horse at the rivers crossing.
A good wife, a warm homewhat more does a person need for a peaceful old age?
