Youre my wife, you owe it to me
So whats for dinner tonight?
Emily shut her eyes. Her fingers hovered over the laptop keys, and for a heartbeat she thought that if she kept them closed the question would simply disappear. It didnt. She tore herself away from the screen, where dozens of tabs with spreadsheets and reports blinked. I stood in the doorway, waiting.
Did you open the fridge?
I nodded.
And?
Well I shrugged. Therere a few pots and some containers in there.
Emily felt the tension from her last few hours at work melt into irritation.
And none of that gave you any idea? Like, you could heat up the food?
I frowned.
Why should I? Ive just come home exhausted. And you cant even manage to bring me a proper dinner?
What do you think Im doing? Emily spun her laptop toward me, the screen crowded with tables, presentations and chat windows. Im working too, even if its from home. I get tired as well. Yet I still found the time to make supper. All you need to do is warm it up and plate it. Is that really that difficult?
Her voice trembled on the last words. I could see she was on the brink of a breakdown.
I left, muttering under my breath:
Shes become so harsh lazy she doesnt love me, she doesnt value me
Emily grabbed her headphones, turned the music up, and the sound of my muttering faded into the beat. She stared at the screen again, but her mind was elsewhere. Figures from the report swam before her eyes while thoughts of how things had gone wrong spun in her head. How had it come to this? When did everything start to fall apart?
It used to be different. Completely different. Emily had always loved cooking; it was her little joy, the way she unwound after a long day. James and I even joked that she had bewitched me with her food.
On our third date the restaurant reservation fell through a glitch in the booking system gave our table to someone else. I was disappointed, began apologising, but Emily suggested we go back to her flat.
She fed me homemade lasagne, buttery garlic bread and a fresh salad. I perched on her tiny kitchen stool, shoving food in my mouth, eyes rolling in delighted disbelief.
I think Im falling in love, I said then, and Emily laughed.
After we moved in together I shifted into her premarriage flat Emily cooked constantly. Frenchstyle beef, braised lamb, intricate soups, weekend pies. I grew used to it, so accustomed that I stopped noticing how much time and effort she poured into the kitchen. Back then she worked a ninetofive job, no flexibility. Shed come home tired, yet still stand at the stove because she could see me waiting, anticipating her.
Now everythings changed. My career has taken off. Emily switched to remote work, earned a promotion, and now leads major projects. Her schedule is tighter, responsibilities greater. She simply doesnt have the energy or time to tend to me the way she once did. Shes reduced meals to simple fare: chicken and rice, spaghetti with meatballs, vegetable stew hearty, quick, no frills. Thats when I started complaining. First hints, then outright grievances.
The past two months have felt like a living hell. Emily faced a critical deadline a highvalue project for a client whose contract determined a bonus and her next promotion. She was burning the midnight oil, often twelvehour days, sometimes having to drive into the office to discuss revisions with senior management facetoface, avoiding endless email chains.
I was perpetually dissatisfied. The house wasnt spotless enough. The food was too plain. She spent little time on me. Arguments erupted over every little thing. I demanded elaborate meals, threw tantrums about an unwashed stovetop. Emily snapped, screamed, cried. Wed make up, but only briefly, and the cycle repeated.
When the project finally went live, Emily felt drained to the point of being a squeezed lemon. Every muscle ached. She collapsed onto the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, barely able to blink. Cooking or cleaning felt impossible; she just wanted to lie there and think of nothing.
From the hallway came the sound of my shoes on the floor Id just come home from work. A minute later I stepped into the bedroom, irritation in my voice.
The fridge is empty. Whats for dinner?
Emily turned her gaze slowly toward me.
There are some frozen dumplings in the freezer, she whispered.
I dont want dumplings! I snapped. I want baked fish with veg.
Just the thought of getting out of bed caused Emily almost physical pain. Her body refused to move, her brain to function.
You could order takeaway. Theyll bring you whatever you want,
I asked sharply.
Then why did I marry you?
Something in my tone made Emily sit up on her elbow, looking at me more closely.
So you think Im here to feed you? I continued, voice rising. Cooking is a wifes duty. Lately youve become soft. Ive tolerated it, but this is too much!
Something clicked inside Emily. Fatigue gave way to a hot, bright anger. She jumped up, shouting:
Im not obligated! Wheres the rule written? Who signed it?
Im fed up with eating who knows what! I roared back. Im tired of putting up with this!
Then cook it yourself! Emily stepped toward me. The kitchens over there! Im not stopping you!
Its your responsibility! I argued. Its a womans job! You should look after your husband!
Im exhausted! Her voice rose to a nearscream. Ive been swamped with work for two months! And you never even washed your plate! You didnt tidy up, didnt cook! Why should I be the only one caring for you while you sit on a readymade meal?
I flushed red.
Because Im a man! I earn the money!
Emily jabbed a finger at her own chest.
And I earn just as much! Not less than you! Yet you act like Im a servant!
Youre a bad wife! You dont know how to look after a family!
Inside me, a chill replaced the heat, and my voice hardened.
Then find someone else! Find a woman wholl serve you. Im done!
I was taken aback.
What?
Emily walked past me to the wardrobe, pulled out her bag, and began tossing my things in.
You heard me. Leave. Right now.
Emily, what are you doing?
Leave! Im tired of being your servant. I want to be your partner, not your cook and cleaner. If you cant see that, were not meant for each other.
I stood there, mouth open, unable to argue. Emily was resolute. She ushered me out, and I never set foot in that flat again.
A week passed. I called every day, texted, begged for forgiveness, promised to change. Emily didnt reply. She needed time to think, to sort herself out.
She recalled everything how I never offered to help with chores, took her care for granted, dismissed her exhaustion, believed she owed me simply because she was my wife. She realised Id been leaning on her, using her, without even noticing.
When I finally turned up with flowers, Emily sighed, but we still had to talk.
Im filing for divorce. I dont need you any longer.
I stared, bewildered.
But why? I promised Id change!
I dont need promises, she shook her head. I need a husband, not a servant.
The divorce was processed quickly. The flat was hers alone, so there was nothing to split. I moved back in with my parents. Emily stayed on her own.
And she felt lighter. She started cooking again, this time just for herself. She tried new recipes, revisited old favourites. She roasted duck with apples because she felt like it, baked intricate desserts for the sheer fun of it. When the workday left her weary, she ordered pizza, ate it straight from the box on the sofa in front of the telly, and no one chastised her. No one demanded anything. And that felt wonderful.
