April 27
I barely had a moment to breathe before Mark slipped another comment at the dinner table, his tone light yet cutting. You said you dont need much, love. He brushed his hand over his cheek as if the words were a casual shrug.
I stared at him, the colour draining from my cheeks, and tried to summon the calm Id practised all those years of budgeting. This wasnt just about a £150 restaurant bill for his birthday; it felt as if I were reduced to a servant in my own flat, a penniless relative clinging to the edges of his life.
He leaned back, a halfsmile playing on his lips, and replied, Its your 30th, after all. It should be memorable. The thought that just a month earlier Id thrown together a modest celebration at home made my stomach twist. Id baked a cake from an online recipe, used discount veg that was a day past its prime, and scraped together coupons for the best price on everything. The guests had smiled, praised the salad, and devoured the homemade pizza. Id sat there in an old dress, nails painted with cheap clear polish, feeling a hollow pride.
The money theyd given me covered almost everything, yet when I was alone in the bathroom, the flood of tears was inevitable. I wept for the exhaustion of constantly juggling a dress, a hairstyle, and family festivities on a shoestring. In the three years wed lived together, frugality had become my second name. I could wring every penny from a loaf of bread, swap a block of cheddar for cheap sliced cheese, and spot a genuine bargain from a flimsy promotional gimmick in seconds.
Clothes? As long as theyre clean and not ripped, the brand doesnt matter. The world of looks and labels feels like a distant luxury for someone whos busy hunting the cheapest toothpaste. I dream of my own flat, a place I wont be driven out of at a whim, where half my salary wont disappear on rent. Marks contribution to the household is simply the regular transfer of his wagesnothing more. He approaches finances like a teenager eyeing a packet of crisps and a soda, unaware of the countless calculations I make for bills, travel, and groceries.
I trimmed expenses, booked a haircut with a trainee to stay within budget, and managed to keep the lights on with a single working bulb in the kitchen. Were inching toward our goal, but it feels as though were walking side by side on parallel tracks rather than together. I never complained about the sacrifices, never voiced the strain, even when he ordered pizza for lunch because Im too lazy to go to the canteen.
Now, on his birthday, I finally said, Mark, I really dont need a lot. A simple bit of respect would mean the world. I dont like scrimping, but I do it because I see a future for us. Yet sometimes it feels like we have no future at all. He snapped, I work, I bring home the money. What more do you expect? Do I not deserve a celebration?
Seeing that he wasnt open to compromise, he retreated to the bedroom, leaving me in my cheap robe under the lone glowing chandelier, thoughts of a mortgage that seemed forever out of reach swirling in my mind. Doubt gnawed at mewas I being unreasonable? Was he right?
The next morning I met my friend Claire at a café on the High Street. She noticed my downcast eyes and asked what was wrong. I recounted the nights argument, the sting of feeling that my own milestone was being sidelined for his.
Claire laughed, then tilted her head. So youve been saving on yourself, hoping hell lift you up? She interrupted my halfformed defence. Youre the one pinching pennies, and hes splurging. Does he ever thank you for the sacrifices? Does he ever recognise how hard it is to be a womannails, hair, proper undergarments, not the grannys knickers?
I shrugged; Mark isnt ungrateful, he just assumes this is how things ought to be. He knows how much it costs to be a woman? she pressed. Or does he see you as a convenient housewife in a threadbare robe, the one who plans, organises, and counts?
Stop, I tried, but my voice wavered. Claire was relentless. He says he wants a restaurant because he knows youll bend over backwards anyway. Youll keep your hair cheap, your clothes frayed, and still bend. Hell feel like a king while youre left emptyhanded.
What should I do? I asked, feeling lost.
Stop being a pushover. Find someone who can actually support you, she suggested, halfjoking. Or at least stop denying yourself. If he wants a restaurant, finelet him have it. But you need a dress, shoes, a proper bag, a good hairdo, and earrings worth something. You wont go to a fine dining room in a tracksuit with sagging knees.
I sighed, the idea of suddenly changing my ways felt daunting, yet I sensed some truth in her words. Alright. Ill try.
That afternoon I told Mark I needed to book a salon appointmenthaircut, manicure, the works. He raised an eyebrow but shrugged. When I showed him a pair of sleek black shoes Id picked out, his jaw tightened. Eight pounds? I could upgrade the computers memory for that! he muttered.
Its my birthday, I replied, I want to look presentable. He grumbled about the cost, yet when I mentioned the boutique Id found, he finally agreed to drive me there.
Later, as we stood in the shop, I lifted a set of simple gold earrings. How about these? Theyre not expensivetwenty pounds, compared to thirty elsewhere. Theyll match a clutch later.
Marks face paled, his eyes darting as if doing quick math. He mumbled, Maybe we should just stay home.
I smiled, a small, knowing smile. We ended up celebrating quietly, just the two of us, and while the tension didnt vanish entirely, I finally understood something: unless I respect myself, no one else will. The realization settled deep within me, a quiet resolve to stop selling myself short, even if the world around me still insists on the cheap bargains.
