18May2025
Ive been trying to stretch every penny, hopping from one odd job to another, yet today Emma insists on a proper dinner out for her birthday. Dont you think its a bit extravagant? I asked, watching her eyebrows knit. Its a milestone, love. Youre turning thirty; it should be a night to remember.
She shot back, Exactly what I did last month an impromptu celebration at home, on a shoestring. She stared at me, hands clenched at her sides, the anger clear. It wasnt just the cost of a £1,000 restaurant bill; it was the feeling of being reduced to a cashstrapped servant or a poor relative.
I could see she was right. You told me you didnt need much, I muttered.
She lifted an eyebrow, the memory of my words flashing back. I did, she replied slowly. I said I could do without a new dress, that I could bake the cake myself, that I could manage my own nails. Not because I enjoy being poor, but because I dream of having a flat of my own, Mark. Not because I relish scrimping.
I clenched my jaw, more irritated than thoughtful, and answered as a petulant teenager, Youre twentyeight, youve got your whole life ahead. My anniversary is a big deal too; I want a proper celebration, not just a couchpotato dinner.
Emmas eyes dropped. A gathering, you mean. She recalled the week shed spent planning her birthday menu, hunting for discounted veg that was still fit for a salad, hunting coupons, comparing shop prices. Shed followed an online cake recipe, using sour cream and condensed milk, not for the love of cooking but to keep costs down.
Even with the frugality, the day turned out well. Guests praised the salads, devoured the homemade pizza, and Emma smiled in her old dress, her nails glazed with cheap clear polish. The cash gifts almost covered the outlay, and she pretended everything was fine. Later, alone in the bathroom, tears fell selfpity, exhaustion, the constant need to juggle a dress, a haircut, family celebrations on a shoestring.
In the three years weve lived together, being pennywise has become my second name. I know how to squeeze extra cashback on bread, pick cheap processed cheese over a proper block, and spot a genuine bargain from a fake one. Clothing is just something clean and untorn; looks and designer labels matter only to those hunting cheap toothpaste.
Emmas dream of her own flat is something I support in theory. From there you wont be tossed aside on every whim, and you wont have to fork out half your salary on rent. Yet my contribution to the household budget is limited to the monthly paycheck. The splitbudget model scares Emma; the idea of women having to save for maternity leave scares her even more. My approach to money is like a teenager blowing cash on chips and fizzy drinks.
She tallied up the bills: utilities, travel, groceries, and trimmed every excess to set aside a planned sum. She booked haircuts with apprentices to stay within the limit. Sometimes it went badly, but it stayed cheap. We inch toward our goal, but it feels like were walking separate paths. Emma never voices the strain she feels; she keeps quiet when I order a pizza for lunch, claiming shes just lazy to go to the canteen.
I really dont need much, Emma finally said, looking away. Just some basic respect. I dont enjoy scrimping, but I do it for our future. Sometimes it feels like there is no future at all. I snapped, Im bringing in the money. What else do you want? Do I not have the right to a celebration?
Seeing she wasnt open to compromise, I retreated to the bedroom, leaving her alone in a cheap bathrobe under the single functioning chandelier, worrying about the mortgage were unlikely to reach at this pace. My heart throbbed with pain and doubt perhaps Im being unreasonable; perhaps shes the one pushing too hard.
The next day she met her friend Claire, hoping for advice. You didnt come over just to admire the linoleum, did you? Claire observed Emmas gloom. Emma recounted the argument, how Emma felt the joint dream was funded by only one side, how Mark placed his anniversary above her birthday.
Claire smirked, So youre saving on yourself and expect him to carry you on his shoulders? Emma began to protest, Were saving Claire cut in, You save, he spends. Does he ever deny himself? Does he ever thank you?
Does he know how much being a woman costs? Claire pressed. Manicures, pedicures, hair, waxing, decent underwear thats just the baseline. Are you his partner or just a convenient mum in a threadbare robe, handling all the numbers?
Emma shrugged. He isnt ungrateful; he just thinks thats how it should be. He assumes the household magic runs itself.
Claires answer was blunt: He knows a restaurant out because he expects youll bend again. Youll wear cheap shoes, stop dyeing your hair, but youll still bend. Hell feel like a king. Its his anniversary, after all.
What should I do? Emma asked, flustered. Stop being a pushover and find a lover with a flat that would solve everything.
Claire! Emma protested. Fine, a backup plan. Stop pinching yourself. He wants a restaurant? Let him. But you need a dress, shoes, a proper bag, a hairstyle, even gold earrings. If youre going out, go allout, not in trackpants with stretched knees.
Getting the dress is simple. Im still stuck in schoolgirl mode Claire replied. Emma, are you even listening? Stop scrimping on yourself!
Emma sighed. It was a jolt, but she sensed some truth. Alright, Ill try.
That morning she told me she wanted to book a salon appointment manicure, haircut, styling. I was surprised but shrugged. Later she showed me a pair of black shoes she liked. Eighthundred pounds? Emma, with that money I could upgrade my computer! I protested.
She answered, What can I do? Its my birthday; I have to look decent. Its a restaurant, after all. Ive already picked a boutique; take me there and well choose the dress together.
I grunted, not really objecting perhaps hoping shed change her mind. By evening she was already weighing earrings in front of me. These cost twentyhundred pounds, a bargain compared to similar pieces at thirtyhundred. Well get a clutch later, after the dress. I could see the calculation flicker in his eyes, a nervous gulp, a paler complexion, and he muttered, Maybe we should just stay home.
I only smiled. In the end we agreed on a quiet family celebration. Did we truly reconcile? Not entirely. Did he understand anything? Perhaps a bit. What I realized, crystal clear, is that unless I respect myself, no one else will.
Lesson: Money may be tight, but selfrespect is never a luxury I can afford to neglect.
