Today I was frying meatballs when the doorbell rang. I slipped out of the kitchen to answer.
Mum, it’s for me, my daughter Hazel called from the hallway, stopping me halfway. Ill get it.
Alright, I didnt expect I began.
What are you waiting for? Keep cooking your meatballs, she snapped, glancing back at me from the front door.
Im buying the mince for a recipe, I replied, a little taken aback.
Just close the door, Mum, Hazel rolled her eyes.
If youd said that earlier I muttered, returning to the kitchen and pulling the door shut behind me. I turned off the gas under the pan, slipped off my apron and stepped out of the kitchen.
In the hallway Hazel was pulling on her coat. Standing nearby was Ian, a friend of hers, eyes glued to her.
Hello, Ian. Where are you off to? Do join us for dinner, I offered.
Good evening, he smiled, looking at Hazel with a curious tilt.
Were in a hurry, she replied, not meeting my gaze.
Maybe youll stay for a bite? Everythings ready, I repeated.
Ian fell silent.
No! Hazel snapped. Lets go. She slipped her arm through his and opened the door. Mum, could you shut it?
I moved to the door but left a crack, listening as voices drifted from the garden.
Youre being harsh with her. It smells delicious, I wouldnt mind a meatball, someone called.
Lets pop into the cafe, Im fed up with her meatballs, Hazel muttered.
They could never get old. I love your mums meatballsI could eat them every day, Ian replied.
I didnt catch what Hazel said. The footsteps on the stairs faded away.
I finally closed the door fully and headed to the sitting room where my husband James was glued to the telly.
James, lets have dinner while its still hot, I said.
Right, lets go. He rose, shuffled past me, and took a seat at the table.
Whats on the menu? he asked, impatient.
Rice with meatballs, a side salad, I answered, lifting the pan.
You know Ive said I dont eat fried meatballs, he grumbled.
I added a splash of water, they turned out almost steamed, I said, standing by the stove with the lid in my hand.
Fine, but this is the last time, he said, picking up a meatball with his fork.
At our age, losing weight is dangerous, I remarked as I set a plate of rice and meatballs before him.
What age is that? Im only fiftyseven. For a man thats the prime of life, James declared, taking a big bite.
You both are conspiring today, arent you? Hazel ran off, youre being stubborn. Ill stop cooking and see how you manage without me. Do you think a café serves healthier food? I snapped.
Then dont bother cooking. You could lose a few pounds yourself; you wont be able to fit through the door any time soon, James finished his meatball and stabbed another.
Is that how you see me? Fat? Ive spent ages caring for you, yet you stare at me like Im staff. I bought new jeans, a leather jacket, even a cap, shaved my head for a disguise. Who am I trying to impress? Certainly not you. Im fat, so what, compare me to whom? I cried, hurt.
Let me eat in peace. James stabbed at the rice but never brought it to his mouth, dropping it back onto his plate. Pass the ketchup, he demanded.
I grabbed the ketchup bottle from the fridge, slammed it down on the table, and walked out of the kitchen without a word. My plate of dinner remained untouched.
I shut myself in the bedroom, sank onto the sofa and tears welled up.
Everything I do, I do for them, and I get no gratitude. James feels younger, looks elsewhere. He thinks Im just his fat wife. Hazel treats me like a servant.
If Im retired, can they just treat me like a relic? Id still work if they hadnt cut me off. Old staff are useless; they want fresh faces. What can the youngsters do?
I get up before everyone, even without a job, just to make breakfast. Im always on the move, never a moment to lie down. Im to blame for letting them sit on my shoulders and walk away.
The tears streamed down my cheeks, wet tracks on my face. I stifled a sob and patted my eyes and cheeks dry.
I always believed we had a decent familynothing perfect, but not worse than anyone else. Hazel is at university and doing well. James doesnt drink or smoke, earns a decent wage. The house is tidy, the food tasty. What more could he want?
I stood before the mirror on the wardrobe door, inspected myself. Yes, Ive put on a few pounds, but Im not that heavy. At least the wrinkles arent so obvious on my round cheeks. Ive always loved food. I cook well. Apparently, they dont need that. When I worked, I curled my hair; now I braid it at the back so it doesnt get in the way. Its easier. Do I really need to be on heels and doing housework with a fancy hairdo? I should probably lose a bit more weight. Maybe dye my hair too.
I sat back on the bed, lost in thought.
This morning I didnt get up early as usual. I stayed in bed, pretending to sleep. Im retired; I have the right to linger a little after sunrise. Let them make their own breakfast.
The alarm finally rang. I stirred and faced the wall.
Whats wrong with you? Sick? James asked, his tone void of sympathy.
Yeah, I muttered, burying my face in the blanket.
Mum, are you ill? Hazel entered the room.
Just stay and have breakfast yourselves, I whispered from under the duvet.
Hazel huffed and drifted to the kitchen. Soon I heard the kettle sputter, the fridge door thump, muffled voices of my daughter and husband. I stayed under the blanket, playing the part of the sick wife.
James entered, smelling of expensive colognesomething Id bought for him himself. He and Hazel left one after the other, the house fell silent. I lifted the blanket, closed my eyes and fell asleep.
An hour later I awoke, stretched, and padded to the kitchen. Dirty mugs sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table. I thought of cleaning, then thought, Im not a maid. I took a shower, then called an old school friend.
Emily! Its been ages, love. How are you? Not getting tired of retirement? she chirped.
I told her I missed getting out, that I was bored at home and hadnt visited our parents graves in years. Dont be shy if you want to crash at my place, she said.
Come over, Id love that. When? I asked.
Right now, Im heading to the station, she replied.
Oh then Ill bake some pies. I packed a few things for a short stay, swept the crumbs to one side, left a note on the kitchen table that Id gone to visit a friend and wasnt sure when Id return.
On the way to the station I hesitated. Would they manage without me? They never seemed to value my labour. Yet was I being too bold? If I cant get a ticket Ill go back, I told myself. Tickets were available, a queue formed at the bus stop; I took my place at the end.
Lydia, my old friend, greeted me with a hug. We sipped tea and warm pies, hardly able to speak.
Good you came. Tell me everything, she urged.
I spilled the whole story, she listened, then suggested, Turn it up a notch. Lets go to the salon tomorrow, give you a new look. Valentina works thereremember her from school? Shes now in high demand. We plotted a makeover, a new outfit, something to make James eat his words.
That night I could not sleep, replaying thoughts: Are they angry? Happy?
The salon was bright. Valentina welcomed me, seated me, and as we coloured my hair and shaped my eyebrows, she also trimmed my hair. I almost fell asleep, the day slipping away. She insisted on a full makeup, but Lydia persuaded me to see it through.
When I finally looked in the mirror, a younger, striking woman stared back. Valentina was already arranging a manicure. Thats enough for today. I cant take any more, I pleaded.
Alright, well book you for eight in the morning. Dont be late, Valentina said firmly.
Lydia gushed, Look at you! Who would have guessed? We left the salon, and she dragged me into a shopping centre.
I emerged in loosefit trousers, a light cardigan, and a sleek coat, feeling fresh despite the fatigue. I carried bags with a new dress, a jacket, and a pair of shoes. I felt younger, more confident, almost slender. I thanked Lydia for nudging me toward change.
Outside Lydias house, a tall gentleman with white hair and dark moustache approached. Hello ladies, he said, admiring me. You look smashing.
I dont I began, startled.
You dont recognise me? Its Peter Hargreaves, Lydia whispered.
Peter? I asked.
Yes, he confirmed, smiling. He was a former classmate, thin and unremarkable back then.
Well pop over to my place, toast to my transformation. Weve got a bottle of wine, Lydia suggested.
We three sat in the kitchen, wine flowing, reminiscing about school. I blushed, unsure if it was the wine or the attention.
Hes still into you, Lydia remarked as Peter left.
Enough, its been years, I said.
You could be loved again, she encouraged.
Does he still live nearby? I asked.
No, hes a retired colonel, served in the army, came back two years ago with a serious injury. He limps now. His wife left him after the war. Hes on the mend, Lydia explained. Take your time, you know?
Im married, what are you on about? I protested.
That night I decided to return home, but Lydia insisted I stay longer. Just a week. Youll feel better. He even got theatre tickets. When was the last time you were at the theatre?
The youth theatre for the Christmas play with Hazel, I recalled.
Exactly, lets see that dress out, Lydia teased.
Three days later my phone rang.
Mum, where are you? Dads in hospital! Come quickly, shouted Hazel.
My heart hammered. I rushed to pack, and Peter drove me to the station.
Anna, if you need anything, Im here, he said.
Thanks, Pete. I called Hazel on the bus. She told me my sudden disappearance shocked her. What about Dad? I asked.
Hes been cheating, she whispered. I saw him leave the neighbours flat. He didnt even come over when you vanished. Yesterday his other wifes husband showed up, yelling. Theyve been fighting. He broke a rib, but its not serious. He also had a brain bleed, but the ambulance got him in time.
I listened, stunned, feeling I shouldnt have left. By evening I was back home, though the hospital was already closed.
Mum, youve changed so much. I barely recognise you, Hazel said, her tone respectful for the first time, staying by my side all evening.
I was scared youd never come back, so I tried to teach you a lesson. You and Dad stopped seeing me as a person, I confessed.
Sorry, Mum, but its your own fault. You retired, stopped looking after yourself, turned into an old woman, Hazel muttered. Will you forgive Dad?
I scanned the room, grateful for the familiar surroundings.
The next morning I rose early, made chicken broth, and headed to the hospital. James looked older, his beard now silver. He wept on seeing me, begging forgiveness. I fed him the broth with a spoon.
Two weeks later James left the hospital. As we stepped out of the taxi, a man and woman passed us. James flinched, turned away. The woman avoided my gaze. I realised she was my rivala slim, redhaired young woman. James slumped, embarrassed, and slipped into the stairwell.
Are you staying any longer? he asked at home.
Am I not thin enough now? I havent lost weight yet, I replied with a hint of sarcasm.
I asked for forgiveness. I was foolish. Fry those meatballs, will you? I miss your cooking, he pleaded.
I fried the meatballs, prepared a hearty dinner.
It smells amazing! Hazel, now back from university, exclaimed as she entered.
We ate together as we used to when she was still at school. James no longer criticised me, ate everything and praised my cooking. I was ready to stand at the stove for hours just to please him.
I looked at my family and felt a deep gratitude that they were all alive, home, mostly healthy, and that I still mattered.
Family life is never flawless. Things shift, especially as age creeps in. The body may not be what it once was, but the spirit can stay youthful. Its hard to accept, yet we strive to hold onto our former vigor.
Everyone learns their lesson. The important thing is were together. You cant change the horse on the ferry; you have to ride the one you have. And sometimes you must stay on the sturdy steed rather than chase a wild one thatll leave you at the final stop.
A good wife, a warm homewhat else does a person need to face old age?
