I was, for twentysix years, the unpaid housewife of my family, until, on the occasion of my golden wedding anniversary, I slipped away on business to a faroff land.
Helen Whitaker stood at the stove, stirring a pot of broth, when Simon Whitaker entered the kitchen and tossed an invitation onto the table.
Your school reunion, he said without looking up from his phone. Saturday.
She stared at the cardthirty years since leaving school, a glossy invitation with gilt lettering.
Youll be going, wont you? she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
Of course. Just see to it that you look presentable, or youll look like a slob. Dont bring shame on the family.
His words landed like a slap. Helen froze, ladle in hand. Simon was already heading for the door when their sons, Martin and Dennis, burst in.
Mum, whats that? Martin asked, taking the card.
A school reunion, she replied quietly.
Nice! And youll go in that eternal dressing gown? Dennis laughed.
Dont mock your mother, interjected Rose Whitaker, the motherinlaw, stepping into the kitchen with the air of someone ready to dispense sage advice. A little work on yourself would do you good. Dye your hair, buy a decent dress. Appear respectable.
Helen nodded silently and returned to the stove. Her chest ached, but she showed no sign of it. Twentysix years of marriage had taught her to bury resentment deep down.
Dinners ready, she announced after half an hour.
The family gathered around the table. The stew was perfectjust the right tang, tender beef, fragrant herbsaccompanied by fresh rolls and cabbage pies.
Delicious, Simon grumbled between spoonfuls.
As always, Rose added. You do know how to cook.
Helen ate a few spoonfuls and then went to wash the dishes. In the mirror above the sink she saw the weary face of a fortyfiveyearold woman: greying roots, fine lines at the eyes, a dimmed gaze. When had she become so old?
On Saturday Helen rose at five oclock. First she had to prepare the dishes that each guest was expected to bring. She decided to make several things at once: a hearty solyanka, herring under a fur coat, meat and cabbage pies, and for dessert, a batch of birds milk sweets.
Her hands moved of their own accordchopping, mixing, baking, decorating. Cooking was her sanctuary; here she was the master, here she faced no criticism.
Blimey, look at all youve made, Martin said as he came down to the kitchen at eleven.
For the reunion, Helen replied shortly.
Got anything new for yourself? he asked.
Helen glanced at the only decent black dress hanging on a chair.
That will do.
By two oclock everything was ready. Helen changed into the dress, applied modest makeup, and even slipped on the earrings Simon had given her for their tenth anniversary.
You look decent, Simon said. Lets be off.
Sarah Ivess country house was impressive in its breadth. A former schoolmate, she had married a businessman and now entertained guests in a manor with a swimming pool and a tennis court.
Lena! Sarah cried, hugging her. Youve changed hardly at all! What have you brought?
A few dishes, Helen said, setting the containers on the table.
Some had grown wealthy, some had grown old, but everyone recognised each other. Helen kept to the periphery, watching former classmates chat about their successes.
Who made that solyanka? boomed Victor Clarke, the old class monitor. Thats a masterpiece!
Its Lena, Sarah pointed out.
Lenny! a short man with kind eyes approached. Do you remember me? Paul Miller, we sat together at the third desk.
Paul! Of course I do, she replied, delighted.
You made that solyanka? Im thrilled! And those pies I think Ive never tasted anything finer.
Thank you, Helen said shyly.
No, Im serious. Ive lived in Dublin for ten years now; they love Russian food, there are plenty of Russian restaurants, but Ive never encountered such quality. Are you a professional chef?
Just a housewife, she answered.
Just? Paul shook his head. Youve got real talent.
All evening people came to Helen for recipes, praised her cooking. For the first time in many years she felt important, needed.
Simon, meanwhile, talked about his garage business, occasionally glancing at his wife with surprisewhere had this popularity come from?
Monday began as usualbreakfast, cleaning, laundry. Helen was ironing her sons shirts when the telephone rang.
Hello?
Lena? Its Paul, we met on Saturday.
Paul, hi, she said, surprised.
Ive been thinking I have a business proposal for you. Can we meet? Talk?
What about?
A job in Ireland. I want to open a Russian restaurant and need a coordinatorsomeone with a good palate, who can train chefs, design the menu. The pay is good, plus a share in the venture.
Helen sank onto a chair. Her heart hammered.
Paul, I I dont know what to say.
Think it over. Call me tomorrow, okay?
The rest of the day she moved through a fog. A restaurant in Ireland? Her, a simple housewife?
At dinner she tried to explain to her family.
Imagine, they offered me a job
What kind of job? Dennis sneered. You do nothing but cook.
Exactly thatthey offered me a cooking job. In Dublin, at a restaurant.
Dublin? Simon repeated. Thats nonsense.
Mother, what are you talking about? Martin put down his fork. How old are you? Fortyeight?
Besides, Rose added, who will run the house? Keep the home? Cook?
Probably someone just joked, Simon waved his hand.
Helen fell silent. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was all a joke?
The next day the scene repeated at breakfast. Simon eyed her critically.
Youve changed, havent you? he said. You ought to start exercising.
Mother, by the way, Dennis spread butter on his toast, dont come to my graduation, alright?
Why? Helen asked.
Because all the parents are so stylish. Youre a bit dated, I suppose.
Dennis is right, Martin said. Dont be offended, we just dont want the kids to talk about you.
Rose nodded in agreement.
Exactly. A woman should look after herself. In our day women stayed beautiful even in old age.
Helen rose from the table and went to her bedroom. With trembling hands she dialed Paul.
Paul? Its Lena. I accept.
Seriously? his voice rang with joy. Helen, thats wonderful! But I warn youthe work wont be easy. Huge responsibility, long hours, tough decisions. Are you ready?
Ready, she said firmly. When do I start?
In a month. Well sort the paperwork, the visa. Ill help with everything.
The month flew by. Helen arranged documents, brushed up on Irish, drafted a menu for the new eatery. Her family remained sceptical, treating her plan as a fleeting fancy.
Give it a month or two, shell see home is better, Simon told his mates.
The main thing is she doesnt lose money, Rose added.
The boys never took her seriously. To them their mother was part of the décorcooking, washing, cleaning. What could she possibly do abroad?
On the day of departure Helen rose early, prepared a weeks worth of provisions, left notes on laundry and cleaning. She travelled to the airport aloneeveryone else was occupied.
Well keep in touch, Simon muttered as he saw her off.
Dublin greeted her with rain and unfamiliar scents. Paul waited at arrivals with a bouquet and a broad smile.
Welcome to your new life, he said, embracing her.
The following months blurred together. Helen recruited staff, finalised the menu. She discovered she could not only cook but also manage, plan, make hard choices.
The first patrons arrived three months later. The dining room was packed, people lining up. Borscht, solyanka, pelmeni, crumpetseverything vanished in minutes.
You have golden hands, Paul declared. And a sharp mind. Weve created something special.
Helen watched the satisfied faces, heard the compliments, and understood at last that she had found herself. At fortyeight she was beginning again.
Six months later Simon phoned.
Lena, how are you? When are you coming home?
Fine, works good, she replied.
When will you be back? Were barely holding it together.
Hire a housekeeper.
Who, and for how much?
For the same sum I earned for twentysix years.
What do you mean?
Nothing fancy. Just that I was the familys free housewife until my jubilee, when I left on business to another country.
Silence settled over the line.
Lena, can we speak normally? No hard feelings?
Serge, Im not angry. Im simply living. For the first time in my lifeIm living.
Her sons tried to understand, but they could not grasp how a mother could suddenly become independent, successful, useful beyond them.
Mum, stop pretending to be a businesswoman, Martin said. The house falls apart without you.
Learn to live on your own, Helen answered. Youre already twentyfive.
Simon never objected to a formal split; it was merely a legal acknowledgment of what had already happened.
A year later the restaurant Moscow was one of Dublins most popular venues. Investors courted her to open a chain, she appeared on culinary TV shows, critics wrote glowing reviews.
British woman who conquered Dublin, she read in a local paper.
Paul proposed on the restaurants anniversary. Helen thought long before saying yesnot because she doubted him, but because she relished her independence.
I wont cook for you every day or iron your shirts, she warned.
On the second anniversary of the restaurant, Simon arrived with the boys. Seeing Helen in a sharp business suit, receiving accolades from local celebrities, they were at a loss for words.
Mum, you youve changed, Dennis muttered.
You look beautiful, Martin added.
Ive become myself, Helen corrected.
Simon spent the evening mute, casting occasional surprised glances at his former wife. When the guests had gone, he approached her.
Im sorry, Lena. I never saw you as a person, only as part of the home.
Helen nodded. No anger, only sorrow for the years wasted.
Shall we start over? he asked.
No, Simon. My life has moved on.
Now Helen is fifty. She runs a chain of restaurants, hosts her own cooking programme on Irish television, and her recipe book is a bestseller. She is married to a man who values her as an individual, not as a free housewife.
Her sons call now and then, telling her theyre proud, that they understand, that they want to visit. Helen is glad to hear them, but no longer feels guilt for living for herself.
Sometimes she stands in the kitchen of her flagship restaurant, watches the chefs prepare her signature dishes, and wonders, What if I hadnt taken that step? What if I had stayed a slob in a dressing gown?
She quickly shoves those thoughts aside. Not everyone gets a second chance; she was fortunate to have one, and she made the most of it.
Starting again at fortyeight was terrifying, but it turned out to be the only way to discover who she truly was.
