One. But if you try again
So whats this new you? The bellys empty, so its time to get your hands dirty. The floor wont clean itself, he said as if he were handing me a knighthood for finally being able to hold a mop again.
I was standing amid a disaster zone. No exaggeration: dirty dishes piled up, an empty fridge, a sticky floor. In the corner on the balcony a broken dryer still bore my old hospital gownthe very one Id worn when I was whisked off to deliver the twins a month and a half ago.
No flowers. No note. Not a drop of courtesy. Just his indifferent stare, as if I were a neighbour whod dropped by without knocking.
People say women become ultrasensitive after giving birth. Its not the hormones, is it? Its how were met, how were spoken to, how were hugged or not.
Are you joking? I whispered, looking at him. I just got back from a triple delivery. After the operation
And then? he snapped. Caesarean, as you called it. All under anaesthetic. You didnt give birth, you just lay there. Stop pretending. Milk any? Fine, suck it in. But that doesnt excuse not tidying up.
At first I thought he was being facetious. Then I wondered if hed lost his mind. Then I thought perhaps I had, because once upon a time I loved him, didnt I?
My head was buzzing, my heart froze. I stood with a travel bag containing nightgowns, pads and two pairs of slippers Id sewn while pregnant. And he talked to me as if I were a lazy housewife fresh from a holiday.
You didnt even collect us from the hospital, I exhaled. I had to ask the midwife to call a cab
You wanted to be independent! he shouted. All through the pregnancy you ran from me. All on your own, you go on and do it yourself.
Bearing a child isnt about weakness. Its about faithfaith that someone will support you, that you wont be left alone, that a loving partner will stick around. And if not?
If you cant manage, Ill call my mum, he muttered, heading for the bathroom. Shell turn you into a proper housewife.
Ah, the blessed simplicity of his mother. Margaret Thatcherno relation a woman whose glance could fry an egg. Even the street cats gave her a wide berth. Always in a grey coat, short hair, voice like a brass band. Nobody argued with her, not even the boss.
I braced for a witchlike arrivalshouts, sarcasm, a broom in hand.
Instead she walked in silent. Something shifted in her eyes. Something else entirely. She surveyed the room, me, my dishevelled look, my mute stare.
Youre cleaning? she asked suddenly.
I hadnt managed a reply.
After a Caesarean?! Get on the sofa this instant!
I froze. She threw on her coat, slipped into an apron, grabbed a rag and a bucket, and started scrubbing the floor.
Sometimes kindness arrives in the most unexpected packagea sharpvoiced, nononsense woman.
Within half an hour the kitchen smelled of shepherds pie. I lay on the sofa, buried under cushions, while Mrs. Thatcher rinsed towels and muttered:
Triplets, now thats a proper circus
When my husband returned, phone in hand and a grin plastered on his face, she lunged at him like a storm:
Have you lost your mind?! A woman just gave birth to three! Surgery, pain, recovery! And you think its fine to mop the floor?!
Mum, but you said
Me?! You promised youd cope. That you loved us. That everything was under control. I believed you!
She sighed, looked at me, and said quietly:
Monster. Youre a monster in a human shell.
When a mother backs another woman, its a small victorybitter, but needed.
Who ever put that idea in your head?!
He shrugged.
A colleague Paul. He claimed a Caesarean isnt a birth, that milk is nonsense, that women make it all up
SILENCE! she roared.
He fell silent.
That very day trouble brewed at his office. Colleagues overheard his chatter, and Tanya the same friend whod supported me through the pregnancy had had enough.
Have you seen a woman after a Caesarean? Weeks without sleep? Every ache you can imagine?
The boss called him in and put him on garden leaveno return until things were sorted.
Paul, the inspirational one, landed in an investigation for harassment and abuse of power. Karma moves slowly, but she never misses.
Mrs. Thatcher took the baby boy under her wing. Two weeks later he returned, a quiet lad with a parenting book in one hand and a pot of stew in the other.
Im sorry, he knelt. I was an idiot, selfish. Give me one chance. Just one.
I stared at him for a long breath, then said:
One. But if you try again
It wont happen, he cut in. I swore to my mum. Swearing to her is scarier than swearing to you. Im sorry.
Sometimes you have to fall to see the mistake. Not everyone rises, but I was given a second wind. He learned to change diapers, make porridge, rise at night. He apologisedevery day, for every pang.
And Mrs. Thatcher showed up every Saturday with scones and a simple reminder:
Youre not alone now. Remember that.
And I wasnt alone. I had children, support, a family, and a husband who now flips crumpets and quarrels with noisy neighbours while the little ones nap.
A phrase that has become my talisman:
Youre not alone.
