З життя
Sorry for Not Living Up to Your Expectations!
Sorry I didnt live up to expectations!
It all unfolded like something out of a sitcom or a cheesy drama. It was a summer evening, Tom was glued to his laptop, I was bustling around the house, the car alarm went off and Tom bolted out into the front garden thank heavens it was warm. I was dusting the sidetable, nudged the mouse, and the dead screen flickered back to life.
I never meant to snoop on Toms phone or peek over his shoulder while he worked I thought that was rude but the whole thing happened by accident. My eyes landed on a chat window on some site and I saw the word darling. My face went hot; I tried to look away, but I caught that single word. I thought maybe it was just a silly line like my darling wife said or even my favourite sausage! Still, I read on.
Yeah, darling, Tom wrote, not shy about using his photo on the dating site, of course well meet tomorrow as we planned. I replay our last date every hour. Youre pure fire!
I replied, And youre a beast, my bear the skinny redhead. My whole body still hurts.
Then Tom rushed out in a hurry, and the texts turned nervous: Bear, hey! You there? Im bored! Where are you? I dropped the cleaning rag, flopped onto the sofa.
Hed warned me the next day thered be a mandatory work function you cant say no so I spent the afternoon steaming my trousers, pressing perfect pleats, picking a tie to match his suit, and ironing his shirt so there were no unwanted creases. Now I get why I was fussing over his outfit.
Tom came back, blowing his top about some teenagers whod smashed a ball through his windscreen. He shouted, swore, gestured wildly, and I nodded along, but I felt miles away in my head and heart.
Luckily he wasnt in a romantic mood, so we went to bed. Ill think about it tomorrow, I told myself, channeling that famous heroine, but I tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep.
At dawn Tom left for work, and I started the housecleaning marathon because my mum was due to drop off little Stanley, whod been staying with Grandma for a week. I scrubbed floors, sinks, tiles, while a relentless refrain of what now? looped in my mind.
I hadnt fully grasped it yet, but my memory kept feeding me fresh snippets of Toms words and deeds, each one taking on a new, painful meaning. My familiar world crumbled and I had to pick up the pieces.
One thing I knew for sure: I could never forgive him. Not even if he begged, claimed it was an accident, or swore it would never happen again. The sting would dull with time, but the betrayal would never disappear.
I also knew Stanley was only two and a half. The nursery wont have a place until autumn, so I cant get back to my job yet. I cant lean on my ageing parents, and I certainly dont want a bitter battle over child support.
Launching a messy divorce right now, while still reeling from the shock, seemed impossible do I have the strength? Will his pleas to think, dont rush, forgive make me regret later? No. Im set on divorce, just not today.
So I kept at the housework, ironing Toms shirts, pairing ties, and even laughed at his jokes in those rare moments when he remembered I was a person, not just a cleaning lady. The only feeling I couldnt shake was disgust. I dodged chores with excuses, and Tom would sigh with relief. Lately hed seemed to bloom smiling, humming, bringing me flowers for no reason. I pretended to believe his tales of business trips, meetings, and courses.
In October a nursery spot finally opened up. I went back to work and filed for divorce straight away. Tom was stunned, convinced I didnt know about his escapades. He threw a fit, hurling insults:
Pathetic slut low and dirty No wonder they call women like you homeprostitutes! You perched on my neck, waited for the kid to grow, and now that Ive raised him, goodbye, love? I thought my wife was different, but youre just like every other woman!
Our mutual friends jumped to his side, leaving me isolated. Even my mum looked at me with disappointment: How could you? If you wanted a divorce youd have done it ages ago, but you lingered, held a stone in your heart I never imagined my daughter could be so petty and calculating.
Sorry I didnt live up to your expectations, I told everyone, but my decision stayed the same.
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Mother-in-Law Anna Peters was sitting in her kitchen, watching the milk quietly simmering on the stove. She had forgotten to stir it three times already, each time remembering too late: the milk would froth, spill over, and she would clean the stove irritably with a cloth. In those moments she felt it keenly: it wasn’t really about the milk. Ever since her second grandchild was born, everything in the family seemed to derail. Her daughter grew tired, thinner, and quieter. Her son-in-law came home late, ate in silence, sometimes heading straight to the bedroom. Anna saw this and thought: how can you just leave a woman to cope alone? She spoke up. At first gently, then more sharply. First to her daughter, then to her son-in-law. And then she noticed something strange: after she spoke, the house didn’t feel lighter, but heavier. Her daughter defended her husband, he grew gloomier, and Anna returned home with a sinking feeling that once again, she hadn’t done things right. That day she went to see their vicar, not for advice, but because there was nowhere else to go with this feeling. “I suppose I’m just not a good person,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “I always do things wrong.” The vicar was sitting at his desk, writing. He set his pen aside. “Why do you think that?” Anna shrugged. “I tried to help. Instead, I only seem to make everyone angry.” He looked at her attentively, but without judgment. “You’re not a bad person. You’re just exhausted. And very anxious.” She sighed. That rang true. “I’m so worried for my daughter,” she said. “She’s so different since the baby. And him…” She waved a hand. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice.” “Do you notice what he does?” the vicar asked. Anna thought for a moment. She remembered how, last week, he washed the dishes late at night when he thought no one saw. How on Sunday he took the pram out for a walk, even though he looked as if he’d rather collapse into bed. “He does help… I suppose,” she replied doubtfully. “But not the way he should.” “And what way is that?” the vicar asked gently. Anna wanted to reply at once, but realised she didn’t know. She could only think: more, better, more attentively. But what, exactly, was hard to explain. “I just want things to be easier for her,” she said. “Then say that,” the vicar replied quietly. “Not to him, but to yourself.” She looked at him. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re not fighting for your daughter — you’re fighting her husband. And fighting means being tense. That exhausts everyone: you, and them.” Anna was silent for a long while. Then she asked, “So what should I do? Pretend everything’s fine?” “No,” he replied. “Just do what helps. Not words, but actions. And not against someone, but for someone.” On her way home, she thought over his words. Remembered how, when her daughter was a little girl, she would just sit beside her quietly if she cried — never lecturing. Why was it different now? The next day, she arrived unannounced. She brought soup. Her daughter was surprised; her son-in-law embarrassed. “I won’t stay long,” Anna said. “Just wanted to help.” She watched the children while her daughter slept. Left quietly, without a word about how hard things were, or what they ought to do. The next week, she came again. And again, the week after. She still noticed that her son-in-law was far from perfect. But she began to see other things: the way he gently picked up the baby, how at night he tucked a blanket around her daughter when he thought no one was looking. One day, in the kitchen, she couldn’t help herself and asked him, “Is it hard for you right now?” He looked startled, as if no one had ever asked before. “It’s hard,” he answered, after a pause. “Very.” And nothing more. But something sharp in the air between them was gone. Anna realised she’d been waiting for him to change. But it needed to start with her. She stopped discussing him with her daughter. When her daughter complained, she didn’t say “I told you so.” She just listened. Sometimes she took the children to give her daughter a break. Sometimes she called her son-in-law to ask how things were. It wasn’t easy. It was much easier to stay angry. But gradually, the house grew quieter. Not better, not perfect — just quieter. Free of endless tension. One day her daughter said, “Mum, thank you for being with us now, not against us.” Anna thought about those words for a long time. She understood something simple: reconciliation doesn’t come from someone admitting they’re wrong. It comes when someone is willing to stop fighting first. She still wanted her son-in-law to be more attentive. That wish hadn’t gone away. But alongside it lived something more important: for her family to have peace. And every time the old feeling — frustration, resentment, the urge to criticise — rose up, she asked herself: Do I want to be right, or do I want to make things easier for them? Almost always, the answer showed her what to do next.
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