My Husband Compared Me to His Ex-Wife, So I Suggested He Go Back to Her

Oliver leaned back from the steaming, rubyred stew that filled the kitchen, the scent of fresh parsley, garlic and rich stock swirling like a lowlying fog over a deserted moor. The ladle in Natalies hand trembled for a moment, then fell back into the pot. A single name, spoken in the ordinary tone of a Tuesday evening, shattered the cosy domestic scene and turned the warm hearth into a cold crypt of memory.

Beatrice. Olivers first wife. A legend in his mind, a phantom that had lingered in the flat for two years of their marriage.

Oliver, Natalie tried to keep her voice even, though a knot of hurt tightened in her chest, Im making the stew exactly as my grandmother taught me. You loved it, you praised it a week ago and asked for more. Whats changed?

Oliver shrugged, broke off a piece of crusty seed loaf and chewed lazily while his eye remained glued to the television set above the mantel.

Nothings changed, Nat. It just reminded me of Beatrice. She had a light touch with the spices, you knowshe could feel the balance. Its a talent you cant learn. Dont take it personally; I see you trying. Just stating a fact. Eat, itll cool down.

Natalie lowered the ladle slowly, her appetite evaporating. She sat opposite him, watching his profile: silver at the temples, broad shoulders, the steady gaze of someone who, three years ago, had seemed a perfect match. Divorced, childless, diligent, hed spoken little of his previous marriage, saying only that they just didnt click. She, ever respectful, never pried. She understood that a man in his forties carried a past and she honoured it.

Who could have guessed how stubborn that past would become?

The first six months after the wedding were blissful. Then, as if an invisible gate had opened, memories of Beatrice began to spill from Olivers mouth. At first they were rare, casual comments: Oh, Beatrice had the same teacup, She loved that film. Natalie brushed them off as ordinary. But the comparisons grew more frequent and, cruelly, never in her favour.

The shirts poorly pressed, Oliver noted the next morning as he prepared for work, turning in front of the mirror and scrutinising the collar. The crease is uneven. Beatrice always used a special spray, and her iron was a steamgenerator, I think. Her trouser seams were flawless. This one well, itll do for the countryside.

Natalie, who had risen at six to make him breakfast and iron his suit, felt a lump rise in her throat.

Oliver, I have a regular iron and I iron the way I know how. If you dont like it, you can take the clothes to the cleaners or iron them yourself.

He stared at his reflection, bewildered.

Whats that? Im just sharing a tip. Maybe you should buy the spray? I just want you to improve. Beatrice, by the way, was always meticulous about the little things. Her house was spotless, not a speck of dust.

Im tidy too, Natalie replied quietly, recalling the twohour marathon of scrubbing the bathroom the night before. I work fulltime just like you.

Beatrice worked too, and she did everything on schedule. Anyway, Im off. Ill be late this evening, Mums needs help with a tap.

The door slammed. Natalie was left alone in the quiet flat. She moved to the window, watching Oliver disappear into his car. Beatrice, Beatrice, Beatricethe name looped in her mind like a scratched record. If Beatrice had been an angel of the kitchen and a fairy of cleanliness, why had they split? Oliver always dodged the question, mumbling something about people change or the routine gets stale.

That night Natalie decided not to cook dinner. She had no appetite, and why bother when everything would be not like Beatrices anyway? She bought premade cabbage rolls from the supermarket, heated them, and settled with a book.

Oliver returned around nine, angry and famished.

Mum says hello, he growled, slipping off his shoes. Mrs. Green also asked about that cake recipe you never use. She says Beatrice always baked on weekends, the house smelled of pastry, she created a cosy home. Our place always reeks of readymade meals.

Natalie closed the book. Calm was slipping further away.

Mrs. Green can bake herself if she wants. I dont enjoy fiddling with dough.

Exactly! Oliver lifted a finger triumphantly, as if catching her in a crime. A woman should love to tend the hearth. Beatrice

Enough! Natalie snapped, standing up so abruptly that the book thudded to the floor. Enough, Oliver. I hear that name more often than my own. Beatrice cooked, ironed, cleaned, breathed perfectly! If she was so perfect, why didnt you stay together?

Oliver looked lost. He hadnt expected this outburst from the usually placid Natalie.

There were reasons. She was difficult, domineering, liked to command.

So Im just easygoing? Natalies sarcasm was bitter. I keep quiet, I try, and you keep poking me with her virtues. Im fed up.

Dont exaggerate, he waved her off, moving toward the kitchen. Whats for dinner? More takeaway? Beatrice would never let me eat factory food. She cared about my stomach.

Natalie slipped away to the bedroom. That night she stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep, a plan forming in the darknessa plan that could either shatter their marriage completely or save it. She would no longer live with three: herself, Oliver, and the ghost of Beatrice.

Saturday arrived, the day traditionally set aside for housework and shopping. Yet nothing went as scripted.

In the morning, Natalie’s motherinlaw, Martha, rang.

Hello, dear, her voice dripped honey and venom. Oliver and I are going to the cemetery tomorrow to visit his father. We need the fence painted. Could you make some scones for the road? No cabbage, Oliver gets heartburn. Meat, please. And the pastry doughthin, like we used to make in the family.

Natalie breathed deeply, looking at her reflection in the hallway mirror.

Mrs. Green, Im working tomorrow. Its a reporting week, Ive got files to sort. I can buy the scones from the bakery near the tube, theyre lovely.

Working on a Sunday? Thats a sin, Nat. Leaving a hungry husband is a sin. Beatrice never slacked for the family. Shed even get up at night to bake pancakes if Oliver asked.

Let Beatrice bake, Natalie snapped, surprising herself, and hung up.

Oliver, who had heard the tail end of the call, emerged from the bathroom with a toothbrush in his mouth.

Why are you snapping at your mother? Shes old, he muttered.

Im setting boundaries. Im not Beatrice, Oliver. Im Natalie. I wont be baking pies at midnight.

Of course, he spat, splashing toothpaste into the sink. All you do is hide behind paperwork. You have no femininity. Beatrice was a real womancareer, husband, home. And you sigh.

He tossed his hands and stalked to the kettle. Natalie stood in the middle of the room, a cold resolve spreading through her. Each reference to Beatrice struck like a hammer against a crystal vase; the vase was already cracked, and a final shard was about to fall.

She walked calmly to the bedroom, opened the large wheeled suitcase on the bed.

Oliver peeked in, chewing a sandwich.

Whats this? A business trip? Helping Mum with the garden?

Natalie said nothing. She began methodically pulling Olivers shirts, trousers, sweaters, socks from the wardrobeeach item hed once ironed with a wrong iron, each pair of pants with imperfect seams.

What are you doing? Oliver halted, bewildered, then anxious. Nat, what?

Im helping you, Oliver, she replied evenly, folding his favourite jumper. Ive realised Im not worthy. I cant add sugar to the stew, I cant starch collars, I cant bake midnight pies. Im a poor housewife, not feminine enough, and my iron is cheap. I cant compete with an ideal.

What ideal? Stop this circus! He lunged for a shirt; she sidestepped.

Dont interrupt. Ive thought this through. You live in constant stress, tolerating my sour food, my laziness. You suffer, recalling how good it was with Beatrice. I dont want to be the cause of your suffering. I love you, Oliver, and I want you happy. Your happiness seems locked in that past marriage.

She grabbed his underwear and tossed them into the suitcase.

So I propose the only sensible solution: go back to Beatrice.

Silence hung, broken only by the ticking wall clock and Olivers heavy breathing.

Youre mad, he whispered. Which Beatrice? We divorced five years ago! Shes married now, I think I dont know!

It doesnt matter, Natalie said, zipping the suitcase. You think of her so often, describe her so vividly, Im convinced she still loves you. Shell welcome you back, feed you the right stew, iron your shirts with a steamgenerator, and youll live happily ever afterwithout my storebought cabbage rolls.

She set the suitcase on the floor, pulled the handle out.

Everythings packed. I even put your toothbrush, razor. You can leave right now. Mrs. Green will be thrilled to hear youre reuniting with the saintly Beatrice.

Oliver stood, gasping for air like a fish flopping on a shore. He had grown used to Natalies quiet compliance, to her soothing apologies. He had never imagined she could act so decisively.

Natasha, come on, thats absurd. Why pack a suitcase? This is childish. Lets just stay, Ill help with the report.

Natalie shook her head. There was no anger, only fatigue and disappointment.

No, Oliver. This is selfrespect. Ive endured a year trying to match an illusion. I learned you cant win against a ghost. A living person will always lose to a perfect image. I wont be secondrate in my own home.

She rolled the suitcase into the hallway.

Leave. Stay with Mum. Think it over. Or try to win Beatrice back. Im not holding you here.

Oliver tried for ten minutes to joke, then to shout, then to plead, but Natalie remained unmoved. She opened the front door, waited, and finally he snatched the suitcase, muttering, Youll regret this, you fool, before storming out onto the landing.

Natalie locked the door on both bolts, slid down the wall, and wepttears of relief. The flat finally fell silent; the spectre of Beatrice seemed to drift away with him.

A week passed. Oliver lodged with his mother. Mrs. Green called Natalie daily, alternating between curses and pleas to take the wayward son back. Natalie never answered. She enjoyed life, cooking salads she liked, steaming cod, ordering pizza. No one nagged about underseasoned rice or dust on the mantle.

One Thursday evening, returning from work, Natalie saw a familiar car at the block. Oliver sat inside, head rested on the steering wheel. He leapt out as she approached, his shirt rumpled, threeday beard, eyes weary.

Natalie, we need to talk.

Speak, she stopped, not inviting him inside.

I I was an idiot. Ive figured it out.

What did you figure out? That Beatrice wont take you back? she said, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Oliver blushed and looked down.

I called her, he admitted quietly. Just to see how she was. I thought maybe

And?

She sent me away. Said I was a bore, a tyrant, that shes now with a man who lifts her without worrying about a speck of dust. She said I wrecked five years of her life with my nitpicking.

Natalie laughed, a genuine, loud laugh. The puzzle clicked into place.

So the perfect Beatrice was just a product of your imagination? A phantom you created to avoid seeing your own flaws?

Probably, Oliver shifted his weight. Living with Mum is impossible. She nagges me from dawn to duskcup placement, snoring, she constantly recalls her own perfect father, though they fought daily. Nat, let me back. I swear Ill stop talking about Beatrice. I realise how lucky I am with youwarm, real, genuine. Im a fool.

She looked at him, feeling a pang of pity. He was a man who couldnt value the present, forever chasing a madeup past.

Natalie, she said thoughtfully, Im not sure I want you back. Ive grown to like being alone. No one compares me to anyone else. No one critiques my cooking.

Please, Nat! Ill change! Ill iron my own shirts! Ill learn to cook, I swear! Give me a chancejust one.

She stared at the heel of her shoes, considering forgiveness. Perhaps a chance, but with conditions.

Fine, she finally said. One chance, with rules.

Anything!

First: the name Beatrice is banned in this house. If I hear it, the suitcase will appear at the door in a minute, and youll be out. Second: stop comparing me to anyoneMum, a neighbour, anyone. I am me. If you dont like me, look elsewhere. Third: weekends we either cook together or order food. Im not a chef.

Deal! Deal! Oliver shouted, his enthusiasm making his head bounce.

Last one. Go to the florist right now and bring me the biggest bouquet they have. Not Beatrice liked, but what I love. Do you remember which flowers I adore?

Oliver froze, sweat beading his forehead. He scrambled through his mind.

Lilies? No, they give you a headache. Roses? Too common Tulips! You like white tulips, right?

Natalies smile was barely a twitch.

Peonies, Oliver. I love peonies. Tulips will do if theyre fresh. You have an hour.

He bolted to his car, slammed the accelerator, and the tires screamed. Natalie watched him go, uncertain how long his zeal would last. Perhaps in six months hed start complaining again, but she knew one thing: she had changed. She would never again let herself be measured against ghosts. The suitcase would remain on the shelf as a reminder.

When Oliver returned, clutching a massive bundle of soft pink peoniesapparently sourced in autumn from a boutique hed driven half the country forthe door opened.

That night they ate pizza. Oliver devoured it as if it were ambrosia, praising the crisp crust.

Delicious, he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. You pick the best delivery every time.

Natalie smiled. The spectre of Beatrice, finally dispelled, dissolved into the perfume of peonies and pepperoni. The next day Mrs. Green called, demanding to know if her daughterinlaw was still the sufferer. Natalie replied, Mum, stay out of it. Im making a brilliant tiramisu instead.

Life settled. Natalie knew respect for herself was a foundation that could not be shattered, even for the greatest love. And if it ever trembled again, she already knew how to pack a suitcase in fifteen minutes.