What You Really Need is a Housekeeper, Not a Wife

You really need a housekeeper, not a wife

Mum, Mollys chewed my pencil again!

Sophie stormed into the kitchen, brandishing half a mauled coloured pencil. Hot on her heels came Molly, their guilty-looking Labrador, tail wagging so violently you could practically hear the air whistle. Liz glanced up from the stove, where soup was bubbling in one pan while sausages sizzled in another and groaned. Third pencil today.

Pop it in the bin and grab a new one from the drawer. Tom, have you finished your maths?
Almost! came the reply from the living room.

In Toms world, almost meant not even started, but my phones having a lovely time. Liz knew this, but right now, sausages needed turning, the soup was threatening to erupt, four-year-old Oliver was making a lurching crawl toward the dogs bowls, and shed better not forget the washing waiting in the machine.

Thirty-two years old. Three kids. One husband. One mother-in-law. One Labrador. And Lizthe only thing stopping the household from imploding.

Liz rarely got ill. Not because she was some sturdy oak of a woman, but because she simply couldnt afford the luxury. Whod feed everyone? Whod get the kids ready for school? Whod walk Molly? The answer was always the same: absolutely no one.

Elizabeth, is supper nearly ready?

Edith appeared at the kitchen door, leaning on her walking stick. Eighty-five, sharp as a tack, appetite like a dockworker.

In the whole five years of living together, Liz could count on one hand the number of times Edith had actually helped out.

Ten minutes, Mrs Bennett.

Edith nodded serenely and shuffled off to the sitting room. Sometimeson rare and wondrous eveningsshed read Oliver a bedtime story. Goldilocks or The Little Red Henthats about as adventurous as the repertoire got, but Oliver adored it. The rest of the time, Edith watched Corrie in her room and awaited her next meal.

The clock announced it was half past five just as the front door clicked open. Dave entered, wearing the look of a man whod run a marathonwith a pebble in his shoe.

Supper ready?

Not even a Hello. Liz pointed wordlessly at the set table. Dave washed his hands, took his chair, andlike witchcraftfound the TV remote fused to his palm.

Sophie got top marks in reading today, Liz tried.
Mmm, said Dave.
And Tom needs a hand with his science project.
Uh-huh.

Mmm was the most she ever got out of him. After supper, Dave would relocate to the sofa. His contribution to the day finished. He brought home the baconliterally, sometimesso what more could anyone possibly want?

When the house finally fell silent and the kids were asleep, Liz cracked open her laptop. Remote work for an online shopprocessing orders, emailing customers, muddling through deliveries. Not glamorous, but it paid for bits and bobs. Plus, shed been renting out her old flat for four years now.

Probably should just move, she thought. But then: Toms settled at a good school, Sophie loves her nursery, couldnt survive without the rent money… She closed the laptop. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.

December didnt only bring Christmas madness; it invited the flu too. The temperature hit 39C in record time. Liz just about managed to stagger to bed.

Mum, youre ill, Tom announced, peering in.

Dave emerged behind him, concern painted on his facethough not for his wife.

Just dont give it to Mums mum. At her age, flus proper dangerous.

Liz closed her eyes. Of course. Edith. Dont forget whats really important.

The next three days blurred into delirium: fever, sweaty pillow, dry lips. No onehusband, children, or Edithbothered to bring Liz so much as a sip of water. Kettle, ten steps away, and Liz took every one herself, clutching the walls for support.

Everyone only worried about Edith. Dont go in there, Mums germy. Wear your mask past the bedroom. Should she sleep elsewhere?

SheLizbecame the contagious warning, the danger to actual family.

A week later, the virus came for them. Oliver got it firstsnuffly and wailing. Sophie next. Then Dave made a production of collapsing into bed with a 37.2C fever. Edith caught it lastwith predictably dramatic flair.

Liz, still paste-coloured and hardly upright, was back at it: chicken soup, chemist run, thermometers, cleaning, laundry. As everbut now on legs made of paper.

Dave, take Oliver for an hour, will you? I need the chemist.

He rolled his eyes like a tired Shakespearean, but agreed. Exactly sixty minutes laterLiz checkedhe returned the boy to the bedroom.

Im shattered. Ive got a fever too, you know.

Thirty-six-point-eight. Liz checked. Twice.

Spring was no kinder, delivering up a new cold, new sick kids, new sleepless nights. Oliver whimpered, Sophie spat out her medicine, Edith demanded a special dinner, and in the middle stood Daveannoyingly healthy.

Dave, can you help?
Liz, I did last time. That was the weekend. I work. Im knackered.

A shrug. That universal gesture of male immunity. Evenings hed sit, expect a hot meal, ignore the chaos. Ill children, wrecked wife, untidy housenot his show.

One night, after Oliver finally dozed and the older ones did their homework, Liz faced her husband. The football hummed on TV.

Why dont you ever help me? Why dont you help at all?

Dave didnt turn. Didnt answer. Just turned the volume up.

Liz stared at the back of his head until everything shimmered into the kind of clarity you only get while standing in a draft at midnight.

The next morning, she reached for the big duffel bags. Kids clothes, toys, official papers. Tom parked himself in the doorway:

Mum, are we going somewhere?
To Nanna Ellies.
For long?
Well see.

Sophie began hopping aboutNanna Ellies baking was legendary. Oliver didnt know what was what, but grabbed his battered toy rabbit just in case.

At the last minute, Liz remembered Molly. Shed come tooeven Labradors deserve a bolt for freedom.

Dave reclined on the sofa. He didnt move a muscle for bags or kids in coats or anything else. When Liz finally closed the door behind her, he probably just switched the channel.

Eleanor took them in no questions asked. Fed them, hugged them, no grand pronouncements necessary. Fifty-eight, retired teacher, champion hug-giver.

Stay as long as you need.

The phone began to ring on day three. Dave.

Liz, come back. Its a tip here. No food. Edith wont stop asking for things.

No I miss you. No The kids need me. Just inconvenience, as ever.

Dave, what you want isnt a wife. You want a housekeeper.
What? Hang on
Have you said you miss the kids? Once?

Long, leaden silence.

I pay the bills, he said eventually. What more do you want?

Liz hung up. Done. And she felt, curiously, better than she had in ages.

Two weeks later, Lizs tenants moved out. They packed their things, shifted everything in a day. Tom started at a new school, Sophie found a new nursery. Turned out, none of it was half as hard as shed imagined.

Their final call was the last of all. Lizs years of stifled words, endless exhaustion, and nights alone tending to feverish children erupted in a ten-minute monologue that you couldnt have stopped with all the sandbags in Kent.

Twelve years! Twelve bloody years as an unpaid maid! Not once, not even once, have you asked how I am. Or if Im alright. Ive had enough!

She blocked his number. Filed for divorce.

The hearing lasted twenty minutes. Dave didnt argue. Signed the child-support forms, nodded at the judge, left. Maybe he figured something out; more likely, he just couldnt be fussed anymore.

That night, Liz sat at the kitchen table in her old-new flat. Tom read in his room, Sophie drew furiously, tongue poking out, Oliver built towers on the rug.

Peace. Quiet. Molly lay at her feet, chin resting on her paws.

There was still cooking, cleaning, bedtime, and work. But at least now, it was for the ones who truly were her family. And shed make sure they never ended up anything like their father.

Mum, Sophie piped up, head cocked, you smile more now.

Liz grinned again. Sophie wasnt wrong.