Proven Beyond Doubt

They say a wife should be at least ten years younger than her husband, as if nature herself had decreed that a man must be accompanied by a youthful maiden. I remembered that remark with a smile, for my husband, Edward Thompson, had just earned his doctorate the previous year. He had spent the last decade poring over arachnids, cataloguing every spider he could find, as though the worlds insects were his sole companions. And, as the old saying goes, even spiders enjoy a good dinner, a thought that made me chuckle.

Did you not realise when you proposed that there was only a year between us? I asked, trying not to burst into laughter.

Thats precisely the point, he retorted. Youre older than me!

One year, I corrected. What does that matter?

The very fact of it! he snapped, his tone sharp. I was growing weary of his constant criticism. Lately, Edward seemed intent on finding fault in everything I didmy weight, my thinning hair, even my taste in clothes. His remarks, thinly veiled as compliments, felt more like insults than anything else.

Im speaking of natures design, he said, of how a species ensures its best chance of thriving. Yet you turn it into petty quarrels. Perhaps you should read a book.

His words drove me to the brink of a roar. He often hinted that my education fell short of his own, a joke at first, but after his thesis was defended it turned into a cold weapon.

When we first married, Edward was a penniless doctoral student living in a cramped university hall, scraping together odd jobs while dreaming of great discoveries. He was twentyfive, and we met in the town park where I walked my terrier, Buster. He claimed it was destiny that we lived on adjoining streets and happened upon each other once a weekhim on his way to the laboratory, me on my evening stroll. I was shy, but his easy smile won me over, and I could scarcely believe my luck that such a charming young man would notice a quiet girl like me.

My family life had been uneasy. My mother preferred a bottle to her own daughter, and my father was no better. In practice, I was raised by my grandmother, a frail lady who was often ill. I left school early to help her, never pursuing higher education; I did manage a seamstress course at the local technical college. When my grandmothers health briefly improved, I worked at a garment factory until it shut down.

We survived on my grandmothers modest pension, renting out a spare room in her twobed flat to make ends meet. I spent my evenings on the balcony, dreaming of a different life. So when Edward asked me out and soon after proposed, it felt like a dream.

I am no lady of wealth, I would say to myself, a plain, unadorned girl.

You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known, Edward would answer, dont worry. Ill find us a second job, and well have a place of our own.

He indeed took night shifts after his lab work, earning enough for us to move into a modest cottage once my grandmother passed and left us her flat. With a roof over our heads, we could afford a bit more. Edward kept his post at the university, while I took occasional sewing commissions, first simple skirts and dresses, then more elaborate pieces.

A few years later our son, Thomas, was born. I devoted myself wholly to him, sewing only when I could between nappies. Edwards salary grew respectable enough that we never went hungry, though his lab work left him exhausted, with little time left for his own research. How could one think of grand theories when a family must be fed?

Thomas excelled at school, earning a gold medal, and won a place at a prestigious university in London. He dreamed of following his fathers scientific path, though he chose a different specialty. Edward swelled with pride, boasting to colleagues about his sons achievements.

Look at that lad, destined for fellowship, they would say, nudging Edward to finally finish his own dissertation. Better late than never; you have all that data already.

I hovered like a hen over a brood, sweeping away dust so he could write. He stopped doing any chores; I even refused to let him heat his soup in the microwave, fearing it would distract him from his genius thoughts.

At first his dedication was inspiring; he toiled late into the night, but progress was slow. Calculations needed revising, tables required reformatting. Frustration turned into anger, and he began lashing out at me.

Why do you always make the same pea soup? he barked one evening, brandishing a bowl.

It was just yesterday, I protested. Before that it was beef stew.

No, it was pea soup yesterday, he insisted.

Fine, perhaps the day before, I sighed, I try to vary the menu, you know.

He muttered, Do better, and stalked away.

His temper grew childish. He complained about cold tea, calling it tasting of dung when I brought him a cup. He demanded I turn the television down, then, moments later, seized the remote and lowered the volume to a whisper, calling my favourite cooking show idiotic rubbish.

Turn it up! I want sound! I snapped.

He railed, Your programmes are for simpletons! Read a book instead! The exchange left me bruised, the familiar refrain youre not clever enough echoing in my mind.

When Edward finally defended his thesis, his triumph was sour. He declared I could not match his intellect, turning his achievement into a wedge between us.

One evening I burnt a cherry pie while he was in a foul mood.

What are these black lumps? he exclaimed, flinging a slice onto the table.

I overbaked it, I admitted, feeling the sting of his scorn. Ive been sewing all day; the orders keep coming.

Instead of sewing, you should be cooking properly, he retorted. Your little jobs bring no money; you should be reading, broadening your mind.

Ive been stitching for half my life, I replied, hurt. It does bring in some income. If I took on more work, I could earn better.

Who needs those rags? he sneered. No shops will buy them.

People do want them, I argued, describing the decent fabrics I used, the prices, the demand from mothers and young ladies for comfortable attire.

His sarcasm turned to laughter. You think youll open a boutique? he jeered.

Ill prove you wrong, I said, fire in my voice. Im not a girl any more; Ill start my own shop.

I set aside my earnings for advertising, asking a friends daughter to help post notices online. At first orders were scarce, and Edward mocked, Your business failed, hasnt it?

Gradually, word spread. Mothers on maternity leave and women who liked practical clothing began ordering trousers and sweatshirts. The friends daughter took photographs, handled social media, and managed correspondence. The modest venture grew; I found myself at the sewing machine almost constantly, fulfilling bulk orders for a large family.

Edward would wryly ask, Are you still at the machine? while I rattled the needle. The fridge has meat; youll have to heat it yourself, I replied, watching his irritation flare.

The work brought a steady income. Friends joked, Soon youll earn more than your husband. I didnt deny it.

One night Edward returned home to find only a plate of fried cutlets in the kitchen.

Wheres dinner? he complained.

I only managed the cutlets, I said. No sides. If you want, buy some bread or fry an egg.

He stared at the seam I was stitching, his criticism sharp. You spend all your time on these trinkets instead of feeding your husband.

Im busy because I have orders, I retorted. You could cook sometimes; it wouldnt be the end of the world.

He scoffed, Your sewing is like a fashion show, not a real job.

Im tired of your condescending remarks, I said. Dont distract me. Im not hindering your dissertation; let me work.

His disdain lingered, but the turning point came at the departments New Year party. I arrived in a dress of my own making, and it turned heads. Men complimented, women envied, younger colleagues asked for the shops name. A colleague laughed, Your wifes a real business lady; shell support you in old age. Edward, standing in a corner with a sour expression, watched as I talked animatedly about my atelier.

From that night onward, his irritation softened. When I hired a young seamstress as an assistant, he finally admitted, with a faint smile, Youve built a proper business, havent you?

You doubted me, I said, smiling without malice.

His pride, however grudging, grew. He no longer mocked my lack of a degree, nor called me a simpleton. He even began chopping potatoes for dinner when the fridge held only cutlets, and his dissertation, once a source of tension, rested comfortably on his shelf.

Now, looking back across the decades, I see how a woman once dismissed as a plain girl forged a livelihood from needle and thread, outlasting the doubts of a man who once believed intellect alone defined worth. The years have taught both of us that perseverance, however humble, can stitch together a life richer than any dissertation ever could.