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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.
You Don’t Deserve It — “After my divorce, I thought I’d never be able to trust anyone again,” Andrew said, turning an empty espresso cup between his fingers. His voice broke and trembled so convincingly that Ksenia instinctively leaned closer. “You know, when you’ve been betrayed, it’s like losing a part of yourself. She left a scar I’ll never get over. I truly believed I wouldn’t survive it…” Andrew sighed heavily and talked for a long time—about the wife who never appreciated him, about the pain that wouldn’t let go, about how terrified he was to start over. Every word settled in Ksenia’s heart like a warm pebble, and she already imagined she’d be the woman to restore his faith in love. Together, they would heal his wounds. He’d finally see that real happiness was possible—with her. It wasn’t until their second date, between dessert and coffee, that Andrew mentioned Maxim… “I have a son, by the way. He’s seven. He lives with his mother, but spends every weekend with me. The court decided that.” “That’s wonderful!” Ksenia gave a bright smile. “Children are such a blessing.” She pictured Saturday morning breakfasts for three, trips to the park, cozy evenings watching TV. The boy would need a woman’s care, a mother’s warmth. She would be his second mum—not to replace the real one, of course, but to be someone close, someone he could rely on… “You’re really sure you don’t mind?” Andrew looked at her with an odd smirk that Ksenia mistook for distrust. “Most women run for the hills when they hear I have a child.” “I’m not most women,” she replied proudly. …The first weekend with Maxim was a proper celebration. Ksenia made blueberry pancakes—his favourite, as Andrew had warned her. She patiently sat with a maths textbook, making problems easy to understand, washed his dinosaur T-shirt, ironed his school uniform, made sure he was in bed by nine. “You should take a break,” she told Andrew one day, noticing how he sprawled out on the sofa with the remote in his hand. “I’ve got this.” Andrew nodded—gratefully, so she thought at the time. Now she realised it was the nod of a man accepting what was rightfully his. …Months became years. Ksenia worked as a manager in a logistics company—out at eight in the morning, back at seven at night. The pay was pretty decent, as far as London went. Enough for two. But there were three of them. “They’ve delayed the project again,” Andrew would announce as if reporting a natural disaster. “The client bailed. But there’s a big contract just round the corner, I promise.” The big contract hovered on the horizon for a year and a half. Sometimes it seemed closer, sometimes it drifted away, but it never actually arrived. The bills, on the other hand, showed up right on cue. Rent. Electricity. Internet. Groceries. Child maintenance for Marina. New trainers for Max. School fees. Ksenia paid the lot without complaint. She saved on lunches, brought in tubs of pasta, refused to take a taxi even in the pouring rain. She hadn’t splashed out on a manicure for over a year—did her own nails, trying not to think about how she used to afford pampering at the salon. In three years Andrew gave her flowers exactly three times. She remembered each bunch—cheap, slightly withered supermarket roses from the corner stall, the thorns already broken off. Probably a discount… The first bouquet came as an apology after Andrew called her hysterical in front of Max. The second—after a row when her friend visited with no warning. The third was brought home after he missed her birthday because he stayed out with his mates (or simply forgot…) “Andrew, I don’t need expensive presents,” she tried to keep her voice gentle, choosing every word. “But sometimes, I’d just like to know you’re thinking of me. Even a card…” His face twisted instantly. “Money, it’s always about money with you, isn’t it? Presents, presents. Does love mean anything to you? All I’ve been through, and you complain?” “I didn’t mean—” “You don’t deserve it.” Andrew spat the words at her like mud. “After everything I’ve done for you, you still find something to whinge about.” Ksenia fell silent. She always did—it was just easier that way. Easier to live, easier to breathe, easier to pretend everything was fine. Strangely, Andrew always managed to find money for nights out with friends. Pubs, watching the football, café meetups every Thursday. He’d come home tipsy and cheerful, reeking of sweat and cigarettes, falling onto the bed without noticing Ksenia was still awake. She told herself: this is just how things are. Love means sacrifice. Love means patience. He’ll change. Of course he’ll change. I just have to wait a bit longer, love him a bit harder, give him all the support he needs—he’s been through so much… …Any talk of a wedding was like walking through a minefield. “We’re happy as we are—why do we need a piece of paper?” Andrew would shrug off the subject as if batting away a fly. “After what happened with Marina, I need time.” “Three years, Andrew. Three years is a long time.” “You’re putting pressure on me! It’s always the same with you.” He’d storm out of the room and end the conversation. Ksenia really wanted children. Her own, flesh and blood. She was twenty-eight, and her biological clock seemed to tick louder every month. But Andrew wasn’t up for being a father again—he already had a son, and, in his mind, that was plenty. …That Saturday she only asked for one day. Just one single day. “The girls have invited me round. We haven’t seen each other in ages. I’ll be back by evening.” Andrew looked at her as if she’d just announced plans to run off to another continent. “And Max?” “You’re his dad. You can spend the day with your son.” “So now you’re abandoning us? On a Saturday? When I was planning to have a break?” Ksenia blinked. Then blinked again. In three years she had never left them alone. Not once. She cooked, cleaned, helped with schoolwork, did the washing, ironing—all while holding down a full-time job. “I just want to see my friends. For a few hours… And he’s your son, Andrew. Surely you can spend one day with him without me?” “You should love my son as you love me!” Andrew suddenly roared. “You’re living in my flat, eating my food, and now you’re showing your true colours?!” His flat. His food. Ksenia was the one paying the rent. Ksenia bought the food from her wages. For three years she’d supported a man who shouted at her for wanting a day with her friends. She looked at Andrew—at his twisted face, the vein bulging on his forehead, clenched fists—and for the first time, truly saw him. Not the tragic victim of fate, not some lost soul in need of saving, but a grown man who was a master at exploiting someone else’s kindness. To him, Ksenia wasn’t a beloved partner or a future wife—just a financial backer and unpaid housekeeper. Nothing more. When Andrew left to drop Max off with Marina, Ksenia pulled out a travel bag. Her hands moved calmly, confidently—no shaking, no doubt. Passport. Phone. Charger. A couple of T-shirts. Jeans. The rest she could buy later. The rest didn’t matter. She didn’t bother leaving a note. What was the point of explaining things to someone who never really saw her anyway? The door closed quietly behind her. No drama. The phone calls started within the hour. First one, then another, then a deluge—an incessant ringing that made the phone vibrate in her hand. “Ksenia, where are you?! What’s going on?! I come home and you’re not here! How dare you? Where’s dinner? Am I supposed to go hungry? What’s all this nonsense?” She listened to his voice—angry, demanding, full of self-righteous outrage—and was amazed. Even now, when she’d left, Andrew only thought about himself. His inconvenience. Who would cook for him now? Not a single “sorry.” Not one “are you okay?” Just “how dare you.” Ksenia blocked his number. Then she found his profile in her chat app—blocked it. Social media—blocked. Every avenue he could use to reach her, she built a wall. Three years. Three years of living with a man who didn’t love her. Who used her kindness like it was disposable. Who convinced her that sacrificing herself was what love was all about. But love isn’t like that. Love doesn’t humiliate. Love doesn’t turn a living, breathing person into the hired help. Ksenia walked through the London evening—and, for the first time in ages, breathing came easy. She vowed to herself: never again would she confuse love with self-sacrifice. Never again would she rescue those who only trade on pity. Always, from now on, she would choose herself. Only herself.
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