Not Good Enough
Mums brought round sausage rolls again, said Simon, plonking a paper bag on the kitchen table. Now thats what I call proper home cooking! Unlike you, Ellenyou cant seem to fry a pancake to save your life.
Ellen froze over the kitchen sink, clutching a sponge. Water kept trickling, but she didnt register its soundher husbands voice rang in her ears with that familiar, offhand tone, as if he were commenting on the weather.
What did you just say? She turned, forcing herself to stay calm.
Oh, come on, whats wrong with that? Simon shrugged, peeling back the bag and pulling out a gleaming golden sausage roll. Just being honest. Mums always baking away, while your pancakes are either blobs or raw. Can it really be that difficult?
Simon, I handed in that project today, she placed the sponge by the sink with deliberate care. Three months work. The clients delighted. Theyve promised a bonus.
Well done, he conceded with a mouthful of pastry. But whats that got to do with pancakes? Its not like work stops you cooking, is it? Mum always managedhouse spotless, dinner on the table, and still put in a shift at the surgery.
Your mum worked as a receptionist in the local GP surgery, Ellen said, quietly. And she left at four every day.
So what? She always managed. But you, its either work or youre too tired. Ellen, familys supposed to come first.
Something inside Ellen gave waynot a full break, just a hairline crack. She wiped her hands on the tea towel and went into the living room without replying. Simons disgruntled munching followed her, but she didnt look back.
Theyd been married two years now, met at a work domutual friends, drinks, twinkly lights. Simon seemed reliable, steady, the sort of man you could map out your future with. He did the whole romantic thing: flowers, dinners out, sincerely claimed to want something serious. Which, at twenty-eight, sounded about right to Ellen. She wanted rootsmaybe a family. Her mother, Mary, had raised Ellen alone; her dad had bailed when she was three. Marys mantra was simple: Pick a decent bloke, not a drunk or a cheat. And Simon really was decent. Didnt drink much, certainly didnt wander, had a solid sales job at a building supply firm, brought in a good wage, always polite to Mary.
It was only after the wedding that Ellen really met her mother-in-law. That is, before the wedding theyd crossed paths at birthdays, exchanged pleasantries, but nothing more. Sandra Smith came as a package: the hair, the loud opinions, the constant stream of helpful advice. At first, Ellen smiled. Surely Sandra just wanted to help. But advice quickly became instruction, and instruction became outright scolding.
Ellen, love, youve left dust on those shelves again, Sandra would gasp during visits. Simons used to proper standards. I always kept everything tip-top, you know.
Mrs Smith, I dont get home till seven, Ellen would plead. Then theres dinner, laundry, ironing
Well, get up earlier, darling. I was always on my feet by half six. House sorted, breakfast done for your father. Honestly, a man needs to feel cared for.
Simon would keep quiet, occasionally nodding, or offer, Mums right, Ellen, just try a bit harder. And so Ellen tried. She started waking at six, made breakfasts, cleaned at night, ironed his shirts. Her boss was pleasedshe ran complicated engineering projects for shopping centres, earning good money. But at home, none of that seemed to matter. Pancakes, apparently, did.
Youre sulking again? Simon came into the living room, half-eaten sausage roll in hand. Look, Im not being nastyI just want the place to feel homey. Like at Mums.
Well, since you brought it up, did you know the kitchen taps been leaking for a month? she shot back without looking up.
So?
Ive asked three times for you to fix it.
Havent had timework, meetings, you know what my schedules like.
And mines a holiday camp, is it? Ellen turned round at last. Simon, you do remember Ive got a job too? Deadlines, meetings, pressurering any bells?
I know, he shrugged. But the housework doesnt just go away. I mean, youre the woman.
There it was. Youre the woman. As if that explained everything. As if being female meant she should naturally conjure up perfect pancakes, dust-free skirting boards and tireless cheer.
And youre a man, Ellen said, softly. And that taps still dripping.
Oh, come off it, Simon scowled. Im not handy. Call a plumber.
And Im not a pancake specialist. Buy some from the shop.
Thats different! he huffed, raising his voice. Fixing taps is a proper skill. Any woman can do pancakes.
And whys that?
Because well… Its tradition, isnt it? Its what makes a house a home. Mum always baked, her mum too.
Ellen stood and gazed out at the dull February drizzle. She thought suddenly of her own mother, Mary. Mary rarely made pancakes, except maybe at Shrove Tuesday. Mary slogged three jobs so Ellen could go to university, always found time to listen, to encourage. And never once told Ellen she should. She just said: You can. Learn, work, choose.
I think Ill go see Mum tomorrow, Ellen said, eyes on the darkening garden. Might stay for a week. Clear my head.
Clear your head about what? concern crept into Simons voice. Youre not really upset over pancakes?
Its not the pancakes, she replied, turning to him. Its the disrespect.
How do you mean?
You didnt even ask about my project. Three months hard graft, big client, and all you could talk about was baking.
He shifted, embarrassed. Well thats your thing. Your department. Home is ours, and thats your department too.
Why mine? she asked, her voice wobbling. Why is the house my problem, while your job is just yours? Its our house. Surely you could cook the bloody pancakes if you cared that much.
Because I dont know how, he said, genuinely puzzled. And I dont want to learn. Ive got other things to do.
And apparently I havent?
They stared at each other, and Ellen saw it clearly: he honestly didnt get it. For Simon, this was normal. His mother cooked, cleaned, ironed, while his dad earned and occasionally changed a plugif he felt like it. That, to Simon, was proper family life. Love and respect, as Sandra would say.
Ill stay at Mums for a bit, Ellen repeated. I need space.
Dont be silly! Simon took a step forward. No more nagging about pancakes, promise!
Its not about pancakes, she shook her head. Its about the way you see me. Like my works a hobby, but proper work is bangers n mash and polishing the mantel.
I dont think that!
You do. And so does your mum. Every time she visits, shes got a checklistcurtains are crooked, soups too thin, dust in the corners. I keep quiet, keep trying, but enough is enough.
She zipped up her bag and grabbed her coat.
Ill be back in a week. Maybe by then youll decide if you want a wife or a housekeeper.
Ellen!
She was already by the door, pulling on her boots. Simon didnt follow. Ellen headed down the stairs, out into the damp dark street. The rain weaseled down her neck as she called for a taxi. The old cabbie, bushy moustache and all, eyeballed her in the mirror.
Where to, love?
Ellen gave her mums address. The car pulled away, the city lights zipping by. She felt lighter somehow. But also terrified. She did love Simon. But shouldnt love come with respect? If your husband couldnt value your job or your ambitions was that love?
Mum opened the door without a fuss and enveloped her in a hug.
Come in, sweetheart. Kettles just boiled.
Mary still lived in Ellens old flatsecond floor of a crumbling postwar block, windows over the courtyard, same ancient glass cabinet, same old photosschool, uni, wedding. In the wedding one, Ellen and Simon beamed away, so happy. Was there respect there, she wondered? Or had she just never noticed its absence?
Whats happened? asked Mary as they settled in the kitchen with tea.
Ellen spilled everything: pancakes, mother-in-law, the leaky tap, double standards. She rambled, sometimes laughing, sometimes dabbing her eyes. Mary listened, nodding.
Well, then, Mary said, stirring more sugar than was strictly legal, thats much the same as with your dad. He thought I ought to stay home, cook, do everything, while he merrily did as he pleased. I stuck it out, then realisedbetter off alone but self-respecting. But only you can decide. Maybe Simonll change. Hes young, might come round.
He wont, Ellen said. His mums wrapped him in cotton wool all his life. He thinks its normal to be waited on.
Explain it to him.
I try. He doesnt listen.
Mary exhaled. Marriage, eh? No wonder half of them end in divorce. Takes two willing to adjust. Cant bargain with a brick wall.
That night, Ellen lay sleepless in her childhood bed, staring at a ceiling that had once seemed a sky. She did love Simonshe did. But the last two years had been a slow retreat. At work she was praised; at home, nobody cared except about a clean oven. And Sandra Smith, with her years of baked goods and not-so-subtle critique.
Morning: Simon called.
Ellen, how long are you going to be like this? Come back home.
Im not sulking, Simon. Im thinking.
About what? I said sorry about the pancakes.
Did you actually get why I left? Or do you just want to brush it under the rug?
Pause.
I just want us not to fight.
Thats easy: just listen, really listen.
I do listen!
No, you want me to be your mum. But Im not. Ive got my own job, my own interests. I want you to respect that.
I do respect you!
Then why only care about mums sausage rolls and my lack of culinary talent?
Long silence.
Ellen, I dont know what you want.
I want you to see me as a person, not a cook or maid. A partner with my own ambitions. And for the house to be our responsibility, not just mine.
But I do stuff tootake out the bins, change the bulbs.
Simon, bins and bulbs are about five percent of housework. I do the restcooking, laundry, cleaning, ironing. Have you ever mopped a floor?
No.
There you go.
Im at work, Ellen. Earning.
So am I. Handsomely. In case youve forgotten?
I havent. But families have roles. Man works, wife runs the home.
We both work. We both run the home. Thats fair.
No reply. She listened to his heavy breathing.
I dont know how to do thatnever have, he said eventually. Its not how I was raised.
Then learn. I had to.
Because… well, it just feels not manly.
There it was. That dead weight of tradition. Her own mother, running herself ragged, was normal. But hoovering wasnt a mans job?
Look, Simon, Ill be at Mums for a few more days. I need to think.
You want a divorce? The fear bled through at last.
I dont know. I just need to figure out if weve got a future. Because if you cant even see me as an equal, what are we doing?
He fell silent. Ill call you, Ellen finished, and hung up.
The next days were a blurry mix of work, updates with colleagues, project meetings. Evenings at Mums with mugs of tea, talk and silencewith no judgment, just company.
Four days in, Ellens friend Rachel called. Old schoolmate, married at twenty, two kids, husband away lorry driving most weeks.
Ellen, whats going on? Simon says youve moved in with your mum.
Ellen gave her the short version. Rachel snorted.
Men are all the same. Mine thinks Im on holiday with the kids. He actually said, Youve got all day to put your feet up. His mum cooked, worked, did everythingapparently thats my job too.
Same song, Ellen sighed. Simon never stops with Mums a hero!
Well, they were, our mumsheroes, I mean. But why should we have to repeat the performance?
Good point.
Do you love him? Rachel asked.
Ellen paused. I do. But Im just tired of feeling like Im never enough. I want to be valued, respected.
Tell him that.
I try. But it never sinks in.
Rachel thought for a moment. You know, our neighbour left her husband, stayed at her mums. He came crawling back eventually, all apologies, now he even hoovers. Maybe Simon just needs time.
Maybe, Ellen replied, doubtfully.
Deep down, she suspected Simon simply couldnt change. That division of labour was written in granite in his householda father who paid, a mother who served. Sandra, always cheerful, always coiffed. But was she happy?
On the fifth evening, there was a knock at the door. Mum opened itthere was Simon, clutching a supermarket bouquet big enough for a wedding.
Evening, Mrs Brown, he said with desperate politeness. May I have a word with Ellen?
Mary retreated to her room. Simon handed over the flowers.
Im sorry, he said, looking rough around the edges, Its horrible at home without you. Lets talk.
Ellen put the flowers in a vase and sat down. She was exhausted, wary.
So, she said, whats changed?
I miss you, he said honestly. Its miserable at home. I talked to Mumshe said Im in the wrong. Said I ought to value you more. That things have moved on. That women work just as much as men now, so expecting you to do everything is unfair.
Ellen tried not to show her shock. Sandrathe same woman who staged interventions about smudged windows?
And what do you think?
Simon looked wiped out. I hadnt realised how hard it is. I trudged through a week by myself, and its tough. Work, cleaning, laundry. You never stop. I didnt get it before.
And now imagine that, but with someone criticising you the whole time.
I swear Ill help more. No more pancake remarks, promise. I just want you home.
Ellen studied his face: hope, exhaustion, a flicker of sincerity. Maybe, just maybe, he meant it.
OK, she said, quietly. One more try. But Simon, if you slip back, Im gone for good.
I wont. Promise.
Back home, Simon did try: washed up, took bins out, even mopped the floor once, proudly. Ellen allowed herself hope. Maybe theyd find their balance.
Two weeks in, Sandra dropped bythree carrier bags bulging with sausage rolls, scones and Chelsea buns.
Simon, I brought your favourites! she gushed. Ellen, love, these are for youI know you appreciate a bit of cottage cheese.
Ellen smiled tightly. Sandra breezed through the kitchen, pursing her lips at the cupboards.
Oh! Dust on the tops, darling. Needs a proper going-over.
I cleaned yesterday, Ellen replied, jaw set.
Well, always best with a damp cloth, then buffed dry. No problem with dust in my house.
Simon munched silently, unbothered.
Thanks for the rolls, Mum. Lovely.
Of course! For you, Ill always bake. Ellen, have you still not mastered baking? I gave you the recipe.
Not much time for practice, Ellen replied, hands clenched under the table. Working late.
There are weekends, dear! Work is work, but family comes first. Husbands need to feel loved.
Ellen looked to Simon for back-up. Nothing but crumbs and a distant smile.
Simon?
Hm? He looked up.
Anything youd like to say?
He glanced from wife to mother.
What about?
That your mums giving me the usual advice again.
Shes only trying to help, love. Dont mind her.
And just like that, the reset button was pressed: all Simons earnest promises dissolved as soon as the sausage rolls arrived. He became Sandras devoted son again, her opinions mattering more than Ellens.
Ellen stood.
Sorry, bit of a headache. Ill go lie down.
She slipped away, shut the bedroom door and sat on the bed, head in hands. From the kitchen came laughter, Sandras voice dominatingas if Ellen didnt exist.
That night, once Sandra had left, Simon came in.
Why the mood?
Do you really not see?
She just cares, Ellen.
Simon, your mum doesnt careshe wants control. She wants another version of herself in your house. And you let her.
I dont! But I dont want to hurt her, either.
And hurting mes fine?
Im not hurting you!
You are. You watched her criticise me and said nothing. You said things would change. Nothings changed.
Simon slumped.
What am I supposed to do? Tell my mother off?
No. Just say youre happy with me, the house is fine, and let her drop it.
Shes only giving advice.
Thats not advice for me. Its criticism. Dressed up as caring.
He was silent.
I dont know how to please you, he muttered. I try, but whatever I do, its not enough.
I dont want the impossible. Just respect. Stand up for me. Especially to your mum.
But shes older, wiser. Maybe shes right.
Ellen closed her eyes. There it was: Sandra will always be top priority.
You know what? she said, opening her eyes. Im done trying. If you want perfect pancakes, get your mum in. If you want a show-home, hire a cleaner. Ill do my bit and only my bit. You do yours. Fifty-fifty.
Thats an ultimatum?
No. Its a boundary. Either were equals, or were not.
What about love?
Exactly, Simon. Where is it?
He left the room, shutting the door behind him. Ellen lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. What next? Divorce? Endless cold war? She genuinely didnt know.
A month ticked by. They functioned like flatmates: minimal overlap, no warmth. Simons attempts at cooking were passable at best. She did her half; he did his. The house grew shabbier, but Ellen didnt care. Let him get used to it.
Sandra kept dropping by, play-acting concern: Simon, dear, you look peaky. Is Ellen keeping the house like she should? Simon mumbled; Ellen ignored it. Shed given up explaining.
At work, Ellen was promotednow managing a whole team, her salary doubling. She dashed home, brimming with news. Simon was glued to the telly, football blaring.
Simon, I got promoted! Im head of department now!
Great, he replied, eyes never leaving the screen.
I make twice what I used to.
Well done. Still watching football.
Ellen waited, hoping for a smile, a hug, a word of enthusiasm. None came.
Simon, are you even listening?
Yeah, I am. Proud of you. Flat as cardboard.
She turned, walked out and knew: this marriage was dead. Love and respectgone. Just flat routine in their place.
She rang her mum.
Mum, can I pop over? Need to talk.
Of course, love. See you soon.
Over tea in the small kitchen, Ellen poured everything out. The promotion, Simons total indifference, Sandras endless instruction, the lack of anything except cold habit.
Mary squeezed her hand.
So what now? she asked.
I dont know, Ellen wiped her cheeks. Getting divorced is scary. What if I end up alone, unwanted?
Love, better to be alone and at peace than with someone who makes you feel small. I raised you alone, didnt I? You can make it on your own. But its your call. Maybe theres hope, maybe not. All I want is for you to be happy.
Ellen went back home late, Simon snoring already. Once, his back had seemed the safest place in the world; now, it might as well have been a strangers.
At dawn, she roused him.
Simon, we need a proper talk.
He blinked, bleary-eyed.
I got promoted, Simon. I earn more than you now. I supervise a team of fifteen people. I wanted you to be proudbut you barely noticed.
Sorry. Was a big game on, thats all.
Football trumps my promotion?
I was tired, Ellen, wanted to switch off.
And I dont get tired? You ever wonder what my jobs like?
He rolled his eyes.
What do you want from me?
I want you to value meto actually be happy for me. To care.
I do care.
It sounded automatic. Ellen felt deflated.
Simon, Im thinking about divorce.
He shot upright. What?
Im unhappy, Simon. In this marriage, Im just here to be useful. You care more about routine, your comfort, your mothers opinion, than me.
Come on, were a family!
A familys about supporting each other. You listen to your mum more than me, never ask about my job, insist domestic work is mine, even though I earn more. What sort of partnership is that?
He reddened. A man should earn more, thats all.
Why?
Its tradition!
Its the twenty-first century, Simon. Tradition doesnt pay the mortgage. I worked hard to get here. You could be proud, but youre resentful.
Im not resentful.
You are. You dismiss me, and what I do. I cant live like this. I want a partner, not a lodger.
I am your partner!
Youre more like your mum than you realise. You want someone to serve you. I want equality. I want support.
Simon got up, pacing.
So you want me what? At home cooking, while youre out building a career?
No. I want us to be equals. Both work, both at home, both supporting each other. Is that too much?
It is, actually, he said bluntly. Its not what Im used to.
And yet I had to adapt for you.
He acknowledged the point. Fine. Ill try.
Another two months. Simon really did try; home-cooked meals, some cleaning. But the respect was missing. Conversations about work were one-way. Sandra still called, aired her opinions. Simon still failed to defend Ellen. The distance grew.
One evening, Ellen overheard Sandra on the phone, complaining: Simon, love, I popped by, and the place is filthy. Ellens slipped, hasnt she?
Simons response: We both work, Mum. Cant keep up with everything.
Well, the woman should find time!
Ill talk to her, Mum.
Ellen entered the room. You going to tell me off? Set things straight?
Mums worried he offered.
And you?
We could clean more.
We did. Two days ago. Ring any bells?
But Mum says its dirty.
She always does. And you always agree.
No, I just
Simon, Ellen slumped onto the sofa. Ive had enough. Weve both tried, but its not working. Your mums always number one. I cant win.
Shes my mumI cant upset her.
I dont want you to. But I wish youd stand up for me. Just once.
He looked miserable. I love you both. I cant choose.
I notice you always choose her.
He dropped his head. Sorry.
I need actions, not apologies. If you cant set boundaries, then whats the point?
Are you threatening divorce again?
Im saying I cant live like this.
A day later, Ellen came home to find Sandra scrub-scrubbing the kitchen.
Mrs Smith, what are you doing?
Oh, Ellen, Simon asked me to help. You both looked swamped, so I thought Id help out.
Simon asked you?
Of course! Anything for my boy.
Ellen retreated to the bedroom, phoned Simon.
Did you ask your mum to clean?
She offered
Did you ask?
Pause. Yes. It made sense.
She ended the call. Later, after Sandra had gone, Simon looked sheepish.
Mum said you threw her out.
I asked her to leave. You invited her without asking me. This is my house too, Simon!
I just thought itd help…
It makes everything worse. Im not important here.
Dont be dramatic.
Simon, Im done explaining. I want a divorce.
He paled. Youre serious?
Completely. Im not going to be your mums little apprentice. I want out.
But I love you!
Love is action, Simon. Support. Respect. You dont.
He collapsed in a chair. What now?
I dont knowmaybe counselling, or we split.
Ill talk to Mum, really.
Youve said that before. Its your last chance.
Three weeks. Simon finally persuaded his mother to back offfewer surprise visits, every package of sausage rolls accompanied by a polite just checking in. Simon and Ellen set a rota: alternating chores, team effort. Simon grumbled, but adapted; his cottage pie was actually decent.
Yet tension hid under the surface. Courtesy, but ice-cold. No intimacy. No partnershipjust coexistence.
One evening, Rachel rang again.
All OK with Simon?
Looks fine on paper. In reality, were strangers sharing a flat. The sparks gone.
Still love him?
I think more habit, now. And fear of loneliness.
Honestly, think about counselling?
I suggested it. He refused. Thinks its beneath him.
Oh, Ellen
Ellen nursed a mug of tea, thinking: did she still love Simon? In the beginning, yes. But what now? He wasnt a bad manhe was just… unable to see her as an equal. Raised to think that, as a woman, shed always be somewhat less.
And Sandra had grown up believing the same, perpetuating the cycle. None of it maliciousjust tradition, firmly stitched into them.
Ellen sighed, headed for bed. Simon was asleep already. She slipped under the duvet, wondering: stay or go? Fight or surrender?
Spring crept in. Ellen received a huge bonusand an offer for a project in London: a three-month secondment, big opportunity, bigger pay. She went home buzzing.
Simon was on the phone to his mum.
Yes, Mum. Fine, Mum. Bye, Mum.
He hung up.
SimonIve been offered a project in London, three months, huge for my career!
He frowned. So youd be off for three months? What about the house? Whatll I do?
Ellen just stared at him. So youre not even happy for me?
I ambut three months? Bit much, isnt it? Wholl be cooking?
Youre a grown man. Youll manage.
Its not righta wife, off for months? Family comes first.
Oh, but your career comes first for you.
Well, Im a bloke. Course Ive got to earn.
So you get ambitions, and I get the vacuum?
Thats not fair, Ellen. Three months away is too much.
Simon, Im going. With or without your support.
And what about us?
If this marriage cant survive three months apart, whats the point?
She packed a bag and left for her mums. Simon didnt stop her. In the cab, Ellen felt more peace than sadness.
Mary received her with a reassuring hug and a strong cuppa.
Run away again, love?
Yep. I cant take it any more. If he got a secondment, hed be off like a shot. But for me, its wrong. Unfair.
Mary nodded. Live your life, Ellen. Dont let anyone shackle you. Once I got rid of your father, things were tough, but at least I had my dignity. Youll manage, whatever you decide.
Ellen realised shed made her decision. She wanted to be alone, for now. No more arguments, no more justifying her ambition. At last, peace.
Simon tried calling: Come home. Well talk.
About what, Simon? It goes deeper than just London. We want different things.
You want a divorce?
Yes.
Long silence.
But why?
Because you dont respect me, Simon. Ive spent two years shouting into the void. I cant anymore. Im going to London. When Im back, well sort out the paperwork.
Just give me one more chance. I promise Ill change.
No, Simon. I need someone who already gets it.
So Ellen went to London. The project was brilliant. The city felt alive, dizzying and free. She thrived. Simons calls dwindled, then stopped. She rested in the sense of a burden lifted.
After three months, Ellen returned. Warm air, green leaves. She moved back in with Mum, phoned Simon.
Im back. We need to meet.
Unless you want to try again? he asked, hope barely holding him together.
No, Simon, she said gently but firmly. This time, Im sure.
They met at a cafe. Simon looked gaunt, desperate.
How was London? he asked, stirring his tea like he wanted to empty the cup through the table.
It was brilliant. They even offered me a permanent spot. I might take it.
He nodded, defeated.
I know I messed up, Ellen. I get it now. Mum, me, the whole thing. Just one last try?
Simon, you keep promising youll change. But nothing sticks.
But this time
Simon, its not your mum any moreshe cant help it. The real issue is you, and youll only change if you truly want to. I cant do your growing up for you. Im sorry.
So, thats it? Were done?
Yes.
They sat quietly for a while, the comfort and pain of finality between them. Then they shook hands, finished their tea, and went their separate ways.
Sometimes whats expected of you simply isnt good enoughfor you. And sometimes, finally, thats just fine.
