It seems an age has passed since my husband and I first began living under the same roof, and looking back now, I recall how little he ever exerted himself. When retirement finally greeted him, he transformed quite completely into a domestic gentleman, leaving me to shoulder the weight of our daily life.
I am now fifty-seven; time does go swiftly. For more than three decades, I have been married to my husband, George. Throughout these years, I tended to himlaundering shirts, preparing hearty dinners, and striving, above all, to keep a warm and welcoming home about us.
I have always been industrious by nature. I worked several jobs to ensure our children wanted for nothingsending them off to the best schools we could afford and keeping them well-clothed and cared for. My life has always been a busy one, even when our children were mere babes. I never slowed down, never stopped. Thanks to that, they always had everything requiredand more.
Yet ever since George and I started our life together, his enthusiasm for hard graft has been minimal at best. When he reached retirement, he devoted himself entirely to household comfortas long as I took care of all the chores. I have continued to go out to work, running errands and helping our children with their little ones, all while managing every domestic task at home.
Ive pleaded with George, more times than I can count, to take up a job in his spare timesomething like a night watchman, perhaps. But he refuses, insisting that we get along well enough, and that his toils are firmly in the past. Truth be told, Georges greatest weakness is his appetite. It has become rather difficult for me to keep up with preparing the evening meal. Now and then, I return exhausted from the days work, only to find hes eaten up all the good fare, leaving me with nothing but a thin broth. It is the same each evening; he thinks first and foremost of his own wants.
Only the other day, chatting over tea, my friend Margaret suggested I start cooking separately for him: use plain, inexpensive ingredients for his meals and save the finest bits for myself. That afternoon, I told George that the doctor has advised I keep to a specific diet, so from now on wed be eating different thingsand he could no longer dip into my portions.
Ive learnt, over time, to squirrel away treats in the larder; when George takes himself off to the shed, I settle with a nice cup of tea and a few sweets. I hide sausages and a bit of cheese deep in the back of the fridgeluckily, weve the one for everyday and another for jams and preservesso I fill that one with little delights for myself.
Most gentlemen have little inclination toward cookery, so it was easy to make use of the fact. For him, I might buy a bit of turkey mince and fashion steamed rissoles, while I keep the beefsometimes even a touch past its primefor myself, well-seasoned. For his part, I purchase the cheapest pasta, costing only a few pence, and save the quality durum wheat pasta for myself.
I cant say I feel any guilt for remaining wed to George. He may desire fresh, healthful food, but if hes unhappy with my menu, he is more than welcome to find his own employment and sort out his own supper. Talk of separation at our grand age seems ridiculous; we have already spent the lions share of our lives at each others sides. Were we to part, wed have to sell the house and split whatever money was leftand neither of us is keen for such upheaval now, so late in our days.
