Behind My Wifes Back
Helen was sitting in the kitchen, gazing out the window. February pressed up against the glass beyond, a dreary, endless sheet of grey. The tea in her mug had long gone cold.
Her husband hadnt come home for dinner three evenings in a row. He said he was working late. He said other things too.
His mobile was right there on the table edgeforgotten that morning in the rush out. That wasnt like him, almost never happened.
She hadnt meant to look at it.
She just picked it up. To put it on charge, thats all.
The screen flickered to life. A message popped up from Mum.
Helen placed the phone down. Stood. Filled a glass at the sink. Drank it. Came back.
The phone hadnt moved.
She picked it up again. The screen wasnt lockedhe never did, not at home. Ive got nothing to hide, he always said.
The last message was open.
She read it. Then scrolled up. And further up.
Maybe twenty minutes passed. Maybe forty. The tea on the table stayed cold.
She set his phone back exactly as shed found it. Returned to the window. Outside, February hadnt changed. Same soft flat greyness.
She thought: So thats how it is, then. Thats what this is.
Simon came in just after nine-thirty. Entered quietlythe way people do when they hope everyones already gone to bed.
Not asleep?
No.
Everything alright?
Helen turned to look at him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, coat on, briefcase in hand. Fifty-two, but still somehow like a boy caught breaking curfew.
Everythings fine, she said. Just sitting.
You eaten?
Yes.
Good.
He hung up his coat, came into the kitchen, opened the fridge. Spotted his phone straight away, as if hed been waiting for it. Pocketed it.
Left it here this morning, he said.
I saw.
Howd you cope without it?
Helen watched as he took last nights dinner from the fridge.
Perfectly well, she said. Managed.
She couldnt sleep that night. She lay there thinking. Not about what shed read, exactly, but about how long it had been this way. Three years? Five? Or always?
It had started long agoso far back she couldnt recall the exact moment something went wrong. Dorothy was always near in those days. At first it seemed normal. Daily phone calls. Advice. Her involvement.
She just loves her son, Helen told herself. Understandable. Human.
But something changed, slowly, almost without notice. Like the way aquarium water turns murky if you neglect itmurky, then murkier, then you simply get used to it and stop noticing.
Dorothy never said anything unpleasant to her face. That was her skill. She could say something kind in such a way that Helen felt cut down.
Youve outdone yourself, Helen, such lovely stew. Simon says youre really trying.
He says. Meaning theyd had a conversation. Meaning she was a topic.
Your flats so cosy. Simon finally put those curtains up, did he?
Finally. A hook of a word. As if Helen couldnt have asked. As if she had to wait for her son to sort it out.
I hear youre off on holiday soon. Simon said you want the seaside. Well, hell make it happen for you.
Hell make it happenlike a favour, a sacrifice.
Helen couldnt name the feeling for ages, but each visit left her heavy-hearted, wanting to wash something unpleasant away.
She mentioned it to Simon, treading carefully, never accusing.
I thinksometimes your mum says things
Like what?
Well, yesterday when she said you put up the curtains.
I did. So?
She said finally.
A pause.
Thats just a word, Helen.
No, it isnt. She makes it sound like youre doing me a favour. As if its your flat and Im a lodger.
Youre imagining things.
Simon
Honestly, she just talks how she does. Theres no malice.
That was always the end of it. Never went further.
What shed read on his phone was a long exchange. She hadnt got through all of it, but didnt need to.
Dorothy described Helen to Simon. In detail. Regularly. With examples.
Shes always correcting you in front of people. You dont notice, but I see it. Its disrespectful to a man.
Simon, you let her get away with too much. She needs to remember youre the head of the family.
I dont interfere, you know. I just want you to be happy.
Helen read that last line several timesI dont interfereright after whole paragraphs of meddling.
And Simons replies. Short as ever. Mum, its fine, dont worry. And a week before: Ill talk to her.
Ill talk to her.
Helen stared into the dark, listening to Simons even breaths beside her. Would he talk? Had he already? Or would he forget?
What exactly would he say? What did he think she needed to understand?
He woke at seven, like always, and went to the kitchen. She heard the kettle, mugs clinking. Familiar soundstwenty-two years of them.
She got up at twenty past seven.
Morning, he said.
Morning.
He read something on his phone. She poured her own tea. They sat together, quietly. A typical morning still, but Helen heard the silence differently now.
Simon, she said, I need to talk tonight. When youre home.
He looked up.
Serious?
Yes.
He looked at her, then back at his phone.
Alright. Ill get back early.
He didseven on the dot, which was unusual. He must have thought of it all day.
Helen had planned the talk. Gone through it in her head. She knew when hed try to sidestep. When hed say Youre imagining things. When hed fall silent.
Well, he said, settling onto the sofa, go on then.
Helen sat opposite him, not beside.
I read your messages with your mother.
He went quiet.
Last night. You left your phone.
And?
I want you to know Ive seen them. I know.
He said nothing. Not his thinking silence, but another kind. Tense.
What did you see? he asked, finally.
That your mother writes to you about meregularly, in detail. You read it, and youve never once said to her, Mum, thats none of your business.
Helen
Dont interrupt. Im not making a scene. Im stating facts.
He leaned back with a weary sighthe gesture she knew so well.
She just worries.
She worries that I belittle you in public and you let me get away with too much? Is that just worrying?
Shes an old woman. She cares.
For you.
Yesfor me. Shes my mother.
Simon. Shes sixty-eight. Youre fifty-two. Weve been married twenty-two years. And still, she feels entitled to explain who should be head of this house to you.
He rubbed his face with a hand. The gesture of exhaustion and wishing the conversation would end.
She means nothing by it.
Thats not what matters. Its what actually happens.
So whats happening? Nothings happening.
Thats exactly my worry, Helen said quietly. You cant see it. To you, its nothing.
They lived like that for three dayspolite, with empty pauses at breakfast, at dinner, at bedtime.
Helen didnt pressure him. She knew how to wait; it was a quality she respected in herself.
On the fourth day, he sought her out. Sat next to her in the kitchen, poured himself tea though he clearly didn’t want any.
I dont know what Im supposed to say.
Nothing special. Just that you understand what you saw.
I saw Mums messages, yeah. She writes a lot. Thats who she is.
Shes someone who writes her grown-up son that his wife is unsuitable. Regularly. For years.
She never put it quite like that.
Simon, I read it.
She wrote, she thinks
Please stop, Helen cut in, calmly. Dont translate for her. Her words dont need rephrasing. We both read them.
He said nothing.
Outside, it was dark already. February’s end, reluctant to depart. The cold was as thick as ever.
I dont know how to explain it to her, he finally said.
Im not asking you to explain to her.
Then what do you want?
I want you to explain it to yourselfwhats normal and what isnt.
He looked at her, and for the first time in ages, there was something in his eyes she didnt recogniseconfusion, not frustration.
You want us to talk less?
No. I want you, when she writes about me, to say, Mum, thats between Helen and me. Full stop.
Shell be hurt.
Perhaps.
Shes old and alone. Im all shes got.
Ive heard that before, Helen said. Every time you say it, it means: shes allowedbecause she has no-one else, and youre her only child.
He didnt answer.
Simon. Im alone too. Youre my only one. But Ive never texted you about your mothers behaviour.
That struck homeshe saw it on his face.
Dorothy arrived on Saturday. She always arrived on Saturdays; that was just how life was arranged. Shed ring Friday night: Simon, Ill be round for lunch. No question, just a statement.
Helen prepped lunch; that was part of the unspoken deal.
Dorothy breezed innice coat, holding a pie. She always brought a pie, always a bit burnt underneath. They always ate it and said how nice it was.
Helen, my dear, she said, kissing her cheek. You look well.
Thank you, Dorothy.
You seem a bit tired, or is it just me?
There it was. Straight away.
Im fine.
Good. Simonyouve lost weight!
Mum, I havent.
You have, you have. Helen, is he eating properly?
Helen smileda bit differently than usual.
Hes an adult, Dorothy. Looks after himself these days.
A slight, almost invisible pause.
Of course, Dorothy said, moving to the table.
Over lunch she talked about neighbours, prices, the telly. Simon nodded, ate. Helen listened and replied. On the surface, everything utterly normal.
But Helen was noticing everything anew now.
The way Dorothy handed Simon bread without askingjust put it in front of him like a child.
How she casually said, Simon, you havent had a second cup of tea since last year, but I made one for you, as if reminding him of his own habits.
Or, So, Helen, youre working more these days, are you? Simon mentioned AgainSimon mentioned. Everything filtered through him.
Dorothy, Helen said, you can ask me directly. About work.
Dorothy looked at her.
I am asking, she said, smiling slightly.
You said, Simon mentioned. I mean, you can ring me, ask me anything, you dont have to go through Simon.
A short silence.
Well, my dear, were all family here. One asks, the other answers.
Family, Helen agreed. Which is why Im saying, you can come straight to me.
Simon raised his eyes, but she didnt notice. She kept looking at Dorothy.
Youre a wonderful hostess, Dorothy suddenly said, changing the subject. Stews delicious.
Thanks.
Simons always loved this stew. Since he was small. I made it every Friday. He tells me he still remembers.
I know what he likes, Helen said, evenly. Weve been together twenty-two years.
Another pause, longer than the rest.
Yesyes, Dorothy said, and took a bit of pie.
When she left, Helen helped her get her coat on. Dorothy moved carefully, as older people often do.
Helen, she said softly while Simon fetched her bag. You seemdifferent today.
Hows that?
Just different.
Im the same, Helen said.
I just want whats best for you both, thats all.
Helen met her eyesworry, a touch of hurt, genuine feeling.
I know you do. And I want that too, Helen said.
Dorothy softened. Almost smiled.
Thats good.
But whats best means different things to me and Simon. We need to work that out between us, just us.
Dorothys smile faded.
I never interfere, she said.
Good, Helen replied. Please keep it that way.
No malice, no raised voice. Just quiet, clear words. But Dorothy heard. Helen saw it in the way she took her bag and didnt say another word, only Thanks for lunch and Goodbye.
The door closed.
Simon lingered in the hall.
What was that about? he asked.
A conversation.
You told her
I told her the truth. Politely.
Shes upset.
Probably.
He looked at Helen for a long moment, then turned away into the sitting room.
Helen waited a bit, watching the closed door Dorothy had just left through. She thought: This is where it beginschange. Not when I read those messages. Here.
That evening, Simon sat in another room a long while, talking quietly on the phone. She didnt listen, didnt interrupt. Left him to it.
Later he came out.
I phoned Mum.
I heard.
I told her you were upset, and we need our space.
Helen looked up from her book.
Upset?
Well, that we need
Simon. Im not upset. I set boundaries. Thats not the same.
He sat.
She was in tears.
Thats her choice, to cry or not.
Shes old.
Youve said so. Ive replied.
You dont know how it feels.
How what feels?
To be stuck between you and her.
Helen closed her book.
Hold on. Between? Between me and her?
Yes.
Simon. Youre not between us. Youre my husband. That means you stand beside me, not in the middle.
He stared at her.
Im not your opponent, she said. Im not fighting your mother. Im telling youthis is whats happening in our home. Do you see it?
I see it makes you uncomfortable.
Thats too soft.
OK. It annoys you.
Still not right.
What then?
It pushes me out, she said. Every time your mum comments on our flat, our meals, our lifeshe talks as if its hers, as if Im temporary and only her words count.
He said nothing.
And when you dont contradict her, you silently agree with that.
Thats not how I see it.
But thats whats happening.
February finally gave in. March arrivedsnow melting, hesitantly. Mornings still crisp, afternoons slushy.
Dorothy didnt visit that weekend. Phoned Friday night. Spoke with Simon. Said she felt a bit under the weather, nothing much.
Simon came to Helens room, the news written on his face.
Mums not coming.
I heard. Is she alright?
Says its just mild.
Do you need to buy anything, take anything round?
Ill go myself.
Fine.
He watched herwaiting, perhaps, for some response.
What? she asked.
Nothing. Just
Go on.
Dont you want to come?
Ill go if you need help. Or if she wants us both.
She wants to see me.
OK, Helen said simply. Go. Give her my regards.
He went. He was back by evening, looking worn after a long chat.
How is she?
Shes fine. Just a temperature.
Glad you went.
She asked after you.
Oh? What about?
If youre angry. If she hurt your feelings.
Helen considered.
Tell her no. Im not angry. I dont hold anything against her.
She wont believe it.
How does she see it?
She thinks youre angry at her. That you want to take me away.
Thats not true.
I know. Its just how she feels.
Simon, Helen said quietly, theres a big difference between feelings and whats real. I dont want to drive you apart. I want your relationship with her to be normal, mother and son. But I want our home to be ours.
What does that mean, exactly?
It meansshe doesnt talk to you about me. You dont relay to me her opinions on my behaviour. If shes got something to say to me, she tells me. Directly.
Shes never done that.
Exactly, Helen said.
He didnt answer. Stood at the window, watching the snow melt slowly, reluctantly.
I know its hard, she said to his back. She raised you herself. You owe her so much. I know, and I never forget.
He didnt turn round.
But I cant live in a home where Im judged by someone else through you.
There was another talk, too, in April when the snow finally vanished and the trees unfurled new leaves. Helen always liked thatso quiet, so tentative.
Dorothy rang her. For the first time in years, she rang Helens number, not Simons. Usually she called him, or only when she knew he was with Helen.
This timedirect.
Helen, its me.
Hello, Dorothy.
I wanted a word, without Simon.
Im listening.
A pause. Long. As though she was summoning courage.
You think I dont like you, Dorothy said.
No, I dont think that.
Then what? I sense
Dorothy, Helen interrupted gently. Can I be frank?
Go on.
I know you love Simon. A lot. Thats good. But sometimes it feels like your love leaves me with no place in our life.
Silence.
Im not angry. Not your enemy. But I want you to know: whats said in messages stays. Words dont vanish.
You read our messages.
By chancehe forgot his phone.
Thats not right, Dorothy said, her voice changing. Reading someone elses messages.
Perhaps. Its done now. So I know what I know.
What did you read? Ive never written anything bad. I just
Dorothy, Helen cut inkindly, but firmly. I dont want to pick over every word. I just want to say: Simon and I have our life. Our own. Were adults, both past forty. We manage. We dont need advice on whos head of the house.
A long silence.
Youre blaming me.
Im just telling you my view.
I was only trying to help him.
I understand. But to help us, you have to trust us. Trust that we can sort things out ourselveswithout advice, opinions, or go-betweens.
Dorothy didnt reply straight away. Helen could hear her breathingsteady, but uneven.
I dont know how else, Dorothy said at last. There was something new in her wordssomething honest.
It must be hard, Helen said. When your son grows up and moves on. I doubt you ever fully accept that.
Hes my only one.
I know. And he loves you. That wont change.
You dont know that.
I dohe cares, visits, worries. That doesnt go away just because I ask you not to judge me in messages.
Silence.
Ill think about it, Dorothy said at last.
Alright.
Youre clever, Helen, she added. It sounded like praiseand something else, too.
Goodbye, Dorothy.
Goodbye.
Helen put her phone away. She stood, went to the window. April had arrivedyoung leaves, fragile and pale.
She realised: Its not over. Not a victory. Just a talk that finally happened.
That evening, Simon came home and asked immediately,
Did Mum call you?
Yes.
She rang me after, said you talked.
We did.
Whatd she say?
Simon, Helen said. That was between us. If she wants to tell you, she can. Im not passing it on.
He studied her, searching for something she couldnt namecomplex, not annoyance or tiredness.
Youve changed, he finally said.
No, she replied. Ive become myself.
He sat. They fell quiet. Not a heavy silence, just stillness.
Its hard for me, he said.
I know.
I cant say no to her.
Its not no, Helen said. This is how we do things. Thats different.
She wont see a difference.
For now, maybe. Not forever.
He stared at the floor.
All this time, I think Ive been doing it wrong, but never knew quite what.
Its not an accusation, Helen said gently. You were just doing what you were taught. It happens.
Youre not angry?
She paused.
No. Im exhausted. Its not the same.
May brought real warmth at last. Dorothy turned up the first Saturday, with her usual pie, slightly burnt.
But something had changed.
Helen took a moment to realise what. Dorothy spoke the same, acted the same, talked about the same old things.
But she didnt ask if Simon was eating well.
Didnt mention, Simon said
Didnt pass comment on curtains or the rug or the table.
Almost unnoticeable. To most, maybe invisible. But Helen noticed.
Over tea Dorothy asked her directlynot through Simon.
Helen, are you two going away this summer?
Were thinking on it. Havent decided. And you?
My niece invited me, not sure though.
Go, Helen said. A change would do you good.
You think?
I do.
Dorothy nodded, sipped her tea quietly.
Perhaps youre right.
That was all. Small, almost nothing. But real.
When shed gone, Simon washed up, Helen dried. Their silence felt differentnatural, like you dont need to speak.
Notice anything? he asked.
Yes.
She did it all herself. I didnt say a thing this time.
I know.
You said something, though, on the phone.
We just talked.
He handed her a plate.
How do you do it?
Do what?
Say things so people dont take offencebut they still get the message.
Helen smileda real, quiet one.
I dont know. Maybe I just stopped being afraid.
He put the mug away, looked at her.
Im to blame it went on so long, arent I?
Probably.
Youre not going to pretend otherwise?
No. Its the truth.
He nodded, pondered.
So what now?
Now,” Helen said, folding the cloth, we live. Like grown-ups, making our own rules at home.
Sounds simple.
It is. Just unfamiliar at first.
He watched hera look she couldnt name: more than guilt, more than relief.
You never left me, all those years.
No.
Why not?
Helen took her time.
There was nothing to leave for. Not a situation you run fromone you change.
He nodded, took another plate.
They finished the washing up together. Outside, May was in full leaflush and deep green.
A fortnight later Dorothy phoned againthis time, to Helen.
Helen, may I ask you something?
Yes?
What do you think of Mrs. Nayloryou know, Victors wife, my cousin-in-law?
I get on fine with her. Why?
Shes invited everyone for a barbecue in June. You and Simon too. What do you think?
Helen hesitatedsuch a small question, so much in it.
Ill ask Simon, well check diaries and let you know. Thanks for calling.
Well there we are, Dorothy said. I asked direct.
There was something in her voiceHelen took a moment to understand. Some irony, gentle, almost good-natured.
Thank you, Helen said.
Dont mention it. Goodbye, dear.
Goodbye.
Helen put the phone away, stood a minute in the hallway. Smilednot broadly, but the way you do at something small and unexpectedly kind.
But she knew: This wasnt the end. Dorothy hadnt changed in two months. People dont change overnight. But she was a little more careful. More alert to words.
That mattered. Not everything. But something.
Simon wasnt a different man, either. Still answering Dorothy often, probably still confiding things Helen didnt hear. That was his right. She wasnt demanding a report.
She wanted something more basicfor their home to be theirs, not discussed elsewhere.
So far, it seemed to be working. For now.
One evening in late May, they sat in the kitchen over tea. Dusk lingered, as it does at the months end.
Simon said, out of the blue, Mum messaged me yesterday.
Helen just waited.
She said she liked you, after the phone call.
Oh?
She said youre honest.
Helen looked at him.
And what did you reply?
I said, I know.
He stared at his mug. She watched him.
Youre sharing her words about me, Helen said.
Its just a nice message.
Thats not the point. I dont want you to be the go-between. Bad or good. If she wants to say something to me, she can.
He thought, then nodded.
Alright.
Thank you.
She took her mug. Sipped. The tea had cooled, but was still good.
Will we manage? he asked.
Helen thoughtseriously, not rushing to answer.
I dont know, she said at last. But Im here. Thats something.
He said nothing. Looked out at the short evening, neither light nor dark, like everything in May.
Helen looked out, too. She thought about all the talk of boundaries, how theyre not walls or fences. More like lines you have to learn to spot, draw, and keep redrawing, explaining to others what they are.
Toxic mothers-in-law, emotional manipulation, relationship psychology. All those phrases people throw aboutshe always thought they applied to other people. Not to her own, normal family. Not to her husband. Not to Dorothy, who just loved her son.
And then you find it all hereon an ordinary kitchen table, in cold tea, and a slightly burnt pie.
A marriage without control, a wifes quiet wisdom, standing up for yourselfnot by shouting or ultimatums, but by calm, firm words. By being willing to call things what they are, by being prepared to hold your ground when told youre imagining things.
She hadnt imagined it.
That matters. It really mattersto know you werent making it up.
In June, they went to Mrs. Naylors. Crowd of people, barbecue, idle chat. Dorothy came too. Stuck close to Simon, as always. But she addressed Helen directly several timesoffered salad, checked her seat.
Small things. Helen noticed.
Mrs. Naylor, a compact woman of sixty-five with sharp eyes, spoke to Helen in the evening.
Helen, have you and Dorothy buried the hatchet?
We were never at war.
No, I just meanshe seems different with you now.
We just talked, Helen said.
Mrs. Naylor studied her.
Youre good at talking. Thats rare.
I had to learn, Helen replied.
On the way home, Helen and Simon rode in silence, contented. Evening June rolled by the car windows.
Nice day, Simon said.
Yes.
Mum coped well.
Helen nodded.
Yes, she said. Left it at that.
He understood. She could tell.
The road stretched aheadstill many miles to go. June pressed in, dense and green.
Helen thought: This is how it goes. Not with big turns, but tiny, near-invisible steps. Today she didnt ask, Is Simon eating? Tomorrow, something else. Next week, another shift.
Dorothy will still ring, still message. Some things will always seem the same; they wont vanish in a month.
But theres a differencebetween silence and words, between enduring and naming, between being a guest in your own home and being its mistress. Not bossjust belonging.
Belonging.
They reached home, parked, sat a moment before getting outas you do after a long trip.
Helen, Simon said.
What?
Im glad you didnt stay silent back then.
She looked at him. He stared ahead at the dark yard.
So am I, she replied.
They got out, walked to the door. He held it for her.
Just an ordinary day, an ordinary evening. Nothing entirely settled. Dorothy would message Simon tomorrow, hed reply. Hed likely slip back into old habits sometimes.
But Helen now knew something she hadnt before.
That she could speak. That she would. That words, spoken firmly, didnt evaporate.
The lift went up slowly. They stood togethernot holding hands; just near.
She wont change, Simon said.
I know.
How do you feel about that?
Helen thought. The lift doors opened.
Its alright, she said. Let her be herself. Ill be mine. Well see.
He let them in.
The flat was still, filled with that scent you only get at home. Unmistakable.
Helen took off her shoes, went to the kitchen, put the kettle on. Familiar clinks. Her kitchen. Her home.
The phone on the table flasheda message from Dorothy for Simon.
Helen didnt check; just walked by the screen.
She filled the kettle, got out two mugs.
Simon joined her.
From Mum, he said.
I saw.
She said she enjoyed the barbecue.
Good, Helen said. Im glad.
He typed, replied, then tucked the phone away.
Told her we did too, he added.
Fine.
The kettle boiled. She poured the tea.
Simon, she said, not looking up, if she writes about me again, you know what to say?
He hesitated.
I do.
Good, she replied, setting his mug down.
He cupped it in both hands. People do that for warmthor comfort.
She sat opposite, lifted her mug. They sat, the table between them, two mugs, and June outsidewarm, nearly night.
Do you trust me? he asked.
Helen watched him, long and hard.
Ill ask again in six months, she finally said.
He didnt smile, just nodded, slowly.
Fair enough, he said.
Yes, she answered.
And they sat, in a silence that wasnt good or bad. Just alive.
