**Saturday Evening in Manchester**
It was a quiet Saturday evening in Manchester. My husband, Edward, had left at dawn with his mates for a fishing trip, and I, Eleanor, was finally enjoying a rare bit of peace. Our daughter, Sophie, was staying with her grandmother, and I’d invited my best friend, Charlotte, over for tea. We hadn’t caught up since spring—work, chores, and family had kept us both busy. The flat felt cosy, the tea was freshly brewed, and the silence was perfect. But just as I poured the steaming Earl Grey into our cups, the doorbell rang—once, twice, three times. My stomach dropped. Who on earth could that be?
I opened the door and froze. There stood my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, her face pinched with disapproval. *“Afternoon, Eleanor. You don’t seem pleased to see me. Where’s Edward?”* she said, skipping any greeting. I swallowed my irritation. *“He went fishing with his friends this morning. Staying overnight.”* Margaret narrowed her eyes. *“Overnight? And you let him? Did you check if he packed a proper jumper? It’s still chilly for April!”*
I shrugged. *“He packed his own things. I made him food, like he asked.”* She huffed. *“Food? What did you give him?”* *“Sandwiches, crisps, sausage rolls, tea in a flask, coffee,”* I listed. *“But spare socks? Spare gloves?”* she pressed. *“No. If he’d needed them, he’d have taken them,”* I replied, though inside, my patience was wearing thin.
*“I came to talk about how you take care of my son,”* she announced, casting a pointed glance at Charlotte, who sat awkwardly at the table. *“Go on, Margaret. Charlotte’s married too—might be useful for her,”* I said, gripping my teacup. She launched in. *“Let’s start with meals. What did Edward have for dinner last Saturday?”*
I paused. *“He and his mates were watching the footie. They had pizza, crisps, nuts, and beer.”* Margaret gasped. *“Pizza? Crisps? Couldn’t you have made a proper roast? Beef and Yorkshire puddings?”* *“I did. They said no,”* I replied. *“And you couldn’t have taken plates into the lounge?”* she snapped.
My cheeks burned. *“I’m not a maid. I offered. They refused. What’s the problem?”* Margaret raised her voice. *“The problem? If he eats like that, he’ll ruin his health! You’re his wife—it’s your job to look after him! Remember when he went out hatless in December and got that ear infection?”*
I’d had enough. *“Margaret, step into the hall! There are two of Edward’s hats on the rack—a wool one and a flat cap. Am I meant to wrestle them onto his head each morning? He’s a grown man—34 years old! I make sure Sophie’s dressed warm, but Edward can look after himself!”*
She scoffed. *“That’s exactly my point—you don’t pay attention! There’s your new coat hanging up, but Edward’s been wearing the same one for years! Spending all the house money on yourself?”* I clenched my jaw. *“I used my bonus to buy myself a coat and Sophie new boots—hers were too small. I offered Edward a new jacket, but he’d rather save for his fishing gear. His choice. And frankly, keep your nose out of our marriage! I’m his wife, not his mother. I won’t nag him into obedience—I don’t want him mixing me up with you!”*
Grumbling about ingratitude, Margaret downed two cups of tea and finally left. Charlotte, who’d been silent the whole time, exhaled. *“Eleanor, how do you put up with that? I’m always on Andrew’s case—change your shirt, polish your shoes, wash the car. If he’d picked fishing gear over a proper coat, I’d have thrown a fit!”*
I smiled. *“Why? Think you’ll change him? There’s a saying: men never grow up, they just grow older. Decide if you can live with him as he is or not. Constant nitpicking ruins marriages. If he buys basmati instead of jasmine, you’ll have sticky rice. If he grabs cheap frozen chips, that’s what you’ll eat. Oh—have you seen our light switches?”*
Charlotte frowned. *“What about them?”* *“Look,”* I nodded. She squinted, then gasped. *“They’re upside down!”* I laughed. *“Edward fitted them. I pretended not to notice. He’s chuffed, and I’m not complaining. What’s the point in ruining the mood?”*
She thought for a moment. *“Do you two ever argue?”* I shook my head. *“Of course we do. Last week, Edward saw his colleague’s daughter at a figure skating competition and wanted to sign Sophie up. We barely talked him out of it. She’s in ballet—loves it—but ice skating? All those injuries and pressure. She told him, ‘Dad, come to my recital, film it, show your mates.’ It’s one thing to make decisions together. Another to constantly correct: not like that, not that way.”*
Charlotte sighed. *“You know, my brother divorced over this. His wife and her mum were always on at him—sit straight, eat properly. First, he moved back home, then left entirely. Your Margaret sounds just like them. But… is Edward happy with you?”*
I grinned. *“Seems so. And I’m happy he picks his own clothes and spends his money how he likes. Better he goes fishing than I suffocate him with a scarf.”*