We met at the GP surgery, queuing for the doctor. I’d come in for blood pressure spikes; he was waiting for test results. We got talking. John turned out to be a calm, unhurried man.
Eight years had passed since my divorce. My son had been living on his own for ages. My friends all had their own lives—grandchildren, gardens, endless check-ups and hospital visits. And now here was a real man beside me. He didn’t drink, didn’t make scenes, didn’t raise his hands.
Back then I thought: this is it, a gift from fate.
It’s amazing how low we sometimes set the bar. If he doesn’t hit you, he’s already good.
John worked in a warehouse. The pay was small, but, as he liked to repeat, “stable.” That word was his favourite.
He was steadily tired.
He steadily complained about his back.
He steadily couldn’t help around the house.
And he steadily expected dinner exactly at seven in the evening.
When he moved in with me, he brought two duffel bags, an old laptop, and his mother on the phone.
His mother called every day.
At first I even found it sweet.
A mother worries about her son.
Then I realised her constant:
“Have you eaten?”
“Have you caught a cold?”
“Susan probably opens the windows, that’s why he’s coughing…”
It sounded as if I was starving her son and keeping him in a draught.
The first year seemed bearable.
I cooked—he ate.
I did the washing—he wore the clothes.
I bought the groceries—he lamented:
“Everything’s so expensive now.”
He said it as if I personally had negotiated the new prices with the shops.
Once a month he handed me money.
A hundred pounds.
Sometimes a hundred and fifty.
And he did it with a look that said he’d just paid off the whole mortgage.
“Here, for the house. Just no unnecessary spending.”
But I was the one paying the utilities, buying food, cleaning products, his back pills, socks, and discounted meat.
The worst part is, I actually felt grateful for that money.
That frightens me most of all now.
After dinner John liked to sigh heavily.
“The porridge is a bit dry. Mum makes it fluffy and soft at the same time.”
To this day I don’t understand how that’s possible.
There must be some special magic available only to mothers of grown sons.
Or:
“Not enough salt.”
“Then add some.”
“I’ve already sat down.”
The man had taken his seat at the table.
So the whole world had to adjust.
I got up.
Brought the salt.
Then the bread.
Then the tea.
Then the remote control that was literally half a metre away from him.
“Susan, you’re closer.”
Everything was closer to me.
The kitchen.
The bathroom.
The work.
Probably the afterlife would also turn out to be closer to me.
Gradually I started to tire.
Not just physically, though there was that too.
I’d come home from work, take off my shoes, and dream of five minutes of silence.
Just five.
But from the living room would come:
“Why so late? I’m hungry.”
Not:
“Are you tired?”
Not:
“Let me put the kettle on.”
Just:
“I’m hungry.”
I always washed the dishes.
John had a special kind of allergy—to the sink.
The moment he saw dirty plates, he’d suddenly remember his bad back.
“I’d help, but you know…”
Yes, I knew everything.
Which pills he took in the morning.
Which sausage he preferred.
That his mother couldn’t eat onions.
That John couldn’t do heavy lifting, early mornings, late nights, cleaning the bathroom, or taking out the rubbish without being reminded.
But what I liked—nobody ever asked.
Once I suggested splitting the bills fifty-fifty.
He looked surprised:
“Fifty-fifty? I earn less than you.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you pressuring me?”
Just like that.
I wasn’t asking for diamonds or expensive gifts.
I just suggested we share the cost of food and utilities.
And instantly I became a woman who pressures.
That same evening he called his mother.
He deliberately put her on speaker.
After listening, Margaret said coldly:
“Susan, are you trying to turn my son into a lodger?”
I stood at the stove stirring pasta.
I wanted to answer:
“Lodgers at least pay for their keep.”
But I kept quiet.
For now.
Later John got a new job.
The salary was higher.
But now there were daily shirts.
White.
Blue.
Striped.
And all of them needed ironing.
The first few weeks I did it after work.
After dinner.
After cleaning.
I stood at the ironing board while the TV played in the room and John lay on the sofa.
“You ironed the sleeve badly.”
“John, I’ve been at this for an hour.”
“Well, it’s not for me. I need it for work.”
The next day Margaret showed up without warning.
She brought her son scones and demonstratively placed them on the table, as if to say:
“This is what proper food looks like.”
And I was chopping a salad.
Then came that Thursday.
The hardest of them all.
I got home nearly nine in the evening.
In my bag were apples and yoghurt—for myself.
I open the door and see Margaret in my kitchen.
In my robe.
That same soft blue robe with a pocket where I always kept my glasses.
Beside her lay five crumpled shirts and an iron.
John came out of the living room.
“We need to talk about something.”
I was slowly taking off my boots.
Because if I did it fast, one of them might well fly at somebody’s head.
But I’m a well-mannered woman.
Sometimes that seriously gets in the way of living.
“I have to be at the office by eight tomorrow,” said John. “I don’t have time to iron.”
“Then iron now.”
“I’m tired.”
I looked at the sofa.
At the plate with crumbs.
At his mother in my robe.
At the iron.
And then he said, completely calmly:
“If you can’t manage in the evening, get up at five in the morning and iron my shirts. It’s a woman’s duty.”
And suddenly I saw the whole picture from the outside.
A fifty-four-year-old woman standing in her own flat after a hard day’s work.
In front of her a man who lives there practically for free and eats at her expense.
And next to him, his mother, wearing her robe, explaining what a real woman should be.
I walked silently into the bedroom.
I took out of the wardrobe those two bags he’d arrived with four years ago.
I set them in the hallway.
And calmly said:
“Pack your things.”
He was sure I would cry.
That I’d be scared.
Honestly, I thought so too.
Over four years a person grows into your life.
Even if he’s like a weed, pulling him out still hurts.
But I stood there in silence.
After that it wasn’t easy.
My hand automatically reached for a second plate.
In the shop I’d automatically pick up his favourite cheese, then put it back on the shelf.
The hardest part wasn’t missing him—it was stopping myself from feeling guilty.
Who would want me, with my jars on the balcony, my habit of watching TV series under a blanket, my age over fifty?
But one day I came home, turned on the light, and suddenly understood:
I need myself.
Clichéd?
Probably.
But that’s when it really hit me.
Not as a housekeeper.
Not as a maid.
Not as an appendage to a man.
Just as Susan.
A month later John came back.
With three slightly wilted roses.
They probably looked as tired as the two of us.
I opened the door but kept the chain on.
“Susan, I feel awful without you.”
“I don’t want to go back,” I said calmly.
“At all?”
“At all.”
He stood on the landing a little longer.
Then he turned and walked away.