These are the two words I was always wishing to get. They were like the most precious thing of my married life.
I used to rush home after work to start cooking the diner, before my ex-husband came home. I didn’t want him to tell me once again that I was not cooking right. Cooking for him became my worst nightmare. Cooking right. Cooking, so he would eat and not ask for something else, at the middle of the night.
It it wasn’t right, he wasn’t going to eat it. He was going to tell me: “I showed you twice. If you can’t get it right, it’s your problem”.
But when it was good, he would say “good wife”. And it felt good. I could breath again. He would not leave me. He would not go out and search for a new wife.
It was not only for cooking. It was for going out, dressing up, cleaning the house or ironing his shirts. It was for learning arabic words and acting nice with his friends.
Me: “the dusk keep coming back quickly here.”
Him: “it’s because you don’t know how to clean well.”
Me: “I am going out with friends for a coffe.”
Him: “Where? What time? Which friend? A boy? A friend I know?”
Him: “Did you clean this shirt?”
Me: “I did.”
Him: “Really? Look it’s dirty. Give me another one and next time look at it twice before putting it in the wardrobe.”
Me: “Why do you always make me feel useless?”
Him: “I tell you all this for your own good. Cause I know better than you.”
Moments of life. GOOD WIFE. OR NOT.
Most of the time I was not. And then some days I was, the days I did clean well and cook well, the days I stayed at home and wait for him to come back, the days I did not raise my voice or don’t argue with him, the days I welcome his friends nicely (but never with a big smile, cause it was not good for a wife to smile too much).
In the last months of our marriage, I was not Marie anymore. He was calling me “my wife” all the time, when asking me something or telling me again that “no man would ever love me like he did”. I was His Wife. His Good Wife some days. And His Bad Wife when I would not fit in the boxes he created.