“Mum, have you completely lost your mind?”
Emily’s words hit Lydia like a punch to the gut. It hurt. She silently continued peeling potatoes as her daughter raged on.
“Everyone’s pointing at us—mum’s having a fling! Fine if it were dad, he’s a man, but you? A woman! The heart of the home!” Emily spat. “Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek, then another, until they fell steadily. Across the kitchen, her husband, Edward, sat slumped in a chair, lips pouted.
“Dad’s ill, for heaven’s sake! He needs care!” Edward sniffed. “Is this how you repay him? He gave you his youth, you raised a child together, and now what? The moment he gets sick, you swan off?”
Lydia finally spoke. “And how *should* it be done, then?”
Edward gaped. “Are you joking? Look at your father—she’s mocking us!”
“Emily, you talk about me like I’m some villain,” Lydia murmured, folding a blouse into her suitcase.
“Mum, stop playing the victim! I’ve had enough—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* deal with this disgrace.”
Emily turned to her father. “Imagine—I walk home from uni, and there they are, arm in arm! Probably reciting love poems. Composing them himself, were you, Mum?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. Young and foolish.”
“No remorse at all! Fine, I’m calling both grandmothers. Let them drag you back to your senses.”
Lydia straightened her dress, brushed off invisible lint, and stood.
“Right then, my dears. I’m leaving.”
“Where, Lyd?” Edward croaked.
“I’m leaving *you*, Edward.”
Emily, now shrieking into her phone, barely registered her father’s wail. “Emmie! *Emmie!*”
“What? Your back again? Where does it hurt?”
“Ohh, ohhh—she’s—your mother—she’s *leaving*!”
“Leaving? *Where?* Mum, have you lost it? At your age?”
Lydia smirked. She’d tried to leave once before, when Edward’s sciatica “flared up”—how he’d howled!
“Lyd, it’s a slipped disc, I reckon—”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Those doctors! They *hide* it, see? Wait till they’ve milked you dry! Like old Thompson at work—first it’s sciatica, then bam! Some fancy-named hernia!”
So she’d stayed. But this time…
*How much life is left, Lyd?* Her friend Margaret’s voice echoed. *You’ve slaved for them like a galley rower. What’s Edward ever given you?*
Nothing.
Margaret had slapped the table. *Spent his youth tomcatting—dragged that hairdresser home, remember? Milly, was it?*
“Mm. Milly.”
“You worked two jobs, *plus* odd shifts, while Edward lazed. Oh, but *Edward* needs spa trips—his poor back! Meanwhile, you’re knee-deep in your mother-in-law’s veg patch. And your limp at forty? Just part of the decor!”
“Marg, Edward’s just—”
“*What?* Sacred livestock? Other men break their backs for their families. Yours leeches off yours.”
“Marg… you’ve always hated him. Why?”
Margaret exhaled. *Fine. I’ll tell you.*
*Remember his birthday at the cottage? I crashed in your guest room—woke up to his grubby hands groping me, muffling my screams. His mother watched from the next bed. Later, she said I’d “tempted” him. Threatened to claim I’d chased him if I told you.*
*I left before I punched him. Didn’t want to hurt you—you were finally happy, pregnant with Emily.*
Lydia sat stunned. All these years…
Her marriage had been a farce. Other women consulted husbands—*Should I take this job, love?*—and flaunted romantic getaways. Lydia’s “gifts” were a hoover and a dumpling steamer (Edward *loved* dumplings). A single rose on her birthday.
She’d slept through her own life.
“Marg, why didn’t you *tell* me?”
*Tell you? You were too busy martyring yourself! Edward’s ulcers, Emily’s ballet, your mum’s endless errands. Tell me—when did you last eat a fresh preserve? Not last year’s leftovers?*
Lydia faltered.
Later, Margaret’s husband, Michael, was “encouraged” to go fishing. The kids dispatched to Gran’s. And the truth spilled.
Emily had turned out selfish—Lydia’s fault, always yielding to Edward and his mother.
*Why* did you marry him?* Margaret had demanded.
Lydia sighed. *He was premature. His nan baked him in an oven mitt.*
Margaret blinked. *And that’s relevant… how?*
*I pitied him. While other lads rode motorbikes or danced, he just… moped. Glasses like bottle-bottoms. Mum said if he kept following me, we might as well wed.*
*God, Lyd.*
*Stupid, wasn’t I? He’s been “ill” ever since—too frail to lift, too delicate for stress. I became his nursemaid. Everyone was marrying… he seemed safe.*
Margaret hugged her. *Oh, duck. You married a stray cat.*
Now, Lydia surveys the room. She’ll rent a flat, file for divorce—fight for what she’s earned. Emily will side with Edward. So be it.
This isn’t about Peter (just a friend). It’s about breathing.
The fallout was ugly. *Selfish!* Edward wailed, his mother “collapsed”—Lydia stepped over her. The neighbors? On *her* side.
And Emily? Apologized.
Now Lydia learns to live. Edward brought carnations once—she didn’t return. Months later, he strutted with Milly. *Spine cured*, they sneered.
Lydia doesn’t care. She’s booked a salon. Peter’s invited her hiking—like old times.
It’s never too late to start again. Hard at first, then… smooth sailing.
