“Never Too Late to Start”
“Mum, have you completely lost your mind?”
The words stung Lydia like a slap to the ribs. She winced but kept peeling potatoes in silence.
“People are already pointing fingers—’Look at her, carrying on like some flighty schoolgirl!’ If Dad had done it, fine, he’s a man, but you? A woman! The heart of the home! Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek, then another, until they fell in a steady stream. Meanwhile, her daughter ranted on.
Her husband, Kevin, sat slumped in a chair, shoulders hunched, bottom lip jutting out like a sulky child.
“Dad’s ill, Mum! He needs care. Is this how you repay him? After everything he’s given you—his youth, a child, a life together—and now you just swan off?” He sniffled. “That’s not how it’s done, love. Not how it’s done at all…”
“And how *is* it done, then?” Lydia asked softly.
“What? Are you joking? Dad, look at her—she’s taking the mick!”
“You treat me, Emily, as if I’m some villain, not your own mother. Funny how you’ve suddenly become Dad’s fiercest defender…”
“Mum! Stop playing the victim! I’ve had enough—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* talk some sense into you. This is mortifying!”
Emily turned to her father, eyes blazing. “Imagine—I’m walking home from uni, and there they are, arm in arm, strolling through the park like lovebirds. Probably reciting poetry, eh, Mum? His own compositions, no doubt. All about *love*, was it?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. Young and stupid with it.”
“Not an ounce of remorse! Right, I’m phoning both grandmas. Let them deal with you—Dad and I are done.”
Lydia straightened her dress, brushed invisible lint off her sleeve, and stood.
“Fine, my dears. I’m leaving.”
“Where, Lyd?” Kevin croaked.
“Away from you, Kevin.”
“What d’you mean, *away*? What about me? What do I do?”
Emily, meanwhile, was hissing into her phone, shooting daggers at her mother.
“Emmie! Emmie!” Kevin wailed like a mourner at a funeral. “Emily!”
“What? Dad, is it your back? Where does it hurt?”
“Ooh, oh no… Em… your mum… she says she’s leaving.”
“*Leaving*? Where? Mum, what on earth’s got into you? At your age?”
Lydia smirked as she folded clothes into a suitcase.
She’d tried to leave once before, but Kevin’s back played up—poor lamb, writhing in agony, howling about his slipped disc.
“Lyd… must be a hernia…”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Pfft, what do doctors know? They keep it quiet at first—scam more money out of you. Pete at work had the same—back pain, creams, pills, then bam! Hernia, some fancy Latin name…”
She’d stayed then, too soft-hearted to walk out.
But now…
“How much longer have you got, Lyd?” her friend Lizzie had said. “You’re like a galley slave breaking your back for them. What’s Kevin ever given you? *Nothing*.” She smacked the table. “Spent his prime tomcatting around—remember that hairdresser? What was her name?”
“Millie.”
“Yeah, Millie, built like a fridge-freezer. And you? Two jobs, side gigs, while Lord Muck lounged on the sofa. Kevin fancies a spa break? Off he trots to Brighton. Meanwhile, you’re digging his mum’s veg patch. You’re dragging your leg at forty—but hey, that’s normal, right?”
“Liz, Kevin’s just…”
“What? Cut from finer cloth? Oh, right—he’s a *man*, sacred creature. Look at other blokes—breaking their backs for their families. You? You’re the workhorse while he’s the freeloader.”
“Liz… have you always hated Kevin?” Lydia ventured. “Like… did something happen between you?”
“Fine, I’ll say it.”
Lydia braced herself.
“I’ve no reason to love that weasel. I’ll never forget his clammy hands groping me. You know I slept like the dead back then. We were at his birthday do at the cottage—I’d had a few, passed out in the spare room. Woke up struggling to breathe—he’d pinned me, hand over my mouth, the other down my top. I scratched his face raw. Know the worst part? His mum was *watching* from the next bed. Told me I’d ‘led him on.’ Threatened to tell *you* I’d come onto *him* if I blabbed. So I left. Didn’t want to wreck your marriage—you seemed so happy with him.”
Lydia sat stunned.
All these years… The scales had been falling for a while. She’d watched other wives—their husbands consulting them, showering them with gifts, posting holiday snaps. Her family photos? Once a year, on Kevin’s birthday.
She tried recalling his gifts. Ah yes—a vacuum cleaner, a dumpling steamer (*his* favourite), decade-old perfume from his mum’s cupboard. Three tulips and a sprig of mimosa on Mother’s Day. One rose for her birthday.
How had she sleepwalked through her own life?
Liz had been blunter: “Tell me, Lyd—when did you last eat *this* year’s jam, not last decade’s?”
She’d come to Lizzie not to complain, just to vent.
“Mike, love, fancy fishing?” Lizzie had called to her husband.
“Not really, Liz.”
“You *are* going. Kids, off to Gran’s. Auntie Lyd and I need a natter.”
And natter they did.
“Emily’s selfish, Liz. My fault.”
“Oh, here we go—how’s *this* your fault?”
“I should’ve had another baby. Kevin and his mum talked me out of it—‘He works five days a week, Emily’s just started nursery…’ I went to the clinic. Doctor begged me not to. Later, it was too late. And Kevin blamed *me*.”
“Liz, I’ve always wondered—you’re clever, pretty. Why marry *him*?”
Lydia hesitated. Then: “He was born six months premature.”
“Who, Kevin?”
“His nan ‘finished baking him’ in an oven-cooled welly.”
Lizzie’s eyes bugged out. “And you married him *why*?”
“I felt sorry for him. All the lads had motorbikes or guitars or… *something*. Kevin? Glasses thicker than bottle bottoms. Clung to me like a limpet. Mum caught us chatting once—‘If he’s hanging round, you’re getting wed.’ I was daft, Liz. Just… daft.”
Now, standing in her half-packed room, Lydia knew where she’d go—a flat, then divorce. Every stick of furniture was hers anyway.
Emily would side with Kevin. So be it.
No, she wasn’t leaving for a man. Peter was just a friend. She wanted peace, to live for herself.
***
Oh, the backlash! Kevin—poor lamb, her—the harlot.
“Go back! Beg his forgiveness!” her mother shrieked. His mum faked a heart attack. Lydia stepped right over her. “What if it was real?” the old woman howled. The neighbours took Lydia’s side—they’d seen how she lived.
Then… Emily apologized. They rebuilt their relationship while Lydia learned to *live*.
Kevin came bearing four carnations wrapped in newspaper. She didn’t return. A month post-divorce, he was parading with Millie—back pain miraculously cured.
“Millie doesn’t tolerate nonsense,” folks whispered.
Lydia didn’t care. She was learning to live, not sacrifice.
Emily booked her a spa day. Peter invited her hiking, like in her youth.
It’s never too late to start anew.
Hard at first, then smooth as butter.
