It’s Never Too Late
“Mother, have you completely lost your mind?”
The words struck Lydia like a blow to the stomach—sharp, painful. She said nothing, focusing on peeling potatoes as her daughter raged on.
“People are already gossiping—a mother carrying on! If it were Father, 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, clung for a moment, then fell onto her hand. More followed, silent and steady, as her daughter’s fury burned.
Her husband, Charles, sat slumped in a chair, shoulders hunched, bottom lip thrust out like a sulking child.
“Father’s ill, for heaven’s sake! He needs care. Is this how you repay him? After all he’s given you, after raising a child together?” His voice cracked. “Mum?”
“And how *should* I repay him?” Lydia asked quietly.
“What? Are you mocking me? Look at Dad—she’s mocking us!”
“You treat me, Emily, as if I’m not your mother but some vile enemy. Funny how you’ve suddenly become his champion…”
“Mother! Stop playing the victim! I’ve had enough—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* deal with this disgrace!”
Emily turned to her father, venom in her voice. “Imagine—I’m walking home from uni, and there they are, strolling arm in arm. Reciting poetry, no doubt. His own compositions, eh, Mum? Love poems, was it?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. Cruel and foolish. Youth blinds you.”
“Not a shred of remorse! That’s it—I’m calling both grandmothers. Let them handle you. Dad and I are done.”
Lydia straightened, smoothed her housecoat, brushed away invisible lint. Then she stood.
“Alright, my dears. I’m leaving.”
“Where, Lyd?” Charles’ voice wavered.
“I’m leaving you, Charles.”
“What? Where will you go? What about me?”
Emily, still hissing into the phone, shot her mother a glare.
“Emily—” Charles wailed, as though mourning the dead. “Emily!”
“What? Is it your back? Where does it hurt?”
“Oh, oh… Emily… she… your mother… she says she’s leaving.”
“Leaving? Where? Mother—what madness is this? At your age?”
Lydia smirked. She packed her suitcase methodically. She’d tried to leave before, but Charles’ back “flared up”—his spine, his *excruciating* pain—how he’d howled…
“Lydia… I think it’s a slipped disc…”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Pfah! What do those quacks know? They hide it, love—drag it out for more money. Like old Thompson at work—started with ‘just’ arthritis, then *bam*, some horror of a hernia…”
She’d stayed then, unable to abandon the “poor soul.” But now…
“How much life have you left, Lyd?” Her friend Margaret’s voice echoed in her mind. “You’ve slaved for them like a galley-rower. What has Charles ever given you?”
*Nothing.*
Margaret smacked the table. “He caroused his youth away—like a tomcat! Even brought that—what’s-her-name—the hairdresser home, remember?”
“Millie.”
“Right, Millie—like a cow in a chocolate shop! You worked two jobs, scraped by, while he *lounged*. ‘Charles needs a spa—his *poor* back!’ Off he goes to the seaside, while you’re left with the garden, his mother, yours. And your limp at forty? That’s just *fine*, isn’t it?”
“Margaret,” Lydia had defended weakly, “Charles is…”
“What? Cut from different cloth? Oh, right—he’s a *man*, the sacred beast. Look at other husbands—breaking their backs for their families. Yours? A leech.”
“Margaret,” Lydia hesitated, “sometimes I wonder… do you dislike Charles? You’ve always avoided him, never joined us for holidays…”
Margaret exhaled. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
Lydia braced herself.
“I’ve no reason to love that weasel. I’ll never forget his grubby hands on me. Remember that birthday at the cottage? I’d had a bit too much, passed out. Woke up—couldn’t breathe. He’d *covered my mouth*, the worm, groping under my blouse. His mother *watched*—then accused *me* of tempting her ‘precious boy.’ Threatened to say *I’d* chased *him* if I told you. I left fast, didn’t want to wreck your happiness. You were pregnant with Emily then.”
Lydia sat stunned. All these years…
Her friend sighed. “I avoided him, stayed clear. Michael would’ve smashed him to pulp if he knew.”
Lydia’s eyes had been opening slowly. She noticed how other wives spoke of their husbands—consulting them, showing off gifts, holiday photos. Her own family portrait? Once a year, on Charles’ birthday.
What had *he* ever given her? A vacuum. A dumpling steamer—because *he* loved dumplings. Perfume? His mother’s dusty bottle, resurrected as a “gift.” Three tulips and a sprig of mimosa on Women’s Day. A single rose for her birthday.
“How did I sleepwalk through my life?” Lydia wondered.
Margaret was blunter: “Lyd, why’d you marry him?”
Lydia hesitated. “He was… born premature.”
“*What?*”
“His grandmother… baked him in an oven, wrapped in felt.”
Margaret stared. “And *you* married him because…?”
“I pitied him. All the boys were bold—motorbikes, guitars, breakdancing like Bruce Lee. Charles? Clumsy, thick glasses. Mum said, ‘If he’s trailing you, marry him.’ I was young, foolish…”
Margaret groaned. “You rescued a mangy kitten and drowned yourself.”
They’d talked for hours—wept, laughed.
Now, Lydia surveyed the room. She had a place to go—a rented flat, then divorce. Every scrap here was *hers*, earned by her hands. Emily would side with Charles. So be it.
She wasn’t leaving for Peter—just friendship. She wanted peace. To live for *herself*.
***
Oh, the backlash.
*Poor* Charles, *wicked* Lydia—destroying a “perfect” home.
“Beg his forgiveness!” her mother shrieked. Charles’ mother faked a heart attack—Lydia stepped over her. “Heartless!” the old woman wailed. But the neighbors? They *saw* how she’d lived.
And Emily? She apologized. Mother and daughter rebuilt.
Charles came once—four carnations in newspaper. “Come home.”
She refused. A month after the divorce, he paraded with Millie. His back? Miraculously cured.
Lydia didn’t care. She was learning to *live*. Emily booked her a salon visit. Peter invited her hiking—like their youth.
It’s never too late to begin again. The first step is hard. Then… it flows.
