“Mum, have you completely lost your mind?”
The words struck Lillian like a punch to the gut—sharp, cruel. She flinched but kept peeling the potatoes, knuckles white.
*Pain.*
“They’re already laughing at us—my mother running wild like some teenager! If it were Dad, fine—men do what they want. But a *woman*? The heart of the home? Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear rolled down Lillian’s cheek, then another. Soon, they fell freely as her daughter raged.
Her husband, Colin, slumped in a chair, shoulders hunched, bottom lip jutting. “Your father’s *ill*, Lill. Who’ll care for him? Is this how you repay him—after *everything*?” His voice cracked. “Is it?”
Lillian wiped her hands slowly. “And how *should* I repay him, Tamsin?”
“What?” Tamsin gaped. “Are you *serious*? Look at Dad! She’s *mocking* us!”
Lillian exhaled. “Tamsin, I might as well be a stranger to you. Funny—suddenly you care so much for your father.”
“Mum!” Tamsin’s face twisted. “Don’t play the victim. I’ve had *enough*—I’m calling Nan. Let *her* deal with this disgrace.”
“Oh, brilliant,” Tamsin spat, turning to Colin. “Imagine—I’m coming home from uni, and there they are, strolling arm-in-arm like some revolting romance novel. Reciting *poetry*, no doubt. Did you write it yourself, Mum? Something *passionate*?”
“You’re cruel, Tamsin. And young. Too young to understand.”
“No remorse—typical! That’s it. *Both* grandmothers. They’ll talk sense into you.”
Lillian straightened, smoothed her dress, brushed invisible dust from her sleeve.
“Right then,” she said softly. “I’m leaving.”
“*Where?*” Colin’s voice trembled.
“Leaving *you*, Colin.”
“*What—* How? What about *me*?”
Tamsin hissed into her phone, eyes blazing.
“T-Tamsin—” Colin wailed, as if mourning. “She’s—*gone*!”
“*Gone?*” Tamsin whirled. “Mum—what’s *wrong* with you? At *your age*?”
Lillian smirked, folding clothes into a suitcase. She’d tried to leave before—but Colin’s back “gave out,” the poor love, howling like a wounded dog.
“Lill—think it’s a slipped disc—”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Pfft—doctors *lie*. It’s a scam—happened to Dave at work. ‘Oh, just a sprain’—*then* they hit you with surgery bills!”
Last time, she’d stayed.
This time—
“*How* much life d’you have left, Lill?” Her best mate, Lizzie, had said it bluntly. “You’re a *slave* to them. What’s Colin *ever* given you? *Nothing.*”
Lizzie smacked the table. “Spent his youth chasing skirts—dragged home that hairdresser—what was her name—?”
“Millie.”
“*Millie*—like some prize pig. You worked *three* jobs while he *lounged*. ‘Colin needs a spa break—his *poor back*!’ Meanwhile, you’re scrubbing his mother’s floors. *Your* leg’s been numb since you were forty—but *that’s* normal, eh?”
Lillian had flushed. “He’s… diff’rent, Liz.”
“*How*? Sacred *male* creature? Other men *break* their backs for their families. *You’re* the mule.”
Lizzie leaned in. “Why’d you *marry* him?”
Silence. Then—
“Liz… he was born six months early.”
“*What?*”
“His nan *steamed* him in a boot by the oven. Kept him alive.”
Lizzie gaped. “And *you* felt sorry for him?”
Lillian nodded. “All the lads had motorbikes, guitars—Colin just… *existed*. Mum caught us talking once, said, ‘Marry him or stop flaunting yourself.’”
She swallowed. “Stupid, *stupid* girl.”
Lizzie gripped her hand. “You’re *free* now.”
***
The fallout was brutal.
Colin—pitiful. *She*—the harlot.
“Beg his forgiveness!” her mother shrieked. His mother faked a *heart attack*—Lillian stepped *over* her. “*Heartless*!” the woman screeched. Neighbours took *Lillian’s* side—they’d *seen* her life.
Tamsin came, eventually. Apologised. Rebuilt bridges.
Colin arrived once—four limp carnations wrapped in *newsprint*. “*Come home.*”
She didn’t.
Within a month, he was parading with *Millie*, back miraculously “healed.” (Millie didn’t tolerate nonsense.)
Lillian didn’t care. She was learning—*living*.
Tamsin booked her a spa day.
Peter, an old friend, invited her hiking—like *before*.
It’s *never* too late to start again.
The first step is agony.
Then—it gets easier.
