“Mum, have you completely lost the plot?”
The words stung Lydia like a punch to the gut. Painful. She silently carried on peeling potatoes.
“People are already pointing fingers—’Look at her, carrying on like that!’ If it were Dad, 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, followed by another. Soon, they were falling freely. Her daughter, Emily, raged on.
Lydia’s husband, Colin, slumped on a chair, shoulders sagging, bottom lip jutting out.
“Dad’s ill—what’s wrong with you? He needs care!” Colin sniffled. “Is this how you repay him? After he gave you his youth, raised a child with you… and now this?”
When he fell ill, did you decide to swan off? Oh no, my dear—that’s not how it’s done!”
“And how *is* it done?” Lydia asked quietly.
“What? Are you joking? Look at Dad… she’s joking!”
“Emily, you talk to me like I’m not your mother, but some vile enemy. Oh, suddenly you’re so concerned about Dad!”
“Mum! Stop playing the victim! I’ve had enough—I’m calling Nan. Let *her* deal with you—what a disgrace!”
Emily turned to her father. “Imagine—I’m walking home from uni, and there they are, arm in arm, strolling down the lane. Was he reciting poetry? His own, I bet. Love poems, eh, Mum?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. Cruel and foolish. Too young to understand…”
“Not a shred of remorse! Right, I’m calling both grandmothers—let them sort you out!”
Lydia straightened her dress, brushed off invisible crumbs, and stood.
“Right then, my darlings. I’m off.”
“Where, Lyd?”
“I’m leaving you, Colin.”
“Leaving? What—where? What about *me*?”
Emily, still on the phone, shot her mother a venomous glare.
“Em… Em!” Colin wailed as if at a funeral. “Emily!”
“What? Dad, is it your back? Where does it hurt?”
“Ohhh… oh, Em… she… your mum… she says she’s leaving.”
“*Leaving*? Where? Mum—what on earth are you playing at? At your age?”
Lydia smirked. She carefully packed her suitcase. She’d tried to leave before, but then Colin’s sciatica flared up—the poor lamb, how he’d groaned…
“Lyd… I think it’s a slipped disc…”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Pah, what do doctors know? They keep it quiet at first—scam more money out of you. Like Derek at work—started with sciatica, ointments, pills, then bam! A slipped disc—some fancy Latin name…”
Back then, Lydia stayed. She couldn’t abandon the poor soul.
But now…
“How much life have you got left, Lyd?” Her friend Lizzie once said. “You slave away for them like a galley-rower. What’s Colin ever done for you? *Nothing*.” She smacked the table for emphasis.
“Spent his youth gallivanting—philandering like a tomcat! Remember that hairdresser—what was her name—?”
“Millie.”
“That’s it! Millie—built like a chocolate cow! You worked two jobs plus side gigs, and Colin? Sofa king. Colin needs a spa break—oh, his poor back—off he goes to the seaside! Meanwhile, Lydia hops between your mum’s and his mum’s gardens. And you dragging your leg at forty? That’s fine, eh?”
“Lizzie,” Lydia had defended weakly, “Colin’s just…”
“What? Made of special stuff? Oh right—he’s a *man*, sacred creature. Look at other blokes—breaking their backs for their families. But you? Worn to the bone… while he’s the ultimate freeloader.”
“Lizzie…” Lydia hesitated. “You’ve never liked Colin. Did he… do something?”
“Fine, I’ll say it.”
Lydia braced herself.
“I’ve no reason to love that little weasel. I’ll never forget those clammy hands pawing at me. You know I slept like the dead back then.
“We were celebrating his birthday at the cottage, I’d had a few—just started seeing Mike. You told me to nap in your room. I woke up struggling to breathe—that *creep* had one hand over my mouth, the other down my top!”
“I scratched his face up—you probably don’t remember. He blamed some stray cat.
“The worst part? His mother *watched* from the next bed—then told *me* I’d led him on! I threatened to tell you, and she laughed. Said you’d never leave. That if I spoke up, she’d claim *I* came onto *him*!”
“So I left fast. Didn’t want to wreck your marriage—you seemed so happy with Colin. You were pregnant with Emily then.
“That’s why I’ve avoided him ever since. Mike would’ve flattened him—but I feared losing *you*.”
Lydia was silent. All these years…
Her blinders had been falling for a while. Seeing how other women’s husbands treated them—real *partnerships*.
“Let me check with Pete, Dave, Greg,” her friends would say—showing off gifts, holiday snaps. Lydia’s family photos? Once a year—Colin’s birthday.
She tried recalling a meaningful gift from him… Ah! A vacuum. A dumpling steamer (Colin *loves* dumplings). Perfume? His mum’s ancient bottle—presented like treasure.
Three tulips and a sprig of mimosa on Mother’s Day. A single rose for her birthday…
“How’d I sleepwalk through life?” Lydia wondered.
Lizzie had been blunter: “*Why* marry him?”
Lydia hesitated.
Then dropped the bombshell: “Liz… he was a six-month preemie.”
“*Who*?”
“Colin. His nan baked him in an oven mitt.”
“*What*?”
“Russian stove—heated, cooled, plopped him in a boot.”
“And you… *reheated* him?”
“No! He was their only—father died young…”
“Fascinating. Still—*why* marry him? I was away on placement—came back to *Surprise! Meet Colin!* Was it pity?”
“He was so… lost. Other lads rode motorbikes, played guitar, breakdanced. Colin? Clumsy, thick glasses…”
“I’ve no words. Well, none I can say. Go on.” Lizzie mimed zipping her lips.
“My mum was strict. He clung like a wet leaf. Followed me home. Then walked beside me—whining, whining…
“Mum caught us chatting once—*‘If he’s hanging about, marry him.’* I was daft, Liz—*daft*. Now I see…
“He’s always ‘ill’—bad back, ‘gastritis’… I loved hiking—with him, I became a carer. Back then, everyone married—he seemed safe. Pitiful…”
“*Pity*? You adopted a mangy kitten. Poor you…”
“I begged Mum—swore I didn’t love him. Know what she said? *‘You’ll grow to love him. Half the country does. At least he doesn’t drink or hit.’*
“So, Liz… that’s my life.”
They talked—and cried—and laughed—for hours.
Lydia gazed around the room now. She had somewhere to go. She’d rent a flat, file for divorce. Fight for what she’d earned—every stitch.
Emily would side with Colin. So be it.
She wasn’t leaving for Peter. Just friendship. Truthfully? She wanted *peace*. To live for *herself*.
***
Oh, the backlash!
Poor Colin—she, the harlot, wrecking a ‘perfect’ family.
“*Beg his forgiveness!*” her mother shrieked. His mum faked a heart attack—Lydia stepped right over her. “*What if it was real?*” she howled. Neighbours sided with Lydia—they’d *seen* her life.
And Emily? Apologised. They rebuilt their bond.
Lydia was learning to *live*.
Colin came once—four carnations in newspaper. “*Come home.*”
She didn’t. A month post-divorce, he paraded arm-in-arm with Millie—back ‘miraculously’ healed.
*Millie doesn’t tolerate nonsense.*
Lydia didn’t care. She was learning—just *living*.
Emily booked her a spa day.
Peter invited her hiking—like old times.
It’s neverAnd as Lydia stood at the trailhead, breathing in the crisp morning air, she realized—for the first time in decades—she was exactly where she belonged.
