“Mum, have you completely lost your mind?”
The words hit Lydia like a punch to the gut—sharp, painful. She said nothing, just kept peeling potatoes.
“People are already pointing fingers! If it were Dad running around, fine—he’s a man—but you? A *woman*! What about the home? Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear slipped from Lydia’s eye, clung for a heartbeat, then fell onto her hand. More followed, silent and steady, while her daughter, Emily, raged on.
Her husband, Kevin, sat slumped in a chair, shoulders hunched, lips pouted.
“Dad’s ill, Mum. He needs care. Is this how you repay him? After everything? He gave you his youth, raised a child with you, and now—what? You just swan off?” His voice cracked. “That’s not how it’s done.”
“And how *is* it done?” Lydia asked quietly.
“What? Are you joking? Look at Dad—she’s mocking us!”
“Honestly, Emily, you talk as if I’m not your mother at all. Just some villain. Funny how *now* you care so much about your father.”
“Mum! That’s not fair! You’re playing the victim! I can’t take this—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* deal with you. This is humiliating!”
Emily turned to her father. “Imagine—I’m walking home from uni, and there they are, arm-in-arm. Probably reciting poetry, eh, Mum? Love poems, was it?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. And foolish. Youth does that.”
“No remorse at all. Right, that’s it—I’m calling *both* grandmothers. We’re done.”
Lydia straightened up, smoothed her skirt, brushed away invisible crumbs. Then she stood.
“Alright, my dears. I’m leaving.”
“Where, Lyd?” Kevin’s voice wavered.
“I’m leaving you, Kevin.”
“What? *How*? What about *me*?”
Emily, still snarling into the phone, barely glanced their way.
“Em! *Emily*!” Kevin wailed like he was mourning the dead.
“What? What, Dad? Your back? Where does it hurt?”
“Ohhh—your mother… she’s walking out!”
“*What*? Mum—what’s got into you? At your age?”
Lydia gave a dry laugh. She packed her suitcase methodically.
She’d tried leaving before—but then Kevin’s sciatica flared up. Poor lamb, how he’d suffered, how he’d howled…
“Lyd… think it’s a slipped disc…”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Pf—doctors! They *know*, love. They hide it, see? To squeeze more money later. Like what happened to Dave at work—sciatica, pills, creams, then *bam*—some ‘horrific’ hernia with a fancy name…”
Back then, she’d stayed. Couldn’t abandon the poor soul.
But now?
“How much life d’you have left, Lyd?” Her friend Claire had said. “You slaved for them like a galley rower. What’s Kevin *ever* given you? *Nothing*.”
Claire smacked the table for emphasis.
“Spent his prime tomcatting around, didn’t he? Even brought that—what’s-her-name—hairdresser home. *Milly*, was it? Like she was some prize heifer! Meanwhile, *you* worked two jobs *and* side gigs while Kevin napped on the sofa!”
“Claire, Kevin’s just…”
“*What*? Cut from different cloth? Ha! Sacred bloody bull, is he? Other men *break* their backs for their families. Yours just *breaks* you.”
Lydia hesitated.
“Claire… you’ve never liked Kev. Like he wronged you somehow. Always slipping away when he’s around…”
Claire exhaled. “Fine. Truth, then.”
Lydia braced herself.
“Your ‘Kevvie’ groped me. Years back—his birthday at the cottage. I was drunk, passed out in your room. Woke up with his sweaty paws on me—one hand over my mouth, the other down my top. His *mother* watched from the next bed. Said *I* ‘led him on’. Threatened to tell *you* *I* came onto *him* if I spoke up.”
Lydia froze.
“And you never—?”
“*You* adored him! You were pregnant with Emily! I didn’t want to wreck your life.”
Lydia reeled. She’d spent years blind—no, *willingly* blind—while other women boasted of holidays, gifts, partners who *consulted* them. Her ‘treasures’? A *vacuum* (because Kev loved clean floors). A *dumpling steamer* (because Kev loved dumplings). Perfume—*his mum’s*, decade-old, regifted. Three tulips on Mother’s Day. A *single rose* on her birthday.
She’d *slept* through her own life.
Claire was blunter: “Why’d you marry him?”
Lydia hesitated.
“…He was born premature.”
“*What*?”
“His gran baked him in an *oven mitt*—old remedy. He’s… fragile.”
Claire gaped. “And *that’s* why you wed him? Christ, Lyd!”
“…I pitied him. All the lads had motorbikes, guitars, swagger. Kev just… *hovered*. Mum said, ‘If he follows you, marry him.’ So I did.”
Claire groaned. “And now he’s *your* cross to bear.”
Lydia looked around the room. The *same* room. The *same* life.
Not anymore.
She had savings. A flat lined up. A solicitor ready.
Emily would side with Kevin, of course.
But *Claire* would be there.
***
The backlash was brutal.
Kevin—poor lamb. *She*—the harlot.
“Beg his forgiveness!” her mother shrieked. His mum fake-fainted. *That* didn’t move Lydia. Neighbours? They’d seen how she lived. They backed *her*.
Later, Emily came. Apologised.
And Kevin? Brought *four carnations*—wrapped in *newsprint*—begging her back.
She refused.
A month post-divorce, he strutted past—*arm-in-arm with Milly*.
Back pain? *Gone*.
Lydia didn’t care.
She had a salon date—*with Emily*.
A hiking invite—*from Peter*.
Life wasn’t over.
It was *starting*.
