“Oh, who do you think you are, telling me what to do?” Nigel spun around from the fridge, a can of lager in his hand. “You’re nobody in this house! Got it?”
Margaret stood at the hob, stirring a pot of beef stew, and felt her hands tremble. The ladle clinked against the edge of the pot.
“Nobody?” she repeated quietly. “Am I not your wife?”
“Wife!” Nigel scoffed, cracking open the can. “More like a housemaid, and not even a good one.”
Margaret turned off the heat and faced him. Forty-three years together. Forty-three years cooking his meals, washing his shirts, ironing his trousers. Raising their children while he climbed the career ladder.
“A housemaid, is it?” Her voice grew steadier. “Who washes your shirts, then? Who cooks, cleans, looks after your mother?”
“That’s your job!” Nigel slammed the can on the table. “I bring in the money, pay the bills—what do you do? Make stew? Any woman can do that!”
“Any woman,” Margaret echoed. Something inside her snapped. “Right, then.”
She untied her apron and hung it on the hook. Nigel finished his lager, back turned.
“So, any woman,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ll see about that.”
She walked to the bedroom and pulled an old duffel bag from the wardrobe. Nigel heard the rustling and poked his head in.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” she said calmly, folding her clothes into the bag. “If I’m nobody here, then I don’t belong here.”
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Nigel frowned.
“To Susan’s. For a bit.”
Susan was Margaret’s younger sister—a nurse who lived alone in a modest flat.
“Oh, come off it,” Nigel waved dismissively. “Don’t be daft. Who’ll make dinner?”
“Does it matter?” Margaret zipped the bag. “You said any woman could do it. Find yourself any.”
Nigel watched, bewildered, as she slipped on her coat.
“Marg, stop being dramatic. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Course not,” she said, buttoning her coat. “Just spoke your mind. I’m nobody in this house.”
“I said don’t be daft!” His voice rose. “Who said you could leave?”
Margaret paused at the door and looked at him.
“Nobody. I gave myself permission. Or don’t I have the right?”
She stepped out, leaving Nigel gaping.
The October air was brisk. Margaret boarded a bus to Susan’s flat, ignoring her ringing phone.
Susan opened the door in a dressing gown and slippers.
“Marg! What’s happened?” She spotted the duffel bag.
“Can I stay over?”
“Of course! Come in. What’s going on?”
Over tea in the kitchen, Margaret shared the argument.
“He’s gone barmy!” Susan fumed. “Nobody in the house? After all these years?”
“Exactly,” Margaret dabbed her eyes with a hankie. “My whole life, for him, for the kids. And he says any woman could do it.”
“Let him find this ‘any woman’, then,” Susan huffed. “See how long he lasts.”
The phone rang again—Nigel.
“Don’t answer,” Susan advised. “Let him stew.”
Margaret set the phone aside.
The next morning, she woke on Susan’s sofa. Her sister was already off to work.
“Stay as long as you need,” Susan had said. “Spare keys are yours.”
Margaret sat alone, unused to the stillness. At home, she’d be frying Nigel’s breakfast and planning the day.
The phone stayed silent. Presumably, Nigel expected her to come crawling back.
She made toast and coffee, savouring the quiet. Oddly, the sadness mixed with relief. How long since she’d had a peaceful breakfast, no demands?
Their daughter Emily called that afternoon.
“Mum, Dad phoned. Says you’ve had a row?”
“We did.”
“Over what?”
“He said I’m nobody in the house. Just a housemaid, and a bad one.”
“Mum!” Emily gasped. “How could he?”
“Easily, apparently.”
“But that’s rubbish! You’ve done everything for us!”
“So I thought. Turns out I’m just the help.”
Emily hesitated. “Where are you now?”
“Aunt Susan’s.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Dunno. Might find work. If I’m just a maid, I’ve got experience.”
“Don’t be silly! You’re adults—sort it out!”
“Sort what? He told the truth. I’m nobody there.”
“Mum, stop! Dad just lost his temper. He’s stressed.”
“Stressed,” Margaret echoed. “And I’ve had forty-three stress-free years, have I?”
Emily sighed. “I’ll talk to him. But think—is one stupid comment worth breaking up over?”
“One comment?” Margaret shook her head. “No, love. It’s the first time he’s said what he really thinks.”
That evening, Susan returned exhausted.
“How’s it going?” she asked, hanging up her nurse’s uniform.
“Alright. Emily rang.”
“And?”
“Wants me to patch things up with Nigel.”
Susan sat beside her. “What do you want?”
“Dunno,” Margaret admitted. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I really am nobody.”
“Don’t be daft! You’re a brilliant wife and mum. If he can’t see that, he’s an idiot.”
“Easy for you to say,” Margaret sighed. “I’m sixty-seven. Where do I go?”
“Anywhere’s better than with someone who doesn’t respect you.”
The next day, Margaret returned for more clothes. Nigel was at work, the flat a mess—unwashed dishes, crumbs on the table, unmade bed. Just two days without her.
As she packed, the door opened. Nigel walked in.
“Oh, you’re back,” he said, not looking at her. “About time. Making dinner?”
“No.”
“Come on, how long are you going to sulk? I didn’t mean it!”
“Didn’t you?” She stood by the door. “How do you mean it, then?”
“I was knackered, had a few beers—it slipped out.”
“Slipped out,” she nodded. “So when you’re sober, am I your queen?”
Nigel scowled. “Don’t be daft. You’re my wife—what more d’you want?”
“Respect? Appreciation?”
“I do appreciate you! But running the home is your job!”
“My job,” she agreed. “And yours is just money?”
“What else?”
“Love? Respect? When’s the last time you said you loved me?”
Nigel faltered. “Well—we’re married, aren’t we? Isn’t that proof enough?”
“No,” Margaret said. “That’s just habit.”
She grabbed her bag and left.
“Marg, wait!” he called. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” she said without turning. “I’m nobody, remember?”
Back at Susan’s, her sister looked worried.
“Well? Made up?”
“No. He thinks I’m throwing a tantrum. That I’ll come back to cook his tea.”
“And you?”
“I think he’s right. I’m just a glorified hoover.”
Susan hugged her. “You’re everything to your family.”
“To them, maybe. Not to him.”
That evening, their son James called.
“Mum, Dad says you’ve left. What’s going on?”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“He said I’m nobody in the house. Just the help.”
“Mum, that’s vile!”
“Is it? He meant it.”
James paused. “Could he have just… worded it badly?”
“Forty-three years, love. I know what he thinks.”
“What will you do?”
“Dunno. Find a job. Live on my own.”
“Mum, don’t rush. Think it through.”
“I will.”
The next day, Nigel called Susan.
“Tell Marg to come home. Sick of microwave meals.”
“Did you apologise?” Susan asked.
“For what? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You called her nobody.”
“That was just the drink talking!”
“And how did she take it?”
“Overreacted, as usual. Women—always so sensitive.”
Susan didn’t pass that on.
A week passed. Nigel called daily, demanding her return. The children begged Margaret to reconcile. She held firm.
“Marg,” Susan ventured, “maybe he’ll change? Realise he was wrong?”
“No,” Margaret said. “He wants me back to cook. That’s not remorse.”
“What then?”
“I’ll find work. Live alone.”
“At your age?”
“Why notNigel sat alone with his takeaway curry that night, staring at the unwashed dishes piled high, realizing—too late—that “nobody” had been the one holding his whole world together.
