“Who the hell do you think you are, telling me what to do?” Oliver spun around from the fridge, a chilled can of lager clutched in his grip. His voice was laced with venom. “You’re nobody in this house, you hear me? Nobody!”
Laura stood by the stove, stirring a pot of beef stew, her hands trembling just enough to make the ladle clink against the rim. Her voice was quiet, controlled. “Nobody? Aren’t I your wife?”
“Wife!” He scoffed, cracking open the can with a sharp hiss. “More like a bloody maid. And not even a good one at that.”
She turned off the burner and faced him. Forty-three years. Forty-three years of cooking his meals, ironing his shirts, raising their children while he climbed the career ladder. Her eyes burned. “A maid, is it? Who washes your clothes then? Who cooks, cleans, looks after your ailing mother?”
“That’s your job!” Oliver slammed the can onto the counter, froth spilling over his fingers. “I bring home the money, pay the bills. What do *you* do? Cook stew? Any woman can do *that*.”
“Any woman,” she repeated, something inside her snapping clean in two. “Right.”
She untied her apron and hung it on the hook. Oliver tipped back his drink, his back still turned.
“So, any woman, then,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ll see about that.”
She walked to the bedroom, pulling an old duffel bag from the wardrobe. The rustling made Oliver glance in.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Packing.” Her voice was eerily calm as she folded blouses into the bag. “If I’m nobody here, then I don’t belong here.”
“Where the hell d’you think you’re going?” His brow furrowed.
“To Emily’s. For a while.”
Emily, her younger sister—a nurse at the local GP’s surgery, living alone in a modest flat.
Oliver waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be daft. Who’ll cook?”
Laura zipped the bag shut. “Does it matter? You said *any woman* could do it. Find yourself one.”
He stared, bewildered, as she slipped on her coat.
“Laurie, stop this nonsense. I didn’t mean it like *that*.”
“No?” She adjusted her scarf. “You just said the quiet part out loud, then. I’m nobody in this house.”
“For Christ’s sake!” His voice rose, desperate now. “Who said you could just leave?”
She paused at the door, meeting his gaze for the first time.
“I did. Or don’t I have that right either?”
The flat door clicked shut behind her.
Outside, the October chill bit into her skin. She boarded the bus, ignoring the vibrating phone in her pocket.
Emily answered in a dressing gown, slippers scuffing the floor. “Laura? What’s happened?” Her gaze dropped to the bag.
“Can I stay awhile?”
“Of course. Come in.” She ushered her to the kitchen, kettle already boiling. Laura recounted the fight.
“The bloody nerve!” Emily hissed. “After all these years?”
“Forty-three,” Laura whispered, dabbing her eyes. “And all he sees is a bloody maid.”
“Let him find his *any woman*, then.” Emily shoved a mug toward her. “See how long he lasts.”
The phone buzzed again—*Oliver*.
“Don’t answer,” Emily advised. “Let him stew.”
Laura set it face-down on the table.
Morning came too soon. She woke on Emily’s sofa, the flat silent save for her sister getting ready for work.
“Stay as long as you need,” Emily said, jangling a spare key. “I’ll be back by six.”
Alone, Laura brewed coffee, the stillness unnerving. At home, she’d have been scrambling eggs by now, packing Oliver’s lunch, planning the day’s chores.
The phone stayed silent. He must’ve assumed she’d crawl back once she’d cooled off.
She sipped her coffee by the window. The weight in her chest was strange—grief and relief tangled together. How long had it been since she’d eaten breakfast without worrying about someone else’s needs?
Her eldest, Natalie, rang in the afternoon.
“Mum, Dad called. He said you rowed?”
“We did.”
“Over what?”
“He said I’m nobody. Just a glorified housekeeper.”
“*Mum!*” Natalie gasped. “How *could* he?”
“Easily, apparently.”
“That’s not true! You’ve given everything to that family!”
“So I thought. Turns out I’m replaceable.”
Natalie hesitated. “Where are you now?”
“Aunt Emily’s.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Dunno. Might look for work. If I’m just a maid, I’ve got the experience.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Natalie’s voice cracked. “You’re adults—sort it out!”
Laura laughed dryly. “Sort *what* out? He said what he meant.”
“Mum, *please*. Dad was stressed. He didn’t—”
“Forty-three years, Natalie.” Her voice broke. “Forty-three years, and *this* is what I’m worth.”
A sigh. “I’ll talk to him. But think—is one stupid comment worth throwing away your marriage?”
Laura gripped the phone. “It wasn’t just a comment, love. It was the truth.”
That evening, Oliver rang Emily directly.
“Tell Laura to come home. I’m sick of eating takeaway.”
Emily’s grip tightened on the receiver. “Have you *apologised*?”
“For what? I didn’t *do* anything!”
“You called her *nobody*.”
“A *figure of speech*! Bloody women, always overreacting.”
She didn’t bother relaying *that* conversation.
A week passed. Oliver called daily, demanding her return. The kids pleaded for reconciliation. Laura held firm.
“Maybe he’ll change?” Emily ventured.
Laura shook her head. “He doesn’t want *me*. He wants his dinner cooked.”
“Then what’ll you do?”
“Work. Live on my own.”
“At your age?”
Laura met her sister’s gaze. “Better than dying as *nobody*.”
The agency was kinder than she’d expected.
“Housekeeping experience?” the manager asked.
“Forty-three years.”
A smile. “Perfect. We’ve a couple needing a live-in carer. Cooking, light housework.”
She took the address.
That night, Emily frowned. “You’re really divorcing him?”
Laura folded a blouse into her bag. “I’d rather be paid to be *nobody* than do it for free.”
The elderly couple welcomed her warmly.
“We’re not just hiring staff,” the wife said. “We’d like you to be *family*.”
Laura’s throat tightened. *Family.*
She rang Oliver that evening.
“About time!” he barked. “When are you coming back?”
“I’m not.” Her voice didn’t waver. “I’ve got a job.”
“*What* job?”
“Housekeeper. You said I was good for nothing else.”
Silence. Then, strained: “Laura, stop this. You’re my *wife*.”
“No,” she whispered. “I was *nobody*. Now I’m somebody else’s.”
The line went dead.
She moved in the next day. The couple showed her to a sunlit room, crisp sheets already turned down.
“We’re so glad you’re here,” the husband said. “We value you *immensely*.”
Laura’s eyes stung. *Valued.* How long had it been?
Back in the empty house, Oliver glared at the sink full of dishes. His stomach growled.
He’d find another woman, one who could cook a decent roast. He’d find one easily.
But deep down, he knew—none would *ever* be his Laura.
