“Who do you think you are, telling me what to do?” Peter snapped, turning abruptly from the fridge with a can of lager in his hand. “You’re nobody in this house! Got it?”
Margaret stood by the stove, stirring a pot of stew, her hands trembling slightly. The ladle clinked against the pot’s edge.
“Nobody?” she asked quietly. “Aren’t I your wife?”
“Wife!” Peter scoffed, cracking open the can. “More like a glorified housekeeper. And not even a good one.”
Margaret turned off the hob and faced him. Forty-three years together. Forty-three years of cooking his meals, washing his shirts, ironing his trousers. Raising their children while he climbed the career ladder.
“A housekeeper, is it?” Her voice hardened. “Who does your laundry? Who cooks, cleans, looks after your mother?”
“It’s your duty!” Peter slammed the can on the table. “I bring in the money, pay the bills—what do you do? Make stew? Any woman could do that.”
“Any woman,” Margaret repeated. Something inside her snapped. “Right.”
She untied her apron and hung it on the hook. Peter gulped his lager, his back to her.
“So, any woman,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ll see about that.”
She marched to the bedroom and pulled an old suitcase from the wardrobe. Peter heard the rustling and peered in.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” she answered calmly, folding clothes into the case. “If I’m *nobody* here, then I don’t belong here.”
“Where d’you think you’re going?” He scowled.
“To Emily’s. For a while.”
Emily, her younger sister, lived alone in a two-bed flat and worked as a nurse.
“Don’t be daft,” Peter waved her off. “Who’ll cook?”
“Does it matter?” She zipped the suitcase. “You said *any woman* could do it. Go find one.”
He stared, baffled, as she slipped on her coat.
“Maggie, stop being childish. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Of course not,” she said, buttoning up. “You just spoke the truth. I’m *nobody* here.”
“I said *stop messing about*!” His voice rose. “Who said you could leave?”
She paused at the door and looked at him.
“Nobody. I decided for myself. Or don’t I have that right either?”
She stepped out, leaving him gaping.
The October air was crisp. Margaret boarded a bus to Emily’s. Her phone buzzed—Peter—but she ignored it.
Emily opened the door in slippers and a dressing gown. “Maggie! What’s happened?” She eyed the suitcase.
“Can I stay tonight?”
“Of course! Come in.” They settled in the kitchen with tea. Margaret relayed the fight.
“He’s lost the plot!” Emily fumed. “*Nobody*? After forty-odd years?”
“I gave everything,” Margaret dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “And he says *any woman* could do it.”
“Let him find *any woman* then,” Emily huffed. “See how he manages.”
The phone rang again—Peter.
“Don’t answer,” Emily advised. “Let him stew.”
Margaret set the phone aside.
The next morning, she woke on Emily’s sofa. Her sister was already heading to work.
“Stay as long as you need,” Emily said, handing her spare keys.
Alone, Margaret felt odd—no breakfast to make, no schedule to keep. The phone stayed silent. *Probably thinks I’ll crawl back*, she mused.
Over coffee, her eldest, Charlotte, called.
“Mum, Dad rang. Said you two had a row?”
“We did.”
“Over what?”
“He said I’m *nobody* in the house. Just a bad housekeeper.”
“Mum!” Charlotte gasped. “How *could* he?”
“Easily. Truth hurts, doesn’t it?”
“That’s rubbish! You’ve devoted your life to us!”
“So I thought. Turns out I’m replaceable.”
Charlotte hesitated. “Where are you now?”
“Aunt Emily’s.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Dunno. Might find a job. If I’m just a housekeeper, I’ve got the CV for it.”
“Don’t be silly! You’re *married*. Talk it out!”
“Talk what out?” Margaret gave a dry laugh. “He meant what he said.”
Later, their son James called, equally shocked. Peter rang Emily too, demanding: “Tell her to come home. I’m sick of eating takeaways.”
“Did you *apologise*?” Emily asked.
“For what? I didn’t *do* anything!”
“You called her *nobody*.”
“I was cross! Women always overreact.”
Emily didn’t pass *that* on.
A week passed. Peter’s calls grew frantic. The kids pleaded for reconciliation. But Margaret stood firm.
“Em, d’you think he’ll change?” she asked one evening.
“Doubt it,” Emily sighed. “He wants his dinners back. That’s not remorse.”
“Then I’ll support myself.”
“At sixty-seven?”
“Why not? Am I only good for scrubbing his socks?”
The next day, she visited a staffing agency.
“Housekeeping experience?” the agent asked.
“Forty-three years.”
“Perfect. A retired couple needs live-in help—cooking, light care.”
That evening, Margaret told Emily: “See? I *am* just a housekeeper. But at least I’ll be paid.”
“Are you really leaving him?”
“Yes. I won’t be *nobody* in my own home anymore.”
The couple welcomed her warmly. “We’d like you to feel like family,” the wife said.
*Family*. Margaret smiled. It’d been ages since someone valued her.
Meanwhile, Peter sat in their filthy kitchen, nursing a lager. He’d find another woman to cook his stews.
*Sure he would*. But none would be *his Maggie*.
