The man called her “nobody” in front of his mistress, but a year later, his wife found the perfect way to answer him…
“Madam, are you unwell?” A sympathetic male voice snapped her from her daze. She lifted her tear-filled, unseeing eyes to the stranger—and burst into sobs. Loud, unashamed, right there on the pavement, as passersby startled and stepped aside.
Helen scarcely remembered the last time she had slept more than five hours. Her days began before dawn and stretched long past midnight. Cleaning the vast house, cooking for three men—her husband, their son, and her bedridden father-in-law—laundry, ironing… And then the evening shift: scrubbing floors at an office block. There was no time left for herself. None at all.
It hadn’t happened all at once but crept in unnoticed. First, her mother-in-law, who lived just down the road, began “dropping by for tea” more often, leaving behind piles of dirty dishes and endless unsolicited advice. Then her husband, John, decided household duties were solely a woman’s burden.
Their grown son quickly learned the rules too. Even at work, her manager piled extra tasks on her, thinly veiling his threat: “Don’t like it? There’s a queue at the door.” Helen only nodded and carried on.
Once, before marriage, she had been a brilliant baker. Her cakes had drawn admiration. But endless family troubles, her father-in-law’s illness, and constant money struggles forced her to abandon her passion and take whatever gruelling, thankless work paid the bills.
Their daughter had long since married and moved abroad—no help expected there, though Helen never complained, quietly rejoicing in her happiness from afar.
Exhaustion became her second name. Each night, she collapsed into a heavy, dreamless sleep, only to wake hours later and repeat the madness. Years of this life left their mark.
She had stopped caring for herself long ago. The extra weight her husband mockingly called her “bear suit,” her dull hair pinned back, the worn-out dressing gown, and her perpetually weary, hunted expression.
Helen had given up on herself, forgetting the last time she bought something pretty rather than purely practical. By now, John didn’t just lack interest—he looked at her with poorly concealed disgust.
His remarks grew crueller, and that recent jab about an “Olympic bear” was just one of many. He vanished most evenings, returning at dawn with vacant eyes and the betraying scent of another woman’s perfume.
Her mother-in-law completed the picture. Her venomous whispers and complaints about the “useless daughter-in-law” became a daily torment. Walking past the garden bench, Helen felt the old woman’s judging stare and caught fragments of gossip with the neighbours.
It was bleak and wretched, but she had no strength left to fight. Each day, she felt less like a woman, less like a person—just an invisible function, a silent machine serving others’ needs.
“Good Lord, Helen, look at you!” An old school friend had gasped during a chance meeting. “Just walk away from them all, focus on yourself!”
“I can’t, Mary. Family comes first,” Helen muttered, avoiding her gaze. But the words struck deep.
The breaking point came suddenly and terribly. Exhausted beyond measure, she fell asleep on the bus, missed her stop, and stumbled out in an unfamiliar part of town. Heading toward the Tube, she passed a row of lively cafés with outdoor seating.
Then she froze.
There, at one of the tables, sat John. Beaming like a polished teapot, he had his arm around a sleek blonde whose dress likely cost three of Helen’s monthly wages.
The world around her turned grey. An icy band tightened around her chest, her ears rang… Summoning her last strength, she approached.
“John?”
He turned. Panic flickered across his face, then twisted into irritation. The blonde gave Helen a disdainful once-over.
“Darling, who’s this?” she drawled.
And then John, staring past Helen, muttered:
“Oh, her? Just… nobody. From work.”
“From work.”
Not his wife. Not the mother of his child. Just “from work.” He had shamed her. Been ashamed of her. In front of this painted doll. It was worse than a slap. The pain, the humiliation, the years of self-sacrifice unnoticed—all crashed down at once.
She turned and walked away, blind to the path ahead, swaying like a drunk. The world blurred, slowed… Her chest ached as if a stone had crushed her heart. One phrase echoed: “From work… from work…”
“Madam, are you unwell?” The same kind voice yanked her back. She looked up at the stranger through swollen eyes—and broke down weeping, uncaring of the stares around her. She wasn’t crying over betrayal. She mourned her wasted life, her shattered dreams, the Helen who no longer existed.
She returned home as if sleepwalking. Passed her hissing mother-in-law without a word. Unlocked the door.
“Mum, did you wash my blue socks? Put them away?” called her 25-year-old son from his room. He didn’t even ask why she was late or why her eyes were red.
Her phone rang. Her manager.
“Helen, Smith’s off sick again! Be in the office first thing—we’re swamped!”
“I’m not coming,” she whispered.
“What?! Have you lost your—” She hung up and tucked the phone into her old coat.
Without a word, she packed a small bag with essentials and left the house that had long ceased to be a home. Went to her mother’s. For two weeks, the phone didn’t stop—John, her son, her boss. Helen stayed silent. She understood: they didn’t want her. They wanted her functions—cook, clean, cover.
She spent hours at her mother’s kitchen table, staring out the window. Then, one day, a crystal-clear thought came. It wasn’t just John’s fault. Not just her mother-in-law’s or her son’s. She had allowed this.
Anger surged through her like a hot wave. She slammed her fist on the table. An old mug—decorated with a silly heart, a gift from John long ago—fell and shattered.
“That’s it,” Helen thought, staring at the pieces. “The old me is dead. No going back.”
A year passed.
On a bright summer day, Helen sat on the terrace of a cosy café, sipping fragrant coffee and laughing at her companion’s joke. Slim, poised, in an elegant dress, with stylish hair and eyes that shone from within—she drew admiring glances from men nearby.
In that year, she had transformed. Rediscovered her old passion for baking and given it new life. Hired at a prestigious patisserie, she was amazed to find her hands remembered everything. Her cakes and pastries quickly gained fame.
She joined a gym, shed twenty pounds, refreshed her wardrobe. Her son visited, apologised—she forgave, but didn’t return. John called a few times—she never answered.
Her companion—the same man who’d asked, “Are you unwell?”—had bumped into her weeks prior. He’d struggled to believe this radiant, confident woman was the broken soul he’d seen that rainy day. Now he joked, and Helen glowed with happiness.
Then her gaze caught a figure passing the café. A man in faded jeans and a stretched-out jumper, unshaven, with hollow eyes, lugged heavy grocery bags. Hearing her laugh, he turned, saw Helen… and froze. His jaw dropped. He recognised her but couldn’t believe it.
“John, why’ve you stopped? We’ll miss the bus!” screeched a familiar voice—his mother. She spotted Helen too, her coffee, her smile… and crashed into her son’s back, nearly toppling them both, groceries scattering.
“Helen, do you know them?” her companion asked, eyeing the odd pair.
She took a sip of coffee, smiled faintly, and said calmly, meeting her ex-husband’s stunned gaze:
“Oh, them? Just… nobody. From work.”
What do you think? Did Helen do right? Should such humiliation and betrayal be forgiven? Or is it better, as she did, to smash the old cup—and start anew?
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