The quiet woman spoke loudly.
“William! How much longer must I put up with this? This is the second time this week you’ve flooded my flat!” shouted the downstairs neighbour, waving a soaking rag right under Vera Nichols’ nose.
“I already apologised! The radiator’s leaking—I’ve called a plumber!” William defended himself, standing in the doorway in just his vest and boxers.
“Apologised? And what am I supposed to do about the ceiling? I’ve just had new wallpaper put up! Do you two even care about anything?”
Vera stood behind her husband, fists clenched. The neighbour, Margaret, was right, but William, as usual, refused to listen. The radiator had been leaking for a month, and he’d kept putting off fixing it.
“Why are you screeching like a fishwife?” William snapped. “I said I’ll sort it!”
“When? When my entire flat’s underwater?” Margaret was furious, her grey hair tousled, cheeks burning.
Vera gently touched William’s shoulder.
“Will, what if I call a good plumber tomorrow? I’ve got a number for a reliable one,” she whispered.
“Leave it! I’ll handle it!” He waved her off without even turning.
Margaret looked at Vera with pity. They’d known each other eight years, since the Nichols family moved in, but in all that time, Margaret had never once heard Vera raise her voice. Always quiet, always yielding, always apologising for her husband.
“Fine, Vera. I know it’s not your fault. But do something!” Margaret turned and stormed off.
William slammed the door and stomped into the kitchen, where beef stew simmered on the hob. Vera followed, silent as ever.
“What’s that face for?” he grumbled, sitting at the table. “Serve the stew.”
Vera picked up the ladle, but her hands trembled. Drops of rich brown stew splattered the freshly ironed tablecloth.
“Clumsy cow!” William muttered. “Can’t even pour properly!”
“Sorry,” Vera whispered, dabbing the stain with a napkin.
Over dinner, William ranted about work, his boss, his colleagues—everyone under the sun. Vera nodded, occasionally murmuring, “Yes, of course,” or “You’re right.” Just like every night for twenty-three years of marriage.
After dinner, William sprawled on the sofa to watch football while Vera washed up. Through the kitchen window, she saw Margaret hanging laundry on her balcony. Spotting Vera, Margaret waved. Vera timidly waved back.
That night, once William snored in front of the telly, Vera slipped downstairs. Margaret answered in her dressing gown, cradling a teacup.
“Vera! Come in, love. Fancy a cuppa?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to see the damage.”
The bathroom ceiling was a disaster—a spreading yellow stain, wallpaper peeling at the edges.
“Oh, Margaret, I’m so sorry! I’ll get a plumber tomorrow—I’ll pay!”
“Don’t be daft, Vera. It’s not about the money. I’m just tired of it. Your husband’s a nightmare—always blaming everyone, never lifting a finger.”
Vera looked down. Margaret wasn’t wrong, but saying it aloud felt impossible.
“He’s stressed from work,” she murmured.
“Vera, what about you?” Margaret asked suddenly. “In all these years, I’ve never seen you smile. You always look so sad.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Kids?”
“No. It… never happened.”
“Did you want them?”
Vera hesitated, then nodded.
“Desperately. But William said it was too soon, then we couldn’t afford it, then he wasn’t ready. Now it’s too late.”
Margaret set her cup down and stepped closer.
“What do you want? Not William—you.”
“I don’t know,” Vera admitted. “I’ve forgotten how to want anything. I’ve spent so long thinking about what he needs…”
“Vera, you’re a lovely woman. Forty-five isn’t old! Why do you make yourself so… small?”
Vera caught her reflection in the hall mirror. Her face wasn’t old—bright eyes, slender frame. But her expression… weary, faded.
“I’m not making myself small. It’s just… how things are. I don’t know how to argue. My mum said a good wife obeys.”
“Was your mum happy?”
Vera thought. Her mother—always quiet, always in her father’s shadow. Dad commanded; Mum nodded. She couldn’t remember her ever being happy.
“No,” she whispered.
“There you go. And you’re walking the same path.”
Back upstairs, the flat was silent. William snored on the sofa, the room reeking of whisky. A dirty plate sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table.
She started tidying, then stopped. Looked at her sleeping husband, the mess he’d made in half an hour. Something inside her twanged, like a taut string snapping.
Next morning, William woke hungover and scowling.
“Where’s breakfast?” he grunted, shuffling into the kitchen.
“Make it yourself,” Vera said, sipping her coffee.
“What?”
“You’ve got hands. The cooker works. Manage.”
William gaped. In twenty-three years, she’d never refused to make his breakfast.
“You ill? Taken your temperature?”
“I’m fine. Just tired of being your unpaid maid.”
“You’ve lost the plot! Who puts a roof over your head?”
“I work in accounts. I earn my keep. And the flat’s in my mother’s name, remember?”
William turned red.
“Oh, so now you’re throwing that in my face? I don’t need you!”
“Then don’t. But fix the radiator. And apologise to Margaret.”
“Like hell!” He slammed the door on his way out.
Vera finished her coffee, dressed, and called the plumber Margaret recommended. He arrived that afternoon, replaced the radiator seals.
“How long’s this been leaking?” he asked, packing his tools.
“A month.”
“Should’ve called sooner. Flooded the neighbour?”
Vera sighed. “Yes.”
“Well, it’s sorted now.”
That evening, William returned even angrier.
“Plumber come?”
“Yes. It’s fixed.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred quid.”
“Two hundred?! You’re mad! I could’ve done it for a tenner!”
“When? Next year?”
William stared. She’d never challenged him before.
“What’s got into you? Been gossiping with that harpy downstairs?”
“Margaret’s lovely. And she was right.”
“Ah, I see! Bloody feminists whispering in your ear! What else did she tell you?”
Vera stood, faced him.
“She didn’t tell me anything. She asked what I wanted. And I couldn’t answer. Because for twenty-three years, I’ve only wanted one thing—for you to be happy. No one’s ever asked me. Not even me.”
“And now what?” William sneered. “Gonna burn your bra?”
“I’m going to live like a person,” Vera said, meeting his eyes for the first time in years. “Say what I think. Refuse what I don’t want.”
“Sod off!” He grabbed his coat and slammed the door.
Alone in the kitchen, Vera’s heart raced, hands shook—but inside, something unclenched, like a weight lifted.
Next night, William stumbled in drunk.
“Where’s my dinner?” he slurred.
“Fridge,” Vera said, not looking up from her book.
“Warm it up!”
“No.”
“What d’you mean, no?”
“You’ve got hands. Manage.”
William swayed, loomed over her.
“You’ve lost it. Think I won’t put you in your place?”
Vera looked up calmly.
“How? Hit me? I’ll call the police. Then I’ll stay with my sister.”
“Who’d want you? You’re a dried-up old mare!”
“Maybe. But better alone than a servant.”
William opened his mouth—then shut it. This wasn’t the wife he knew. He stomped to the kitchen, slamming cupboards.
Next morning, he woke on the sofa, groggy. Vera was leaving for work.
“Make us a coffee?” he croaked.
“Make it yourself.”
“Vera, what’s got into you? I’m your husband!”
She turned in the doorway.
“A husband’s not an owner. He’s a partner. You’ve treated me like staff for twenty-three years. Enough.”
“But I love you!”
“Love me?” Vera smiled sadly. “When did you last ask how my day was? What I wanted? Done something just to make me happy?”
William said nothing. When had he?
“I’m going to work. Think about what I’ve said.”
That evening, Vera visited Margaret.
“How’s it going?” Margaret asked, pouring tea
