The quiet woman spoke up sharply.
“William Parker! How much longer must I put up with this? This is the second time this week you’ve flooded my flat!” The downstairs neighbour waved a damp cloth right under Eleanor Parker’s nose, her voice rising with fury.
“I already apologised! The radiator’s leaking, I’ve called a plumber!” William stood in the doorway in just his vest and boxers, defensively crossing his arms.
“Apologised? What about my ceiling? I just had new wallpaper put up! Do you not care about anything?”
Eleanor clenched her fists behind her husband’s back. The neighbour, Margaret Whitmore, was right—but as usual, William refused to listen. The radiator had been leaking for a month, and he’d done nothing.
“Do you have to yell like a fishwife?” William snapped. “I said I’d fix it!”
“When? When my whole flat’s underwater?” Margaret’s silver hair was wild, her cheeks flushed with anger.
Eleanor stepped forward, touching her husband’s shoulder lightly.
“Will, let me call a plumber tomorrow. I know a good one,” she whispered.
“Leave it! I’ll sort it myself!” He brushed her off without turning.
Margaret met Eleanor’s eyes with pity. They’d known each other eight years, ever since the Parkers moved in, but in all that time, Margaret had never heard Eleanor raise her voice. Always quiet, always compliant, always apologising for her husband.
“Fine, Eleanor. I know it’s not your fault. But do something!” Margaret turned and marched down the stairs.
William slammed the door and stomped to the kitchen, where a pot of stew simmered. Eleanor followed silently.
“What’s got into you?” he grumbled, sitting at the table. “Serve the stew.”
She picked up the ladle, but her hands trembled. Drops of rich broth splattered the freshly ironed tablecloth.
“Clumsy fool!” William muttered. “Can’t even do that right.”
“Sorry,” Eleanor whispered, dabbing the stain with a napkin.
Over lunch, he complained about work—his boss, his colleagues, everyone. Eleanor nodded, murmuring, “Yes, of course,” or “You’re right.” Just like always, for twenty-three years of marriage.
Afterwards, William sprawled on the sofa to watch football while Eleanor washed up. Through the kitchen window, she saw Margaret hanging laundry on her balcony. Their eyes met, and Margaret waved. Eleanor hesitantly waved back.
That evening, once William had fallen asleep in front of the telly, Eleanor slipped out to see Margaret. The older woman answered in her dressing gown, teacup in hand.
“Eleanor! Come in, love. Fancy a cuppa?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to see the damage.”
The bathroom ceiling was a mess—yellow stains spreading, wallpaper peeling at the edges.
“This is awful!” Eleanor gasped. “Margaret, I’m so sorry. I’ll find a plumber tomorrow—I’ll pay for it!”
“Oh, Eleanor, it’s not about the money. I’m just tired of it. Your husband’s temper… Always blaming everyone else, never lifting a finger.”
Eleanor looked down. Margaret wasn’t wrong, but admitting it aloud felt impossible.
“He’s tired from work. He gets stressed,” she said softly.
“Eleanor, 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.”
“Do you have children?”
“No. It… never happened.”
“Did you want them?”
Eleanor hesitated, then nodded.
“I did. Very much. But William said it was too soon, then that we couldn’t afford it, then that 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,” Eleanor admitted. “I’ve forgotten how to want anything for myself. I’ve spent so long thinking only of him…”
“You’re a lovely woman, Eleanor. Forty-five isn’t old. Why do you… shrink yourself like this?”
Eleanor caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. Her face wasn’t old—her eyes still bright, her figure slim. But her expression… weary, faded.
“I’m not shrinking. It’s just… how I am. I never learned to speak up. My mother said a good wife obeys her husband.”
“Was your mother happy?”
Eleanor thought. Her mother—always quiet, always in her father’s shadow. He commanded; she nodded. But happy? Eleanor couldn’t remember.
“No,” she whispered.
“Then why follow her path?”
Back upstairs, the flat was silent. William snored on the sofa, the stale reek of whiskey clinging to him. A dirty plate sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table.
She started tidying automatically, then stopped. Looked at her sleeping husband, the mess he’d made in half an hour. Something inside her quivered—like a wire pulled too tight.
The next morning, William woke hungover and scowling.
“Where’s breakfast?” he grunted, shuffling into the kitchen.
“Make it yourself,” Eleanor said, not looking up from her coffee.
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m not your maid.”
William gaped. In twenty-three years, she’d never refused to cook for him.
“Are you ill? Have you got a fever?”
“I’m fine. I’m just tired of being treated like a servant.”
“Have you lost your mind?” His face reddened. “Who puts food on the table? Clothes on your back?”
“I work in accounting. I earn my own wages. And this flat’s in my mother’s name, remember?”
He bristled.
“Oh, so now you’re giving me lip? I don’t need you!”
“You don’t,” Eleanor agreed. “But the radiator still needs fixing. And you owe Margaret an apology.”
“I owe her nothing!” he snarled, slamming the door on his way out.
Eleanor finished her coffee, dressed, and called the plumber Margaret recommended. He arrived that afternoon, replaced the radiator’s seals.
“How long’s this been leaking?” he asked, packing his tools.
“About a month.”
“Should’ve called sooner. Flooded the neighbour, did you?”
Eleanor sighed. “Yes.”
“Well, it’s sorted now.”
That evening, William returned in a fouler mood.
“Plumber come?” he muttered.
“Yes. It’s fixed.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred quid.”
“Two hundred?! You’ve lost the plot! I could’ve fixed it for twenty!”
“When? Next year?”
William stared. She’d never challenged him like this.
“What’s got into you? Who’s been filling your head with rubbish? That busybody downstairs?”
“Margaret’s a good woman. And she was right.”
“Oh, I see!” William sneered. “Got you on this feminist nonsense, has she? What else did she tell you?”
Eleanor stood, facing him squarely.
“She didn’t tell me anything. She asked what I wanted. And I couldn’t answer. Because for twenty-three years, I’ve only cared about pleasing you. No one ever asked me—not even myself.”
“And what now?” William scoffed. “Gonna start waving banners?”
“No. I’m going to live. Speak my mind. Say no when I mean it.”
“Sod off!” he barked, grabbing his coat.
Alone in the kitchen, Eleanor’s hands shook, her heart pounded—but for the first time in years, she felt lighter, as if a weight had lifted.
The next night, William came home drunk, demanding dinner.
“It’s in the fridge,” Eleanor said, not looking up from her book.
“Warm it up!”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“You’ve got hands. The cooker works. Sort yourself out.”
He swayed, looming over her.
“You’ve really lost it, haven’t you? Think I won’t put you in your place?”
Eleanor met his gaze calmly.
“How? Hit me? I’d call the police. Then I’d leave.”
“Who’d want you? You’re past it!”
“Maybe. But I’d rather be alone than treated like a slave.”
William faltered. This wasn’t the wife he knew. He stormed to the kitchen, slamming cupboards.
The next morning, he woke on the sofa, groaning. Eleanor was dressed for work.
“Make us a coffee?” he mumbled.
“Make it yourself.”
“Eleanor, what’s happened to you? I’m your husband!”
She turned in the doorway.
“A husband isn’t an owner. He’s a partner. You’ve treated me like staff for twenty-three years. Enough.”
“But I love you!”
“Do you?” Eleanor smiled sadly. “When did you last ask how my day was? What I wanted? When did you do something
