**Diary Entry A Lesson in Being Seen**
“If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!” My wifes words hung in the air like a storm cloud before breaking.
That evening, the silence in our home felt heavier than usual. Margaret stirred the soup absently, the rhythmic ticking of the old grandfather clock the only sound in what was once a lively house. Back when the boys still lived here, laughter and chatter filled every corner. Now, the clock was her only company.
She glanced at meJamesburied in my phone as always, the screens glow reflecting off my glasses. There was a time she found that sight comfortingproof I was home, safe beside her. Now, it just made her jaw tighten.
“Dinners ready,” she said, forcing her voice steady.
I nodded without looking up. She set the table with the good chinathe set reserved for special occasions. Though, what counted as special these days? The boys rarely visited, grandchildren were still a dream. Just the two of us left in this too-big house, every room a museum of better times.
She ladled the soup, garnished it with fresh parsley and thyme from the little pots on the windowsillher pride and joy, grown just for my favourite dishes. A fresh loaf of bread, sliced neatly, completed the spread.
Finally, I put the phone down and picked up my spoon. She held her breath. First bite. Second. On the third, I frowned.
“Tastes off,” I muttered, pushing the bowl away.
Something inside her snapped. She looked down at her handsred from hot water, rough from years of scrubbing. The entire day spent on her feet: washing my shirts, pressing my trousers, cooking that damned soup. The kettle still hissed on the stovemy preferred tea, steeped just so, because *anything else wasnt right*.
Her gaze flicked to the stack of ironed laundryeach piece folded *exactly* as I liked. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of folding shirts a certain way because *otherwise, they crease*.
“You know what?” Her voice tremblednot with tears, but with fury. “If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!”
I finally looked up, startledas if this quiet, dutiful woman raising her voice was unthinkable.
Margaret shoved back her chair so hard it clattered to the floor. She didnt care. She grabbed her coatthe same one shed worn for years because *why waste money on a new one?*
“Where are you going?” My voice held an edge of panic, but she was already out the door.
The crisp autumn air hit her face, and for the first time in years, she felt like she could breathe. She didnt know where she was going. Didnt have a plan. But the fear of the unknown was gone, replaced by something intoxicating: *freedom*.
The tiny flat greeted her with silencenot the suffocating kind from home, but something light, almost musical. No ticking clock. No muttered criticisms. No endless *why didnt you?*
She woke earlya lifetime of habitbut today, she lay in bed, watching sunlight crawl across the wall. No one demanded breakfast. No shirts needed ironing.
“I can just *be*,” she whispered, laughing at the novelty.
Old habits tugged at her*make the bed, dust the shelves, start the chores*but she stopped herself. “No. Today, I do what *I* want.”
In the bathroom mirror, she studied her reflection. When had she last *really* looked at herself? Not a hurried check before dashing out, but *properly*? The lines around her eyes were deeper, more silver threaded her hair. But her eyesthey were *alive*.
Outside, October smelled of fallen leaves and coffee from the café down the street. Shed passed it a thousand times, always rushing to the shops. *”Waste of money,”* Id say. And shed agree, telling herself home-brewed was better.
The bell jingled as she stepped inside. The scent of cinnamon and fresh pastries wrapped around her.
“Morning!” The barista smiled. “What can I get you?”
“I” She hesitated. Shed made coffee for others for decades, but never considered what *she* liked. “What do you recommend?”
“Our caramel lattes lovely. And the almond croissants just came out of the oven.”
Years ago, shed have refused*too pricey, too indulgent, what will James say?* But today
“Yes, please. And a croissant too.”
By the window, she watched people pass. At the next table, a group of women laughed loudly. When had *she* last laughed like thattruly, freely?
The first sip of coffee was rich, sweet. She closed her eyes. *God, had life always been this delicious?*
Her phone stayed silent. For the first time in twenty-five years, Id woken to no breakfast, no ironed shirt, no packed lunch. Was I angry? Confused? Or had I even noticed?
“Another coffee?” the barista asked.
Margaret checked her watchold habit. This time yesterday, shed have been grocery shopping, already planning lunch. But today
“Yes, please. And another croissant.”
When the phone finally rang*Andrew, our eldest*her hand shook. For the first time, she didnt want to answer.
“Mum, whats this nonsense?” His tone was sharp, just like mine. “Dad says youve left. Are you serious?”
She sank onto the bed. How could she explain to her son what she barely understood herself? The years of quiet despair, of being invisible, of dissolving into everyone elses needs?
“Andy, I”
“Oh, come *on*!” He cut her off. “Dad made a comment about soupbig deal! Hes always been like that!”
His words dripped with condescensionlike scolding a child. Even her own son, the boy shed rocked to sleep, didnt see her as a person with her own wants.
“Its not about the soup,” she said quietly.
“What, then? Dads beside himself! He tried cooking last nightburned everything.”
She pictured itme fumbling with pans, swearing at the hob. Once, that wouldve sent her rushing back. Now
“See?” She almost smiled. “He *can* look after himself.”
“Mum!” He sounded appalled. “Youre tearing the family apart! What will people *think*?”
*People, people* Her whole life ruled by faceless *people*. What would neighbours say? Relatives? Now even her son wielded that guilt.
She moved to the window. A pigeon preened on the ledge, utterly free.
“Did you ever ask how *I* felt all those years?” Her voice steadied. “Ever wonder what *I* wanted?”
“Whats that got to”
“*Everything!*” She surprised herself with her own strength. “Twenty-five years of cooking, cleaning, serving. And you all treated me like furniturejust *there*, always functioning, never *seen*.”
Silence. Then, softer: “Mum you *chose* that. You always said family came first.”
“It *does*,” she agreed. “But *Im* part of that family too. And I wont be the help anymore.”
A month passed. Margaret woke earlystill a habit, but now she lingered in bed, listening to the city stir. A bus rumbled past, footsteps crunched on fallen leaves.
Shed planted herbs on the windowsillparsley, thyme, basil. Cooking for one was hit or miss, but no one wrinkled their nose or pushed plates away.
A text from our youngest: *Mum, how are you? Can I visit?*
She smiled. After that call with Andrew, the boys had gone quiet, then started reaching out differently. No demands. Just *How are you? Whats new?*
*”Come over,”* she replied. *”Im home.”*
Home. This rented flat with peeling wallpaper and a wobbly stool *was* home now. It smelled of coffee and cinnamon bunsher latest baking attempt (the first three were charcoal).
She dressed in a bright new dressnothing like the muted tones Id preferred. *”Dont draw attention,”* Id always said.
On the nightstand lay a train ticket*London to Edinburgh*. Shed dreamed of seeing the castle, the cobbled streets. Now her first solo trip. Scary? Yes. But a *good* scary, like diving into something new.
Outside, an old man played the accordiona neighbour who busked most mornings. Once, it wouldve annoyed her. Today, she caught herself swaying as she poured coffee.
Her phone buzzed. *James*. She hesitated, then answered.
“Hi.”
“Listen” My voice was rough. “Those shirts you ironedthe special wayhowd you do it? I
