“Shut it,” snapped the man, hurling his suitcase onto the floor. “I’m leaving you and this muck you call a life.”
“Muck?” Emma turned slowly from the stove, where potatoes sizzled for supper.
“That muck fed your mother for twenty years while she bounced between doctors. Forgotten that, have you?”
“Whats Mum got to do with this? Dont you dare bring her into it!”
“Everything, James. While you were off chasing your big deals in London, I was here, looking after your paralysed mother. Changing her nappies, if you must know.”
James stood in the doorway of their two-bed terrace, crisp in a new suit, his suitcase at his feet. Emma hadnt seen him look this polished in yearstrim, tanned, reeking of expensive cologne. A far cry from the factory days when hed come home stinking of engine oil.
She remembered how theyd met. A dance at the works social club, him a young mechanic, her from accounts. Hed spun her to *Sweet Caroline*, whispering daft nothings in her ear. Then a modest weddingthirty guests, prawn cocktail, and cheap bubbly. His mother had wept with joy, hugging Emma: “Thank you, love, for taming my Jimmy.”
Tamed him. Twenty-two years theyd had. Raised a daughter, Sophie. Now at med school, scraping by on grants and Emmas extra tutoring. James hadnt given a penny in three yearsploughed it all into his “business ventures.” What business? Emma never quite grasped it. A garage one month, haulage the next. All went belly-up.
“You just dont get it,” James lit a fag right there in the hall. “Daves offered me a job up in Manchester. Runs a chain of car washeswants me managing. Hell sort a flat to start.”
“Going alone?” Emma wiped her hands on her apron. They trembled, but her voice held steady.
“Not alone.” James looked away. “With Lucy. She… gets me. Believes in me.”
Lucy. Emma had known about her for months. Seen the texts when James was in the shower. *Kitten, darling, miss you.* Twenty-eight, this “kitten.” A showroom assistant where James had been eyeing a caron finance, mind, which Emma was still paying off from her teachers wages.
“What about Sophie?” Emma asked. “Your daughter. She graduates next year.”
“Shell understand. I cant live like this anymore. Im forty-five, Em. Still young. Still time to turn things round.”
Emma walked to the window. Next door, Margaret was hanging washing. She spotted Emma, gave a wave. Margaret knew it allabout Lucy, about James hardly coming home these past six months. Brought round scones sometimes: “Chin up, love.”
“Remember,” Emma said softly, “when Sophie was five? Pneumonia. Doctors didnt hold out much hope. You worked doubles for the medicine. I sat by her bed night and day. You said then, Were family, Em. Well get through anything.”
“That was years ago.”
“Fifteen. Or when your mum had her stroke? Who traipsed to hospitals? Who turned her every two hours so she wouldnt get sores? Me, James. You were always too busywork, deals. What deals? You were already chasing your pipe dreams.”
James stubbed his fag on the windowsill. Emma wincednew sill, saved up for it herself.
“You never forget, do you?” he spat. “All the bad stuff. What about the good? That time I took you to Brighton?”
“Ten years ago. For a week.”
“Nothings ever enough for you!”
Emma faced him. Tears pricked, but she wouldnt let them fall. Not for him.
“Know what, James? Sod off. Run to your Lucy. But heres the thing. I cared for your mum till the end. Two years spoon-feeding her, washing her, dosing her. Where were you? Working? On what, James? Youve barely held a job these past five years. Too busy playing tycoon.”
“I tried! For this family!”
“For us?” Emma scoffed. “Sophies pulling night shifts as a care assistant to afford textbooksbecause Daddys a businessman. Im doing double school shifts plus tutoring. Who exactly were you trying for?”
James gripped his suitcase handle, silent.
“Know the funniest bit?” Emma went on. “Your mum told me before she went: Forgive him, love. Hes weak. Always was. Thanks for putting up with him. Didnt understand then. I do now.”
“Dont!” James exploded. “Dont you call me weak! Im suffocating here! In this house, this town, with you! Youll bury me with your bloody righteousness!”
“My righteousness?” Emma laughed, sharp and cold. “Ive spent years biting my tongue. When you rolled in drunk. When the savings vanished for your latest scheme. When you stank of another womans perfume. Thought youd grow out of it. For family.”
She went to the cupboard, pulled out a folder. James stiffened.
“Whats that?”
“Divorce papers. Drew them up a month ago. Waited to see if youd leave first. Or if I would. But you beat me to itwell done. Sign them.”
James gaped at the documents.
“You… knew?”
“Im not stupid, James. Just gave you a chance. Gave myself one tooin case I was wrong. Wasnt.”
“The house” he started.
“Mine. Left by my mum. Youre on the deeds, but good luck proving youve a claim. Especially with no proper job these three years. Fancy paying Sophies maintenance?”
“Shes an adult”
“Full-time student. Legally entitled till she graduates. Section 25 of the Family Law Act, if youre curious.”
James snatched the pen, scrawled his name. Slammed the folder onto the sideboard.
“Happy now? Twenty-two years down the drain?”
Emma studied him. Grey at the temples, crows feet. Once her whole world. Now a stranger.
“Not down the drain, James. Weve got Sophie. Clever, kind, hardworking. Takes after me,” she smiled sadly. “And thank you. There were good years. You just… lost your way. Or maybe you were always this way, and I didnt see it.”
James hoisted his suitcase. Lingered in the doorway.
“Youll regret this. Ending up alone.”
“Wont be alone. Got Sophie. My job. Friends. Know what? Ill finally take those dance lessons. Always wanted to learn the waltz. You said I had two left feet. Well see.”
The door banged shut. Emma stood in the quiet, then returned to the kitchen. The potatoes were burnt. She dumped the pan in the sink, opened the windowair it out.
The phone rang. Sophie.
“Mum? You alright? Margaret called, said Dad left with a suitcase.”
“Im fine, love. Eating supper?”
“Mum… Are you crying?”
“No,” Emma wasnt. “Chopping onions. Making salad.”
“Im coming over. Right after my shift.”
“Dont, Soph. Youve exams tomorrow.”
“Mum, dont be daft. Already on my way. And Mum… I love you. Youre the strongest person I know.”
Emma hung up. Fetched the winea Teachers Day gift, saved for a special occasion. Poured half a glass, raised it to the window where sunset gilded the rooftops.
“To new beginnings,” she murmured.
Below, a taxi door thudded. James loaded his case as a young blonde waved from the cab. Lucy. Emma had seen her at the showroomnothing special. Just young.
Margaret called up from the garden:
“Emma! Bringing round a pie! Cheese and onion, your favourite!”
Emma smiled. Properly, for the first time in months. The divorce papers lay on the table beside Jamess abandoned keys. She picked them up, weighed them in her palm.
Tomorrow, shed change the locks. Sign up for dance class. Maybe even get that bob shed fancied.
Tonight, shed drink wine with Margaret, eat pie, and not think beyond this moment. Because ahead was life. Hers. No looking back at the one whod walked away.
The phone rang again. Unknown number.
“Mrs. Thompson? Medical faculty here. Sophies been awarded the Chancellors Scholarship. Congratulations! Shes a credit to us all!”
This time, Emma did cry. But they were happy tears.
