30September
The day Peter left for a younger woman I didnt weep. I simply sat down, inhaled the quiet, and for the first time in years felt a genuine lightness.
Peter and I had been married for thirtythree years. We wed when I was twentytwo and he was twentysix, in a small church in York. The early years were full of love, building a terraced house together, taking out a mortgage, welcoming our first child, then another, tackling endless renovations, and both of us pulling extra shifts to keep the bills paid. We lived normally, like most couples. No sweeping passions, but also no catastrophes.
As the years slipped by we began to drift. He would get home late from the plant, always with a new excuse about a project. My routine settled into librarianship, grocery shopping, cooking, washing, helping the grandchildren with their homework, and chatting with Mrs. Patel next door. In the evenings we watched programmes on the telly, each of us perched in our own corner of the couch.
Touch became a memory. I cant even recall the last time he embraced me, yet I never complained. I told myself that this was what a mature partnership looked like, that love simply changes its shape.
Two years ago Peter started to act strangely. He began caring about his appearance: he lost the belly, dusted off shirts that had sat untouched in the wardrobe for ages, even started wearing cologne again. Suddenly there were business trips and assignments that had never existed before. I pretended not to notice.
I was afraid to ask, though deep down I knew something was amiss. I tried to convince myself it was just a phase, that he would tire of it.
One evening he came home, didnt touch his dinnera first in all our years togetherand said,
I need to talk to you.
He sat opposite me, looked straight into my eyes and said,
Ive met someone. Shes younger. I feel good with her. Im leaving.
That was it. No shouting, no hesitation.
I looked at him. He was fiftynine, I was fiftyfive, and I felt relief. A real, honest relief.
There were no tears, no melodrama. I went to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea, and a hush fell over the house that I hadnt known for decades. For once, nobody complained that the tea was too sweet, nobody slurped at dinner, nobody slammed doors because the remote was misplaced.
I didnt sleep that night, but not from pain from the sheer relief of finally being able to think of myself. Peter moved out a week later, taking a suitcase, a few shirts, his laptop. The rest, in his words, was already mine.
The children reacted in different ways. My daughter, Poppy, was furious. Dads gone mad, Mum, what does he think hes doing? she shouted. My son, James, stayed silent; hed always been closer to his father. I didnt need their support; I simply felt free.
I started to do the things Id always postponed. I signed up for a painting class, despite never having held a brush before. I spent a weekend with Mrs. Patel in Bath, the first time in twenty years I travelled without a plan or the looming dread that someone would be waiting at home with a sour face.
I began to go to bed whenever I wanted, ate dinner in bed, rearranged the livingroom furniture, bought a new, flamboyant tablecloth dotted with huge flowerssomething Peter would have loathed, but something I loved.
People around me reacted oddly. Some asked, How do you manage it?, Its sad at our age. Others, perhaps quietly, seemed glad that Peter got what he deserved. I didnt need any of their opinions.
For many years I existed in a marriage where I was invisible: the cook, the accountant, the nurse, the cleaner, but never the wife, never the woman. When Peter left, I didnt lose love; I shed a weight.
I know it sounds as if Im taking pleasure in someone elses misfortune, but thats not true. Im simply grateful for the life Ive reclaimed.
I have no idea how long his fling with the younger woman will last. Maybe years, maybe it will end quickly. Thats no longer my concern.
My concern now is a mug of tea with honey, reading late into the night, long walks without a hint of guilt. My concern is just me.
And for the first time in thirty years, I finally feel truly at home.
