My husband raised me and always warned that without him Id lose my way so I left.
Are you rummaging through my things again? Andrew roared.
I’m not, I replied calmly.
Yes, you are! I begged you not to touch the papers on the desk! Wheres my notebook now?
I slipped the notebook from the desk drawer and handed it to him without a word. After nearly thirty years of marriage Id learned that arguing was pointless.
Andrew never makes a mistake; its always me who forgets, mixes things up, does it wrong.
Here it is, I said, passing the notebook. And please, dont shout. The neighbours can hear.
The neighbours, the neighbours! he snarled, snatching the book from my hands. Youre always worrying about what others think! You should think about your husband, about how hard it is for him when he cant find anything in his own house!
Our old spaniel, Rusty, whined under the table. He always reacted to raised voices. I bent down and stroked his silky ears. Lately it seemed the dog understood me better than my husband.
When Andrew stormed out, I lingered at the kitchen table, staring out the window. Autumn had taken over the streets of Manchester. The poplars were turning yellow, some already bare. The sky was overcast and a drizzle threatened.
When did this happen? I wondered. When did my clever, cultured husband, a university literature lecturer, turn into this perpetually dissatisfied, shouting man?
Perhaps it began after he retired, or when our son Daniel moved with his family to a different suburb. Or maybe it crept up year by year and I never noticed, just got used to it, accommodated it.
I rose, threw on my raincoat, clipped Rustys leash to his collar and stepped outside. A walk in the wet park was exactly what I needed. On such a day the park was almost empty, which suited me fine.
But the park wasnt deserted. By the lakeside pavilion a couple sat a man in his fifties wearing an expensive overcoat and a woman of similar age.
How many times have I told you not to meddle in my affairs! the man bellowed, his voice echoing across the park. Why did you call my boss? Do you realise how I look? Like a schoolboy whose wife is solving all his problems!
I only wanted to help, Victor, the woman shrank with every shout, her figure seeming to diminish. You said you were swamped
Ill sort it myself! Victor growled. Good heavens, why do you always stick your nose where it doesnt belong? Why cant you just tend to the home like a proper lady?
I felt a wave of disgust. In her I saw a reflection of myself, shrinking, apologising, disappearing with each angry outburst.
How many times have I stood under a barrage of accusations, convinced it was my fault, that I should try harder, be more attentive, and not upset my beloved?
Victor turned and stalked away, leaving his partner standing in the sudden rain. She collapsed onto a wet bench and covered her face with her hands.
I sat beside her. Rusty, sensing her distress, rested his head on her lap, and she stroked his shaking fur.
Sorry, I said, I didnt mean to eavesdrop. I just couldnt walk past.
Tears welled in her eyes. She was strikingly beautiful, finefeatured, but her gaze dimmed like a horse thats been driven too hard.
Its my fault, she whispered. I shouldnt have called
No, I interrupted, my voice steadier than I expected. It isnt you. Believe me, I know what Im talking about. Ive been married almost thirty years. For the last ten, my husband has been shouting at me for everything the soup being too salty (even though he dumped a halfteaspoon of salt in it himself), the colour of my shirt (which he chose), the rain falling. And somehow, its always my fault.
She stared at me, eyes wide.
And you know what Ive just realised, looking at you? I continued. This wont get better. It will only get worse. We let it happen because we coddle their whims, stay silent, tolerate, excuse. We think, Hes just tired, not angry on purpose. But they get used to it and start believing they can treat us like a lightning rod for their bad moods.
What do we do? she sobbed. We have children, a flat, years together
Do you have a life of your own? I asked. Friends he doesnt criticise? Hobbies he doesnt mock? A single decision you made without consulting him?
She fell silent, crushed.
You know what, I said, standing up, Im going home, packing my things and moving in with my son. Im done living my life apologising for breathing. Maybe you should think about the same.
We talked a little longer, then went our separate ways.
Back at my flat, I methodically gathered my belongings and called Daniel.
Dad, can I stay with you for a while?
Whats happened, Mum? he asked, worried. Andrew again?
Yes, thats him. I cant take it any more. Can I stay?
Of course, he said.
I left a short note for Andrew: Andrew, Im leaving. Live how you wish. Im filing for divorce. Dont blame the past, Emily.
Rusty went with me; Andrew never liked him, always complaining about the dogs fur and mess.
That evening Andrew called, shouting as usual, accusing me of losing my mind, saying normal women dont act like this, that he loves me and is raising me for my own good, that without him Id be lost.
Andrew, I said evenly, you cant even remember the flowers I love. In thirty years of marriage youve never given me the ones I like. You always buy the cheapest bunch. Thats not love.
Emily! Come to your senses! he yelled. We we
Ive already come to my senses. All the best, Andrew.
I hung up. He called again, then again, until Daniel managed to calm him down. Daniel knows how to talk to his father.
About a week later I ran into the woman from the park in a supermarket. She smiled when she saw me, and a spark returned to her eyes.
Thank you, she said, for stepping in then. You were like an angel or a messenger of fate.
Im flattered, I blushed.
No, really! Your words they echoed everything Id been thinking. Word for word. So Ive decided to go back to my mother, start the divorce. Its scary, but its right.
Right, I nodded.
