The day I finally hand in my notice at the firm, David tells me hes leaving. I dont faint, I dont scream, I dont smash a plate. I simply sit down in the armchair, still wearing my coat, my handbag perched on my knees, and watch him tuck his toothbrush into a travel toiletry bag. Hes had it all planned. Hes been waiting. And I, naïvely, think were just stepping into a quiet new chapter.
For months he has been saying, Youll finally get some rest, youve earned it. He promises weekend trips to the garden plot in Surrey, days out at Windermere, lazy breakfasts with no alarm clock. Yet today, instead of coffee and congratulations, I get a single sentence, delivered like a change of itinerary: Im leaving. Ive been with someone else for a long time. I wanted to wait until you retired so I wouldnt make things harder for you.
For a moment I cant grasp what hes saying. Yesterdays wellwishes from my workmates, the laughter around the birthday cake, the speck of icing that landed on his chin when he bit into the frosting and gave me a wink they all echo in my head. I dont faint, I dont scream, I dont smash a plate. I simply sit in the chair, still in my coat, my handbag on my knees, and watch him pack that toothbrush.
Everything is exactly as he intended. Hes ready to go. And I, foolishly, believed we were just beginning a calm, shared life.
Hes been repeating the same promise over and over: Youll finally get a break, youve earned it. Hes spoken of garden weekends, lake trips, long, unhurried mornings. And now, instead of the usual congratulations, I hear only his flat announcement.
I stare at him as he places the toothbrush in the small case, his movements deliberate, his eyes distant. He looks not contrite, not torn, but as if a weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders.
He walks out, leaves the keys on the kitchen table, doesnt look back, doesnt ask whether Ill manage. Our whole life had been intertwinedbills, decisions, shopping, weekendsall done together. At least thats what I thought.
When the door shuts, I sit in stunned silence. Its midday; Im still in my coat and boots, my handbag resting on my knees, unable to move. Thoughts spin wildly, refusing to settle. The only question that keeps looping back like a boomerang is, Is this really happening?
In the first few days I convince myself it must be a crisis, that hell come to his senses and return. I try calling him; he doesnt answer. I send a short, unemotional text: If you need anything, Im home. He never replies.
A week later I accept the truth: hes gone, and the other womanwhatever little I knew of herhas been in his life for a long time. No one leaves a spouse after thirtyfive years just because a sudden romance ignites; its a plan, a longawaited moment.
I start replaying everything, looking for signs. His absent gazes at dinner, the fishing trips that always seemed to end early, the way he increasingly fell asleep on the sofa instead of beside meperhaps he was talking to someone else then.
The worst blow comes a week later when, by chance, I run into an old holiday friend, Ethel, on the market. It must have been a shock, she says sympathetically. But hed been seeing her already, right? I stare at her, bewildered. What are you talking about? I ask. She stammers, I thought you knew I had no idea. No one had told me. Neighbours, friends, even my cousin from Newcastle all seemed to know. I was the only one still believing in our home, our marriage, our everyday life.
That betrayal hurt less than the realization that I had been deceivednot just by him, but by an entire community that kept quiet. Out of compassion? Indifference?
For months I float in limbo. I cant eat, I cant sleep. I wake before dawn with an uneasy feeling that something terrible has happened, then the memory snaps back, sharp as a knife repeatedly thrust into the same spot.
I hide from everyone. I ignore phone calls, I dont answer the door. I take a single daily walk, always the same route, at the same hour, to avoid anyone. I refuse comforting words, especially the cliché time heals all wounds, because time seems to do nothing.
Then a plain envelope arrives, handwritten in a script I recognise instantly as Davids. I let it sit on the table for an hour, then finally brew a cup of tea and read:
I know I dont deserve forgiveness, but I wanted you to know I spent most of my life with you. For many years I was genuinely happy. Then things changed, and I couldnt tell you. It wasnt because I stopped loving you, but because I feared youd stop respecting me. Now I realise the lack of respect was only for myself. Im sorry you had to find out this way.
It isnt a love letter; its a cowards note. Theres regret, but no true remorse. He simply ran away. When I was no longer his pillar, his support, his daily anchor, he fled to someone who didnt see his wrinkles, his forgetfulness, his flaws.
I knew him, loved him for decades, and that love wounds me most deeply.
Gradually I begin to live again, alone but on my own terms. I take small steps, without lifelong plans. I read, tend my little cottage garden, go on trips with my friends, and stop trying to fit anyones expectations.
I wont claim Im happythat would be too easy. But today I understand one thing: nothing is permanent. Not a job, not a marriage, not even love. That doesnt mean we shouldnt try.
I would rather spend the next ten years consciously, my way, than another thirty living under the illusion that Im only needed when I meet someones demands.
Let people say what they likethat a woman in her sixties should only think about grandchildren and Sunday roasts. I, meanwhile, am signing up for a pottery class. Just for me. And I wont feel the need to justify it to anyone.
