” William, where am I meant to sit? I asked quietly, barely above a whisper. He finally glanced in my direction, and the irritation in his eyes said it all. I dont know, sort yourself out. Cant you see everyones busy talking? Someone among the guests sniggered. My cheeks flared with heat. Twelve years of marriage, twelve years Id endured indifference.
I stood at the entrance to the grand dining hall, clutching a bouquet of white roses and not quite believing what I saw. Around the long mahogany table, dressed with shimmering golden cloths and sparkling crystal goblets, all of Williams relatives sat comfortably. Everyone but me. There simply wasnt a place for me.
“Elizabeth, why are you just standing there? Come in!” my husband yelled, not breaking off his conversation with his cousin.
I slowly scanned the table. There truly was no seat each chair firmly occupied, and not one person even attempted to move over or offer a spot. My mother-in-law, Mildred, presided at the head in a golden dress, like a queen on her throne, pretending not to notice me.
William, where can I sit? I whispered.
He finally glanced at me, impatience clear on his face.
I dont know, sort it out. Everyones talking.
A few of the guests laughed. My face burned. Twelve years of marriage, twelve years Id endured Mildreds scorn, twelve years I tried to fit in with this family. And now, on Mildreds seventieth birthday, there was no room for me at their table.
Maybe Elizabeth should sit in the kitchen? suggested Williams sister, Jane, with barely concealed mockery. Theres a stool in there.
In the kitchen. Like staff. Like someone beneath notice.
I turned and walked straight to the exit, gripping the bouquet so tightly that the thorns pierced the paper and dug into my palms. Laughter rang out behind me someone told a joke. No one called after me, and nobody tried to stop me.
In the corridor, I tossed the bouquet into a bin and pulled out my phone, my hands shaking as I ordered a cab.
Where to? asked the driver when I slid into the back seat.
I dont know, I replied honestly. Just drive. Anywhere.
We drove through the city at night, the window awash with the glow of shop fronts and the occasional passer-by, couples strolling beneath lamplight. And suddenly I realised I didnt want to go home. Not to our flat, with Williams dirty plates awaiting me, socks strewn across the carpet, and my accustomed role as a quiet housewife, expected to serve and never ask for more.
Drop me at the station, please, I told the driver.
Are you sure? There aren’t any trains at this hour.
The station, please.
I got out and walked towards the buildings pale lights. In my pocket was a bank card: our shared account with all our savings money wed put aside for a new car. Two hundred thousand pounds.
At the ticket desk sat a tired young lady.
What have you got for the morning? I asked. Any city.
London, Manchester, Liverpool, Bristol
London, I said quickly, without thinking. One ticket.
I spent the night in the station café with tea, reflecting on my life. How twelve years ago Id fallen head over heels for a brown-eyed man, naively dreaming of family happiness. How Id steadily faded into a shadow, the silent cleaner and cook. How Id let go of my own hopes.
Id had dreams once. At university, Id studied interior design and imagined opening my own creative studio, taking up exciting projects. But after our wedding, William said:
Why bother working? I earn plenty. Just look after the home.
And so I did for twelve years.
The following morning, I boarded a train to London. William sent several messages:
Where are you? Come home.
Elizabeth, answer me.
Mum says you were sulking yesterday. Why are you being childish?
I didnt reply. I watched out the window as fields and woods sped past, and for the first time in years, I felt alive.
In London, I rented a small room in a shared house near Bloomsbury. The landlady, an elegant older woman named Mrs Edith Carter, asked few questions.
Will you be staying long? she queried.
I dont know, I admitted. Maybe even forever.
The first week, I simply wandered the city. I studied its architecture, popped into museums, relaxed in cafes with novels. I hadnt read anything save for cookbooks and cleaning tips in years. So much had happened since!
William rang every single day:
Elizabeth, stop this madness! Come home!
Mum says shell apologise. What more do you want?
Are you completely daft? Youre a grown woman, acting like a rebellious teenager!
I listened to him berate me and wondered had I really accepted this tone all those years? Had I become numb to being spoken to as if I were a naughty child?
By the second week, I visited the job centre. It turned out interior designers were needed in London though my qualifications were long out of date, and technology had changed.
You’ll need retraining, advised the counsellor. Learn some modern programmes and new trends. But youve got a strong foundation, youll be fine.
I enrolled in courses. Every morning, I attended the training centre, learning 3D software, new materials, and contemporary styles. My mind struggled at first, stiff from years of routine, but soon I found my rhythm.
You have a real gift, said my tutor after reviewing my first project. Your artistic sense shines through. Why the big gap in your career?
Life, I replied simply.
William gave up calling after a month. Then Mildred rang instead.
What do you think youre doing, you fool? she shrieked down the phone. Youve left your husband, wrecked a family! Over what not having a seat? We just didnt think!
Mildred, it isnt about a seat, I answered calmly. Its about twelve years of being belittled.
Belittled? My son treated you like a queen!
Your son let you treat me like a maid. And he was worse himself.
Ungrateful! she spat and slammed down the receiver.
Two months later, I finished my retraining and began job hunting. The first interviews were awkward I fumbled, rambling nervously, having forgotten how to present myself. But on my fifth, I was hired as an assistant designer in a small studio.
The salarys modest, warned the manager, Thomas, a kind-eyed man in his forties. But were a good team, the work is interesting. Prove your value, and the rest will follow.
Id have worked for any wage. What mattered was feeling useful, not as a cook or cleaner, but a valued professional.
My first project was modest the layout of a young couples one-bed flat. I poured my heart into every detail, sketching dozens of plans. The clients were thrilled.
You listened to everything we wanted! said the woman. You even understood how we want to live!
Thomas praised me:
Excellent work, Elizabeth. You put genuine thought into it.
For the first time in years, I felt fulfilled by my work. I woke eager each day, ready for new ideas and challenges.
After six months, my pay rose and the projects grew more ambitious. Within a year, I was lead designer. Colleagues respected me, and clients recommended me to friends.
Elizabeth, are you married? Thomas asked one late evening after we’d stayed to discuss a new project.
Technically, yes but Ive lived alone for a year.
Planning to divorce?
Yes, soon.
He nodded and didnt pry. I appreciated that he never encroached on my personal life, pressed advice, or passed judgement. He accepted me as I was.
The London winter was harsh that year, yet I scarcely felt the cold. If anything, I felt I was thawing out emerging from years frozen. I started English lessons, took up yoga, even went to the theatre alone, and discovered I liked it.
Mrs Carter, my landlady, remarked one afternoon:
Elizabeth, youve changed a great deal this year. You arrived a nervous little mouse. Now youre confident, beautiful.
I glanced in the mirror, and realised she was right. I had changed. I let my hair down instead of pinning it tight. I wore bright colours, experimented with makeup. But what mattered most was the spark in my eyes life had returned.
One and a half years after leaving home, a stranger phoned:
Is this Elizabeth? Anna recommended you, you did her flats design.
Thats right, Im here.
I have a large project. A two-storey house, complete renovation. Can we meet?
The project was grander than anything Id done. The affluent client gave me free rein and a generous budget. I invested four months on her house, and the result exceeded all hope. My designs appeared in a well-known magazine.
Youre ready to branch out, Thomas told me, showing me the article. Youve got a reputation here, clients want you. Maybe its time to open your own studio?
The idea of running my own business was daunting and exciting in equal measure. But I took the plunge, using my savings to lease a small office in central London and registered as a sole trader. “Elizabeth Harrison Interior Studio” the sign was modest, but to me those words meant everything.
The opening months were difficult. Few clients, funds drained fast. Still, I persevered working sixteen-hour days, mastering marketing, building a website, and creating social media profiles.
Gradually, business picked up. Word of mouth worked, and satisfied customers recommended me again and again. After a year, I hired an assistant; after two, a second designer.
One morning, sorting emails, I spotted a message from William. My heart paused it had been so long.
Elizabeth, I read about your studio online. I can’t believe youve come so far. I’d like to meet and talk. Ive realised a lot in these three years. Please forgive me.
I reread his message, again and again. Three years ago, those words would have sent me rushing back. But now, all I felt was a gentle sadness for youth, for naive hope, for lost years.
I replied briefly: William, thank you for your letter. Im happy now. I hope you find your happiness too.
That same day, I filed the divorce papers. Later that summer, on the third anniversary of my escape, I received an order to design a penthouse in an exclusive development. The client turned out to be Thomas.
Congratulations on your success, he said, shaking my hand. I always knew youd make it.
Thank you. I couldnt have managed without your support.
Nonsense. You did all this yourself. But now, may I take you to dinner to discuss the project.
Over dinner, conversation turned from work to personal matters.
Elizabeth, may I ask Thomas looked carefully at me. Are you seeing anyone?
No, I answered honestly. And honestly, Im not sure Im ready. Trust comes slowly for me now.
I understand. What if we simply see each other, now and then? No pressure, no demands. Two adults, enjoying each others company.
I thought it over, then nodded. Thomas was gentle, clever, considerate. With him, I felt safe.
Our relationship unfolded gradually, naturally. We attended shows, roamed the city, talked late into the night. Thomas never rushed anything, never demanded declarations of love, never sought to control my life.
You know, I told him one evening, its only with you that I feel your equal. Not a servant, nor a decorative wife, nor a burden. Just equal.
How else could it be? he said, surprised. Youre remarkable. Strong, talented, independent.
Four years after leaving, my studio ranked among London’s finest. I had a close-knit team of eight, a lovely office downtown, a flat with a view of the Thames.
And most importantly I had chosen this life myself.
Some evenings now, sitting with tea by the window, I recall that day four years ago. The golden tablecloths, the white roses abandoned in the bin, the humiliation and pain.
And I think: thank you, Mildred. Thank you for not offering me a place at your table. Had you done so, I might still be living in the kitchen, grateful for scraps of attention.
Now, I have my own table. And at it, I sit alone mistress of my own fate.
My phone rang, interrupting my musings.
Elizabeth? Its Thomas. Im just outside. May I come up? Theres something important Id like to discuss.
Of course. Come up.
I opened the door, and there he was, holding a bouquet of white roses, like that day years ago.
Coincidence? I asked.
Not at all, he smiled. I remember your story. I thought let white roses be a symbol of good things now.
He handed me the flowers, then pulled from his pocket a small box.
Elizabeth, I wont try to rush you. I just want you to know: Im ready to share life with you. As it is your work, your dreams, your independence. Not to change you, but to support you.
I took the box and opened it. An elegant, simple ring lay inside just the sort Id choose myself.
Think it over, said Thomas. Theres no hurry.
I looked at him, at the roses, at the ring. And reflected on the distance I had travelled, from frightened housewife to content, independent woman.
Thomas, I said, are you certain youre ready for someone like me? Ill never keep silent again, if somethings wrong. Ill never agree to play the role of convenient wife. And Ill never let anyone treat me as second-class.
Thats exactly the woman I love, he answered. Strong, independent, self-assured.
I slipped the ring onto my finger. It fit perfectly.
Then yes, I said. But well plan our wedding together. And at our table, therell be room for everyone.
We embraced, and at that moment, a Thames breeze swept through the window, billowing the curtains, filling the room with freshness and light a sign of new beginnings.
