George, where should I sit? I asked quietly, hesitating. He finally glanced my way, and the annoyance in his eyes stung. I dont know, sort yourself out, cant you see everyones busy chatting? Someone at the table giggled. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment. Twelve years of marriage, twelve years putting up with being dismissed.
I stood in the doorway of the banquet room clutching a bouquet of white roses, disbelief churning inside me. At the long table draped with golden cloths and sparkling crystal glasses sat all of Georges family everyone, except for me. There was no seat for me.
Helen, what are you standing there for? Get in! George called, not looking up from his conversation with his cousin.
I scanned the table slowly. There truly was no space. Every chair was taken; not one person shifted or offered a place. My mother-in-law, Pamela, sat at the head in her golden dress, regal as a queen, pretending I didnt exist.
George, where shall I sit? I asked again, much softer.
He turned, impatience more obvious now.
Figure it out yourself. Honestly, everyones talking here.
Someone tittered. My face burned. Twelve years married, twelve years of his mothers contempt, twelve years trying to belong to that family and now there wasnt even a chair for me at Pamelas seventieth birthday dinner.
Maybe Helen can sit in the kitchen? suggested his sister, Angela, her voice slick with mockery. Theres a stool in there.
The kitchen. Like staff. Like someone not quite worthy.
Without a word, I turned away, gripping the bouquet so tightly the thorns pressed painfully through the paper. Laughter rippled behind me someone telling a joke. No one called after me, no one stopped me.
In the corridor, I dropped the bouquet into the bin and grabbed my phone, hands trembling as I dialled for a cab.
Where to? the driver asked as I climbed in.
I dont know, I answered honestly. Just drive. Anywhere.
London at night passed by outside the window: shop lights, scattered passers-by, couples strolling beneath lamp posts. Suddenly I realised I didnt want to go home. Not to our flat, where Georges unwashed dishes, his socks strewn about, and my old role of housewife awaited the maid who serves and never claims anything for herself.
Stop at Kings Cross, please, I asked.
Sure you dont want somewhere else? Its late, the trains arent running.
Just stop, please.
I got out and walked into the station. In my pocket was our joint debit card George and Is savings for a new car. £6,000.
At the ticket desk, a sleepy young woman looked up.
Whats leaving in the morning? I asked. Any city.
Manchester, Birmingham, Edinburgh, Bristol
London, I blurted automatically, then caught myself. Sorry, Manchester. One ticket.
I spent the night at the station cafe, drinking coffee and thinking about my life. How twelve years ago I fell for a handsome boy with brown eyes, dreaming of a happy family. How slowly I faded into a shadow who cooked, cleaned, and stayed silent. How Id forgotten my own dreams.
I did have dreams. At uni, I studied interior design imagining my own studio, creative projects, interesting work. After the wedding, George only said:
No need for you to work. I earn enough. Just focus on the house.
And thats what I did. For twelve years.
In the morning, I boarded the train to Manchester. George sent several messages:
Where are you? Come home. Helen, answer me. Mum says you got upset last night. Stop being childish!
I didnt reply. I stared out the window at fields and woods flashing by, feeling alive for the first time in years.
In Manchester, I rented a small room in a shared flat near the city centre. The landlady, an older, well-spoken woman named Vera, didnt pry.
You staying long? she asked.
I dont know, I answered honestly. Maybe forever.
The first week, I just wandered the city. I looked at buildings, museums, sat in cafes and read books. It had been years since Id read anything that wasnt a recipe or cleaning tips. So much had come out since!
George rang every day:
Helen, stop being silly! Come home!
Mum says shell apologise. What more do you want?
Have you lost your mind? Youre an adult, act like it!
I listened to his shouting, surprised it ever seemed normal. Had I really gotten used to being spoken to like a naughty child?
In the second week, I went to the jobs centre. Interior designers were desperately needed, especially in a city like Manchester. But my degree was too old; everything had changed.
You need to take a refresher course, suggested the adviser. Learn new software, modern styles. But youve got a good foundation, youll manage.
I signed up. Every morning, I travelled to the college, learning 3D programs, new materials, trends. My mind, unused to such mental work, resisted but I grew to love it.
You have real talent, my tutor said after my first project. Such artistic taste. Why the career break?
Life, I answered simply.
George stopped ringing after a month. Instead, his mother called.
What are you playing at, you silly cow? she screamed. Youve abandoned your husband and wrecked the family! All because of a bloody chair? We honestly didnt think!
Pamela, its not about the chair, I said quietly. Its about twelve years of being put down.
Put down? My son treated you like a princess!
He let you treat me like a skivvy. And he was worse himself.
Ungrateful! she cried, hanging up.
After two months, I finished my diploma and began job hunting. My first interviews were terrible I stammered, got tangled up, forgot how to sell myself. But by the fifth, I landed a position as design assistant in a small studio.
The pays modest, warned Mark, the studio manager, a kindly man around forty. But the teams good, the projects are interesting. If you shine, therell be progress.
Id have taken any pay. The important thing was the work to feel valued not as a cleaner or cook, but as a professional.
My first project was small: the design for a newlyweds flat. I threw myself in, polished every detail, made countless sketches. When the clients saw the result, they were thrilled.
You listened to everything we wanted! said the wife. You understood how we want to live!
Mark praised me:
Well done, Helen. I can see youre passionate.
I put my heart into it. For the first time in years, I was doing what I genuinely loved. Each morning I woke up excited for the day, the challenges, the ideas.
Six months later, my wage rose and I was given more complex assignments. In a year, I became the lead designer. Colleagues respected me, clients recommended me.
Helen, are you married? Mark asked one evening as we stayed late discussing a new project.
Officially yes, I replied. But Ive lived alone for a year.
I see. Any plans to divorce?
Yes, soon.
He nodded and dropped the topic. I appreciated he didnt pry or judge he simply accepted me.
Manchesters winter was harsh, but I didnt feel the cold. Quite the opposite I felt like I was thawing after years in deep freeze. I took English classes, started yoga, even went to the theatre alone, and found I enjoyed it.
Vera, my landlady, remarked once:
Youve changed so much, Helen. When you came, you were so timid. Now youre glowing, confident.
I looked in the mirror and saw she was right. Id truly changed. My hair, no longer tied back, fell loose over my shoulders. I wore a touch of makeup, and bright clothes. But most of all, I had life in my eyes.
Eighteen months after my escape to Manchester, a stranger called:
Is this Helen? Mrs Newton recommended you you did her flats design.
Yes, speaking.
Ive a big project: a two-storey house, full renovation. Can we meet?
It turned out to be a major undertaking. The well-off client gave me full creative control and a generous budget. I worked for four months, and the results surpassed everyones expectations. Photos of my work appeared in a design magazine.
Helen, youre ready to go out on your own, Mark said, showing me the article. Youve got a reputation in the city. Maybe its time for your own studio?
The idea scared me yet filled me with energy. With my savings, I rented a small office in the city centre and registered as a sole trader. Helen Smiths Interior Studio small sign, but to me, those words were magic.
The first months were hard. Few clients, funds running low. But I didnt give up worked sixteen hours a day, studied marketing, built a website, made social pages.
Gradually, things improved. Word of mouth worked; happy clients recommended me. In a year, I hired an assistant, in two years another designer.
One morning, checking my emails, I saw one from George. My heart skipped Id heard nothing from him for years.
Helen, I saw the article about your studio online. I cant believe what youve achieved. I want to meet. Ive learned a lot in these three years. Forgive me.
I read his letter several times. Three years ago, those words would have pulled me back to him. Now, I felt only a faint sadness for lost youth, for old hopes, for wasted years.
I wrote back simply: George, thank you for your letter. Im happy in my new life. I hope you find happiness too.
That same day, I filed for divorce. That summer, three years after I left, my studio was commissioned to design a penthouse in a luxury complex. The client was Mark my old boss.
Congratulations on your success, he said, shaking my hand. I always knew youd make it.
Thank you. I could never have done it without your support.
Rubbish. You did it all yourself. Now, let me take you to dinner to discuss the project.
At dinner, we discussed work but inevitably drifted to personal things.
Helen, I must ask Mark looked at me with those gentle eyes. Is there anyone in your life?
No, I replied honestly. And Im not sure Im ready for it. It takes time to trust again.
I understand. What if we simply spend time together sometimes? No pressure, no promises. Just two adults enjoying each others company?
I thought, then nodded. Mark was kind, intelligent, respectful. With him, I felt safe.
Our relationship grew slowly and naturally. We attended plays, strolled the city, talked about everything. Mark never pushed, never demanded confessions or tried to control me.
You know, I told him once, with you I finally feel equal. Not a servant, not a trophy, not a burden. Just myself.
Of course, he replied. Youre a remarkable woman: strong, talented, independent.
Four years after my escape, my studio was one of Manchesters best known. I had a team of eight, an office in the historic centre, a flat overlooking the river.
Most importantly, I had a new life. Chosen by me.
One evening, settled in my favourite armchair by the window with a cup of tea, I remembered that day four years ago. The banquet hall, golden tablecloths, the white roses Id thrown away. The humiliation, the pain, the despair.
I thought: thank you, Pamela. Thank you for denying me a seat at your table. If not for that, Id still be sitting on a stool in the kitchen, grateful for scraps of attention.
Now, I have my own table. And I sit at its head the mistress of my life.
My phone rang, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Helen? Its Mark. Im outside your building. May I come up? I need to talk something important.
Of course, come up.
I opened the door and saw him holding a bouquet of white roses. Just like four years ago.
Coincidence? I asked.
Not at all, he smiled. I remembered your story. I thought let white roses mean something lovely for you now.
He handed me the flowers and pulled out a small box from his pocket.
Helen, I dont want to rush you. But I want you to know Im ready to share your life. The work, the dreams, the freedom. Not to change you, but to stand beside you.
I took the box and opened it. Inside lay a simple, elegant ring exactly the one Id choose for myself.
Think it over, Mark said. Theres no hurry.
I looked at him, at the roses, at the ring. I thought of the journey from fearful housewife to the happy, independent woman I am now.
Mark, I replied, are you sure youre ready for someone as stubborn as me? Ill never stay silent when Im not happy. Never play the part of the docile wife. Never let anyone treat me as second best.
Thats just who I love, he smiled. Strong, independent, someone who knows her worth.
I slipped the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly.
Then yes, I said. But well plan the wedding together. And at our table, therell be space for everyone.
We hugged, and at that moment, the river breeze swept into the room, fluttering the curtains and filling it with light a sign of the new life just beginning.
