Alone at Fifty
“Missing you, darling. When will I see you again?”
Susan sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, clutching her husband’s phone. Tom’s left it on the bedside table, and the screen has just flashed with a new message. The senders name is unfamiliar, obviously a woman. Susan scrolls through the chat, and with every sweet word, every photo, every plan for the weekends when he supposedly went fishing with mates, thirty years of marriage seems to shatter piece by piece.
She sets the phone back down, careful not to make a sound, and sits quietly, staring into the distance. The kitchen clock ticks away; from the flat next door, she can hear the muffled drone of someones television. Susans mind races with whats to comeall the lines, all the gestures, the script already written by their history. Its happened before. Twice.
Tom arrives home at nearly eleven, exhausted and snappish. He dumps his bag in the hallway and heads straight to the kitchen, where Susan is making herself a cup of tea.
“Evening, Sue. Got anything to eat?
Without a word, Susan nudges his phone toward him, screen up on the table. Tom snatches it instinctively, and then realisation dawns. His face changes instantly.
“Susan, I”
“Please, dont tell me its just work, she says, turning her back and busying herself at the hob. Not this time. Not again.”
Hes silent for a moment, then slumps into a chair and rubs the bridge of his nose. Susan finally turns and leans against the worktop.
“Who is she?”
No one. Honestly, its nothing. Just Tom falters, searching for something on the floor. I got carried away, thats all. Silly mistake.
Silly mistake, Susan repeats. Right.
Two days later, Tom comes home with a massive bouquet of deep red rosesexpensive, perfect, wrapped in brown paper. He sets them down on the kitchen table, and Susan notices his hands shaking.
“Sue, can we talk? Really talk?”
She pours herself a glass of water and sits across from him.
“Speak.”
“I I get it. Ive been an idiot. Yes, its the third time; I know youre counting. But after all these years were a family. The kids are grown; doesnt that mean something?”
Susan sits, turning her glass slowly in her hands.
“I swear it wont happen again. I mean it, I dont even know how this happens, but I do love you,” Tom says, reaching across for her hand, but Susan moves it away. Sue, where are you going to go? Youll be alone at fifty. Why do this to yourself? Lets just forget it. Start over.
She looks from the roses, to her husband, to the wedding band on his finger. Susan remembers trusting these promises two years before. Four years before that. Every time, telling herself this was the last. It wont happen again.
Ill think about it, she says finally, just to put an end to it.
The following weeks feel like a strained duet of daily life. Tom tries hardhome on time, housework, overly attentive. But Susan notices the little things: how he always flips his phone face-down when she enters; how he jumps at every ping and buzz; how his gaze lingers too long on the pretty teenage checkout girls at Sainsburys.
“What are you looking at? she asks him once, as they wait to pay.
“Me? Nothing,” Tom says too quickly. “Come on, before the car park ticket expires.”
Soon, his patience starts fraying again. He snaps over trivial things, snarls when she walks in while hes texting. The messages, Susan is sure, havent stoppedjust gone deeper underground. She doesnt bother checking; she knows enough already.
At night, Susan lies awake, listening to the slow, steady breathing of her husband. And thinksabout herself, not him. Why shes still here. Love? She cant even remember the last time Tom made her happy. Habit? Thirty years of shared life, memories, a home, grown-up children. Fear? Yes, most of all, fear. She is forty-eight. What would she do alone?
One evening, she calls her daughter, Emily. Emily answers on the third ring.
Mum? Whats wrong?
Nothing, well… nothing straight away, Susan says, closing her eyes for strength. Emily, can we talk honestly?
Of course. Whats happened?
And Susan tells her. About the messages. About the third time. About the roses and the vows. About not knowing what to do next.
Emily listens, silent.
Mum, what do you want?
I dont know, Susan admits. I really dont.
Look, you dont have to put up with this. Thats the first thing to remember. You dont owe him anything. Thirty years? So what? Thats not a reason to accept constant betrayal.
But… where would I…
To me, Emily interrupts gently. Ive got a spare room. You can stay until youve sorted yourself out. Youre an accountant; people are always looking for someone good. You can get your own flat. This isnt the end, Mumits a new beginning, in a new town if you want it.
Susan is silent, the phone warm against her ear.
Just think about it, Emily says. Ill support you no matter what.
Emily doesnt push for an answer. She tells Susan that the flat across the road is up for rent, cheap, and the landlady is decent. That the grandchildren would love to see their granny every day, not just at Christmas. That the local surgery needs an experienced bookkeepershes even asked around.
Mum, dont you see that you deserve a decent life? Without this endless humiliation?
Someone, for the first time in years, tells Susan she has the right to be happy. Not to just forgive, or keep the family together at any cost. But simply to be happy.
Susan puts off talking to Tom for three days. She practices what to say, loses sleep just thinking about it. In the end, she simply blurts it out over breakfast, in between eggs and coffee:
“Im filing for divorce.”
Tom freezes with his mug halfway to his lips. For a long moment, he stares at her as if shes speaking Greek.
What? Sue, you cant mean that?
I mean every word.
“Dont be daft,” he says, setting his mug down with a smirk. Couples fight, it happens. Divorcethats a bit much, isnt it?
Its not a fight, Tom. Its three affairs in five years. Im tired.”
“Tired, she says.” The smirk drops from his face. “And I suppose living with you for thirty years has been a walk in the park?”
Susan doesnt answer, just finishes her tea and gets up.
“Wait!” Tom jumps up, blocking her way. “What do you think youre doing? Where do you think youre going? Who would want you now, eh?”
“Myself.”
“Myself!” Tom lets out a laugh, but theres warmth missing. “Have you seen yourself lately? Nearly fifty. Do you really think men will be queuing?”
“I dont need a queue.”
“So what do you want then?” He leans closer, looming over her. “What do you want, Sue? Ive fed you, clothed you, given you a roof. And what have you done to make me want to come home?”
She looks him straight in the eyeat his red cheeks, the vein throbbing at his temple, the spittle collecting at the corner of his mouth.
“So its my fault you cheated?”
“Whose, then? Look at youalways in your old dressing gown, your slippers, your boring casseroles. Its dull as dishwater. No chat, no spark… He stops himself, waving a hand. “Its your doing. But now, suddenly, youve got pride.
Susan steps back. For five years shes searched for remorse in this man. Hoped for regret. But she realises, at last, there is none. Not now, not ever. Tom isnt angry about losing her. Hes furious about losing his comfortable lifepressed shirts, home-cooked dinners, a sparkling house.
You know what,” Susan says softly, “thank you.”
“For what?”
“For making it clear. I had doubts. I dont now.
She walks past him and out of the kitchen. Tom is shouting after herabout how ungrateful she is, about wasted years, about how shell regret it. Susan doesnt listen. She packs her things.
A month later, she stands in the middle of a tiny flat on the third floor, just two bus stops from Emilys house. The fridge hums, theres a faint smell of fresh paint and apples. Stacked in the hallway are boxes of her belongings. A new life. Shes frightened, uncertain, uncomfortable. But suddenly, Susan realises shes breathing freely, for the first time in ages.
Her grandchildren come round that very evening. Five-year-old Molly takes a tour and proclaims that the place absolutely needs a cat. Eight-year-old Jack brings his old blanket, so Granny wont get cold. Emily arrives with a pot of stew and a bottle of Prosecco.
To your new home, Mum.
Susan laughs. Goodnesswhen did she last laugh like that? Proper laughter, not a nervous giggle or something stifled for fear of Toms scolding.
Six months on, Susans son, David, moves with his wife and their baby son to the city, renting a flat nearby for work. Now, Sunday roasts at Susans are a tradition. The small kitchen is full of noisekids racing underfoot, Emily and David arguing cheerfully about the news.
Susan stands at the stove, stirring gravy, and realises that the loneliness she feared was a phantom. Shed locked herself in a cage of habit and fear for thirty years. This is her real familyloving her for who she is, not for what she does.
Occasionally, Tom rings. Pleads with her to come back. Says hes changed, he understands now. Susan listens politely, tells him shes glad if hes changed, and hangs up. No resentment, no bitterness. He just doesnt belong in her life any more.
Molly tugs her sleeve:
Gran, can we go to the park tomorrow? The ducks are back!
We can. Of course, we can.
And Susan smiles. Life is finally finding its shape.
