This whole thing played out like one of those odd English dreams where I cant pin down whether Im young or old, in my own house or lost on the underground. I remember standing in the dim light of a London morning, married to Henry at twenty-five. Before long, a year perhaps, we had a daughterlittle Emily, with wild, unruly hair like mist over the Thames. Life bobbed along smoothly for a spell, until suddenly it wasnt. Out of nowhere, Henry would tell me I was bone-idle, just lazing about. Id only just come off maternity leave, hadnt even had time for a proper cup of tea before returning to the workplace, where my slim wage barely missed his.
They always say, dont they, that after the wedding rings slipped on, the mother-in-law casts her peculiar spell over her son. Looking back, I suppose I shouldve heard warning bellsbells ringing out from St Martins, deep and forebodingbut I was blind, content even.
Henry began holding up his mother as the paragon: she managed her garden, kept accounts like a solicitor, raised two children without ever raising her voice. But me? I was working shifts, running by the seat of my pants, trying to balance Emily, my job, and still make a cottage pie that didnt come out stone cold in the middle.
I bent over backward to echo his mothers ways. Tidied, hoovered, did the rounds in the greenhouse with her. When Emily trotted off to primary school, I sat by her side, working through sums and spelling lists, my head a whirl of work stress and roast dinner timings. The load only mounted: deadlines at work, pennies never stretching far enough. Took on extra shifts. Endured it, clinging to the belief that I needed to keep the family together, that divorce was some kind of spectre I had to avoid lest it haunt Emilys childhood.
But as everyone in Blighty knows, the more you allow, the more room someone takes to make themselves at home atop your dignity. I confided in Henry, said I was run ragged and couldnt possibly take another shift. He replied, matter-of-fact as if reading from a script, that if that was the way of things, hed simply give me only as much as I contributed from my wageshed squirrel away the rest, like that was fair play. It chipped away at any love left. Then the final breaka split, like the city itself cleaves along the Thames.
Suddenly, I knew I couldnt shuffle on much longer with him carping on, forever banging the drum of his mothers example. The last straw snapped when he announced hed move back in with her if I didnt land a proper job. That was it. I clung to the idea until I grew strong enough to act. Three years it tookthree years that seemed like wandering the corridors of Victoria Station at midnight, directionless.
Eventually, a friend pointed me to a decent, well-paid job. It took grit and all sorts of unspoken struggles, but I wont revisit those grey days now. I went ahead and filed for divorce. We split the flat, argued over every last teacup. It was messy, rough as the North Sea in February.
Now, here I am, at peace at last. Just Emily and me, sun streaming into our own little place, quiet except for childrens laughter and the chime of a neighbors bell. My jobs a comfort, not a fortune but it brings me what I need. Maybe it isnt all fairy cakes and roses, but theres warmth, and tea, and contentment.
Of course, my family keeps engineering accidental introductions, half the village seems convinced Im some sad, divorced case. They say only a man could patch the supposed emptiness. I cant fathom ithavent I already been there, done that? If I could, Id wear a sandwich board down Oxford Street: Youngish, merry, perfectly happy flying solo. No suitors requiredmy worlds already bustling with joy. Meanwhile, Henry can toast crumpets with his mother for all I care. Emily and I are just fine.
