“Mother, I can’t live like this anymore,” Charlotte stood by the window, gazing at the leaden sky choked with heavy clouds.
“What do you mean, *can’t*? You could for twenty-two years, and suddenly now you can’t?” Margaret Wilson threw up her hands, her wrinkled face twisting in outrage. “Have you lost your mind in middle age? What are you thinking?”
Charlotte gave a bitter smile. What *was* she thinking? Of the sleepless nights waiting for her husband to return from “business meetings.” Of the disdainful looks he gave her over supper. Of how he called her a “dried-up old nag” in front of his friends and then laughed—as if she should take it as a joke.
“I think… I want to live for myself for once,” she said quietly.
“*For yourself?*” Her mother let out a sharp laugh. “And what about me? Where will I go? My pension barely covers bread and milk! It’s Robert who keeps us both afloat, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Charlotte felt the knot in her throat tighten. Always the same—the moment she spoke of herself, her mother brandished guilt like a weapon. Duty, obligation, debt—shackles she had dragged through her entire life.
“I’ve found a job, Mum. An accountant at a private firm.”
“*What?*” Margaret sank into a chair, pressing a hand to her chest. “So that’s why you’ve been taking those courses? Planning behind my back?”
“I don’t owe—”
“You *do* owe me!” her mother snapped, voice rising. “I raised you! Lost sleep for you! Gave you *everything*! And now you want to throw it all away? Over what—a midlife crisis?”
The front door clicked—Robert was home. His heavy footsteps echoed like a verdict. Charlotte clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
“Ladies, what’s all the fuss?” His voice oozed honey, as it always did when others were listening. “Margaret, you’re shouting loud enough for the whole street to hear.”
“Your wife’s lost her mind!” her mother spat, switching alliances instantly. “She’s taken a job—wants a *divorce*!”
Robert turned to Charlotte slowly. Something cold and serpentine flickered in his eyes.
“Oh? And when did you dream *this* up, *darling*?”
A chill crept down her spine. She knew that tone—deceptively soft, the calm before the storm.
“I didn’t *dream* it up, Robert. I decided.” She surprised herself with the steel in her voice.
“*She decided!*” Margaret threw up her hands again. “Robert, talk some sense into her! She’s menopausal—completely lost the plot!”
“Mum!” Charlotte spun around. “Stop it! I’m fifty-two, not hysterical. I just… won’t live like this anymore.”
“And what *exactly* won’t you live with, *precious*?” Robert stepped closer, his smile not reaching his eyes. “The house? The car? Not enough jewellery?”
“Stop it,” she retreated to the window. “You know damn well what this is about.”
“Is it that young secretary you saw him with?” Margaret cut in. “So what? Men have their *urges*. Close your eyes and bear it—like every other decent woman!”
Something inside Charlotte snapped. That word—*bear it*. How many times had she heard it? *Bear* the insults. *Bear* the infidelity. *Bear* it because that’s just *how things are*.
“You know what, *darling*,” Robert perched on the armchair, crossing his legs, “let’s be blunt. You won’t survive alone. What employer hires a woman your age? Who’d even *want* you?”
“Nobody wants me?” Charlotte laughed, the sound sharp enough to make Margaret flinch. “Right. That’s what you’ve spent years making sure I believed.”
“Sweetheart—” Her mother reached for her hand. “You’re overreacting—”
“No, Mum,” Charlotte pulled away gently. “For the first time in years, I see things clearly. And I’m leaving.”
“You’re *not*,” Robert hissed, his façade crumbling. “The house is in *my* name. Who pays for your mother’s medication?”
“There it is,” Charlotte exhaled, eerily calm. “Finally showing your true colours. Couldn’t even keep the mask on in front of Mum.”
“Charlotte, *please*—” Margaret clutched her chest. “You can’t leave me. Where will you go?”
“I rented a flat. A week ago.”
“*What?*” They spoke in unison.
“Yes, shockingly. Tiny, in a commuter town. But it’s *mine*.”
Robert barked a laugh.
“With *what* money? A dropout accountant’s wages?”
“I’m *not* a dropout,” she said coolly. “I qualified top of my class. And I was hired *because* I’m good.”
“*Traitor!*” Margaret shrieked. “I didn’t raise you to scuttle off to some rented hovel in your fifties! What will people *say*?”
“People…” Charlotte shook her head. “You’ve spent your life worrying about what *they* think. Never what *I* do.”
She walked to the bedroom, pulled out her pre-packed suitcase. Robert blocked the door.
“Stop right there!”
“Move,” she said, voice like iron. “I’m filing for divorce. And don’t threaten me—I have recordings of your *threats*. Think your business partners will enjoy the scandal?”
Robert paled. She’d never seen him so unmoored.
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.” She smiled. “Twenty-eight years, I kept silent. Collected every piece of dirt you buried. Did you think I was blind? *Stupid*? No, *darling*. I was waiting until the children were grown.”
“The *children*!” Margaret gasped. “Think of *them*! You’ll shame the family!”
“They know, Mum. I told them last week. Emily said, ‘Mum, I’ve been waiting for you to finally *leave*.’”
The silence was suffocating. Margaret sagged into the chair, lips trembling. Robert flexed his fists.
“So you’ve planned *everything*?” he sneered. “Just remember—walk out that door, *don’t* come crawling back.”
“I won’t.” She zipped the suitcase. “I’ll manage.”
“*Manage?*” her mother wailed. “What about *my* pills? The *rent*? My pension’s a pittance!”
“I told you—I *work*. I’ll help where I can.”
“*If* you can!” Margaret clutched her head. “What if you’re *sacked*? At your *age*—”
“*Enough!*” Charlotte’s voice cracked like a whip. “I’m not some feeble relic. I’m a woman in my *prime*. And I *deserve* happiness.”
“What *happiness*?” Robert scoffed. “Who’d want—”
“*Don’t.*” She cut him off. “I won’t let you shame me. Not ever again.”
She walked out. Her hands shook, but her steps never faltered. At the threshold, she turned.
“Mum, I love you. But I can’t live my life for others anymore. I’m sorry.”
“*Wait!*” Margaret lunged. “Don’t you *dare*! I’ll—I’ll *curse* you!”
Charlotte froze. Slowly, she faced her mother.
“So *that’s* it? You’ll curse me for refusing to be a doormat?”
“I didn’t mean—” Margaret wilted, then rallied. “But you’re *ruining* everything! What do I tell the *neighbours*?”
“The *truth*,” Charlotte opened the door. “Tell them your daughter learned to *respect* herself.”
Three months later.
Charlotte sat in the cosy kitchen of her rented flat when the doorbell rang. Margaret stood there, clutching a casserole dish.
“Brought you an apple pie,” she muttered. “Like you used to love.”
Charlotte stepped aside wordlessly. Her mother glanced around.
“It’s… nice here.”
“Come in. I’ll make tea.”
The silence at the table wasn’t hostile—for the first time in years. Margaret studied her daughter as if seeing her anew.
“You’ve changed,” she finally said. “I thought you’d fall apart. But you’re… *alive*.”
Charlotte smiled. “I am.”
“Work?”
“Promoted. Head accountant now.”
“And Robert—”
“Filed for divorce himself. Guess he believed me about the evidence.”
Margaret stirred her cold tea. Her voice wavered.
“I… wanted to leave your father. When you were little.”
Charlotte blinked. “You did?”
“He drank. Hit me”I stayed because I was afraid,” Margaret whispered, her trembling fingers brushing away a tear, “but you—you were always braver than me, and now I finally understand why.”
