“Mum, I can’t go on like this,” Emily said, staring out the window at the grey sky choked with heavy clouds.
“What do you mean, you *can’t*?” Margaret gasped, her wrinkled face twisting in outrage. “You’ve managed fine for fifty-two years, and now suddenly you can’t? Have you lost your mind? What on earth are you thinking?”
Emily gave a bitter laugh. What *was* she thinking? Of the sleepless nights waiting for her husband to return from “business meetings.” Of the contempt in his eyes across the dinner table. Of how he’d call her a “dried-up old hen” in front of his mates and laugh it off—just a joke, lighten up, love.
“I’m thinking I finally want to live for myself,” she replied softly.
“*Yourself?*” Margaret scoffed. “And what about me? Where am I supposed to go? My pension barely covers tea and biscuits! It’s Simon keeping a roof over both our heads, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Emily felt the familiar lump in her throat. Every time she dared speak her mind, her mother flipped it into a debt—obligation, guilt, the iron chains she’d dragged through life.
“I’ve got a job, Mum. Bookkeeping at a local firm.”
“*What?*” Margaret sank into a chair, clutching her chest. “So *that’s* why you’ve been sneaking off to those courses? Planning behind my back?”
“I don’t owe you—”
“Don’t you *dare* say that!” Margaret’s voice cracked. “I raised you, gave up everything! And now you want to throw it all away? Over what—some midlife crisis?”
The front door slammed—Simon was home. His heavy footsteps down the hall felt like a verdict. Emily clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
“Ladies, ladies, what’s all this?” His voice oozed smooth as ever for an audience. “Margaret, you’ll have the neighbours calling the council at this rate.”
“Your wife’s lost the plot!” Margaret snapped. “Says she’s got a job now, wants a divorce!”
Simon turned slowly to Emily. Something icy flickered behind his eyes.
“Oh? And how long have you been *planning* this, darling?”
She knew that tone—deceptively soft, thick with storm warnings.
“It wasn’t a plan, Simon. It’s a *decision*,” she said, surprised at the steel in her own voice.
“A *decision*!” Margaret threw her hands up. “Simon, talk sense into her! It’s the menopause—she’s not thinking straight!”
“Mum, *enough*!” Emily spun round. “I’m not hysterical. I’m not mad. I just can’t do this anymore.”
“Can’t do *what*, sweetheart?” Simon stepped closer, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Not happy with the house? The car? Not enough jewellery?”
“Stop it,” Emily retreated to the window. “You know damn well it’s not about *things*.”
“Oh, is it about that young receptionist you saw him with?” Margaret cut in. “For heaven’s sake—men have their *urges*. Turn a blind eye like the rest of us!”
Emily felt something snap inside. *”Like the rest of us.”* How many times had she heard that? Endure the jibes, the cheating, because *that’s just how it is*, because *think of your mother*.
“Let’s be honest, love,” Simon perched on the armchair, crossing his ankles. “You won’t last a month on your own. Who’d hire a woman your age?”
“*No one* would?” Emily laughed—a sharp, jagged sound that made Margaret flinch. “Right. That’s what you’ve spent years drilling into me. That I’m worthless. That I should be *grateful* for scraps.”
“Sweetheart,” Margaret reached for her hand, “you’re winding yourself up—”
“No, Mum.” Emily pulled away gently. “For the first time in decades, I *see* clearly. And I’m leaving.”
“You’re not going *anywhere*,” Simon hissed, the act crumbling. “Or have you forgotten whose name’s on the deeds? Who pays for your mother’s prescriptions?”
“Ah,” Emily exhaled, weirdly calm. “There’s the real you. Couldn’t even keep up the act for Mum’s sake.”
“Emily, *please*,” Margaret clutched her chest. “You can’t leave me—where would you go?”
“I’ve rented a flat. Moved in last week.”
“*What?*” they echoed in unison.
“Tiny place, out in Croydon. But it’s *mine*.”
Simon burst out laughing. “With *what* money? Some dodgy bookkeeper’s wages?”
“I’m fully qualified, actually,” she said flatly. “Top of my course. They offered me a senior role.”
“You *traitor*!” Margaret shrieked. “I didn’t raise you to slum it in some bedsit! What will people *say*?”
“*People*, always *people*,” Emily shook her head. “You’ve spent a lifetime caring what they think. Never what *I* thought.”
She walked to the bedroom, pulled out a packed holdall. Simon blocked the hall.
“Oh no you don’t!”
“Move.” Her voice turned glacial. “I’m filing for divorce. And don’t bother threatening me—I’ve got recordings. Proof of the affairs. Fancy your golf buddies seeing *that* in the papers?”
Simon paled. She’d never seen him speechless before.
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” she smiled. “Twenty-eight years, I *waited*. Collected every secret, every lie. Thought I was blind? *Stupid*? No, darling. I was just biding my time till the kids were grown.”
“The *kids*!” Margaret gasped. “Exactly! What’ll they think? You’ll shame us all!”
“They know, Mum. I spoke to them last week. Know what Sophie said? ‘Mum, I’ve been waiting for this.’”
Silence. Margaret sagged into the chair, lips trembling. Simon flexed his fists.
“So you’ve got it all figured out?” he spat. “But walk out that door, you’re *done*. No coming back. And your mum’s on her own.”
“Fine,” Emily zipped the bag. “I’ll manage.”
“*Manage*?” Margaret wailed. “Who’ll pay for my pills? The bloody utilities? My pension’s pennies!”
“I *told* you—I’m working. I’ll help where I can.”
“What if you *can’t*?” Margaret grabbed her head. “What if they sack you? At your age—”
“*Stop it!*” Emily’s shout silenced her. “I’m not some frail old woman. I’m in my *prime*. And I *deserve* happiness.”
“What happiness?” Simon sneered. “Think some bloke’ll want a—”
“*Don’t.*” She cut him off. “You *won’t* belittle me again. Ever.”
She walked out. Hands shaking, steps steady. At the door, she turned back.
“Mum, I love you. But I can’t live for others anymore. I’m sorry.”
“*Wait!*” Margaret lunged. “I’ll—I’ll disown you!”
Emily froze. Slowly turned.
“That’s it? You’d cut me off for refusing to be a doormat?”
“That’s not—” Margaret faltered. “But you’re ruining *everything*! What do I tell the neighbours?”
“The *truth*,” Emily opened the door. “Tell them your daughter finally learned her worth.”
***
Three months later.
Emily sat in her cozy rented kitchen when the doorbell rang. There stood Margaret, clutching a pie dish.
“Apple crumble,” she mumbled. “Your favourite.”
Emily stepped aside. Her mother glanced around.
“It’s… nice in here.”
“Come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”
They sat at the table, the quiet between them softer than it’d been in years. Margaret studied her daughter like she was seeing her anew.
“You look different,” she finally said. “I thought you’d fall apart, but you’re—you’re *glowing*.”
Emily smiled. “I *feel* alive, Mum.”
“And work?”
“Promoted. Head of accounts now.”
Margaret stirred her tea. “And Simon…?”
“Filed for divorce himself,” Emily shrugged. “Guess he believed me about the evidence.”
A long pause. Then, softly, Margaret spoke:
“I nearly left your dad once. When you were little.”
“*What?*”
“Drunk. Hit me. I stayed because ‘that’s what women do.’ Then he left *me*, and I was… *terrified*.As the afternoon light faded, mother and daughter sat quietly, the unspoken understanding between them warmer than the tea in their cups, and for the first time in years, Emily knew—she was exactly where she was meant to be.
