“Mum, I can’t go on like this,” Emily said, staring out the rain-streaked window at the leaden sky over Manchester.
“What do you mean, you can’t? You’ve managed for fifty-two years, and now suddenly you can’t?” Margaret Thompson threw up her hands, her wrinkled face twisting in indignation. “Have you lost your mind? What on earth are you thinking?”
Emily gave a bitter smile. What was she thinking? Of the sleepless nights waiting for her husband to return from “business meetings.” Of the contemptuous looks he gave her over Sunday roast. Of how he called her “an old nag” in front of his mates, then laughed it off—saying she ought to get a sense of humour.
“I’m thinking I finally want to live for myself,” she replied quietly.
“Yourself?” Margaret let out a sharp laugh. “And what about me? Where am I supposed to go? My pension barely covers the bread and milk! David keeps a roof over both our heads, you know.”
Emily felt her throat tighten. This was always the way—the moment she spoke up for herself, her mother turned it into a ledger of debts, duties, and guilt. Shackles she’d dragged through her entire life.
“I’ve got a job, Mum. An accountant at a private firm.”
“What?” Margaret sank into the armchair, pressing a hand to her chest. “So that’s why you’ve been taking those courses? Planning this behind my back?”
“I don’t owe—”
“Oh, you do!” Margaret’s voice rose. “I raised you! Lost sleep over you! Gave you everything! And now you want to throw it all away? Over some midlife crisis?”
The front door clicked open—David was home. His heavy footsteps echoed like a verdict. Emily clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms.
“What’s all this then, ladies?” His voice dripped honey, as it always did when others were around. “Margaret, love, you’ll have the neighbours calling the council at this rate.”
“Your wife’s lost her mind!” Margaret rounded on him immediately. “Says she’s got a job, wants a divorce!”
David turned slowly to Emily. Something cold and serpentine flickered in his eyes.
“Is that so?” he drawled. “How long have you been plotting this, sweetheart?”
A shiver ran down Emily’s spine. She knew that tone too well—deceptively soft, promising a storm.
“Not plotting,” she said, surprising herself with the steadiness in her voice. “Deciding.”
“Deciding, she says!” Margaret threw up her hands again. “David, talk some sense into her! It’s the menopause—she’s not thinking straight!”
“Mum!” Emily turned sharply. “Enough! I’m fifty-two, not senile. I just don’t want—”
“Don’t want what, darling?” David stepped closer, his smile not reaching his eyes. “The house in Cheshire not good enough? The Mercedes not flashy enough? Or have I not spoiled you enough?”
“Stop it,” Emily backed toward the window. “You know damn well that’s not it.”
“Is it that young receptionist you saw him with?” Margaret cut in. “So what? All men have their flings! Keep your head down like the rest of us!”
Emily felt something inside her snap. There it was—the old refrain. “Put up with it.” How many times had she heard that? Put up with the insults, the affairs, the humiliation—because it’s “just what women do,” because “think of your mother.”
“Let’s be honest, love,” David perched on the arm of the sofa, crossing his legs. “You’d never survive alone. Who’d hire you at your age? Who’d even look twice at you?”
“Look twice?” Emily laughed suddenly, the sound making Margaret flinch. “You’re right, Dave.”
“That’s what you’ve spent years making sure of—that I believe I’m worthless, that I should be grateful for every scrap of attention.”
“Sweetheart,” Margaret reached for her hand, “you’re working yourself up—”
“No, Mum.” Emily gently pulled away. “For the first time in years, I see things clearly. And I’m leaving.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” David hissed, the charm vanishing. “Who’s name’s on the mortgage? Who pays for your mother’s prescriptions?”
“So there it is,” Emily felt an eerie calm. “Finally showing your true colours. Couldn’t even keep up the act in front of Mum.”
“Emily, please,” Margaret clutched at her chest, “you wouldn’t abandon me? Where would you even go?”
“I’ve rented a flat. A small one in Salford. But it’s mine.”
“What?” The word burst from both of them at once.
“Surprise. One bedroom, a bit cramped. But mine.”
David burst into laughter.
“And how will you pay for it? On some junior accountant’s wages?”
“I’m not junior,” she said softly. “I qualified top of my course. They’ve given me a senior position.”
“Traitor!” Margaret shrieked. “I didn’t raise you to end up in some dingy bedsit! What will people say?”
“People, people,” Emily shook her head. “Your whole life, you’ve cared what ‘people’ think. Never what I think.”
She walked to the bedroom and pulled out a pre-packed suitcase. David blocked the doorway.
“Stop right there! You’re not leaving!”
“Move,” her voice turned to steel. “I’m filing for divorce. And don’t bother threatening me—I’ve recordings of your little outbursts, proof of your affairs. Think your business partners would enjoy the scandal?”
David paled. She’d never seen him so speechless.
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” Emily smiled. “Twenty-eight years I’ve kept quiet. Gathering every receipt, every lie. Thought I was blind? Stupid? No, darling. I was waiting until the kids were grown.”
“The kids!” Margaret perked up. “Exactly! What will they think? You’ll disgrace the family!”
“They know, Mum. I spoke to them last week. Guess what Sophie said? ‘Mum, I’ve been waiting years for you to do this.’”
The room fell into thick silence. Margaret slumped into the chair, lips trembling. David flexed his fists.
“So you’ve thought of everything?” he spat. “But know this—walk out now, there’s no coming back. And I won’t lift a finger for your mother.”
“Don’t bother,” Emily zipped the bag. “I’ll manage.”
“Oh, she’ll manage!” Margaret shot up. “And who’ll buy my heart pills? Pay the council tax? My pension’s pennies!”
“Mum, I told you—I’m working now. I’ll help where I can.”
“Where you can?” Margaret grabbed her head. “What if they sack you? At your age—”
“Enough!” Emily raised her voice. “Enough about my age! I’m not some invalid—I’m a woman in my prime. And I deserve happiness.”
“What happiness?” David sneered. “You really think anyone wants some washed-up—”
“Don’t,” Emily cut him off. “You’ll never speak to me like that again.”
She headed for the door. Her hands shook, but her steps didn’t falter. In the hallway, she turned back to Margaret.
“Mum, I love you. But I can’t live for others anymore. I’m sorry.”
“Wait!” Margaret lunged after her. “Don’t you dare! I’ll—I’ll disown you!”
Emily froze on the threshold. Slowly, she turned.
“So that’s it? You’d cut me off for refusing to be a doormat?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Margaret faltered, then rallied. “But you’re ruining everything! What do I tell the neighbours?”
“Tell them the truth,” Emily opened the door. “Tell them your daughter finally learned self-respect.”
Three months later.
Emily sat in the cosy kitchen of her rented flat when the doorbell rang. Margaret stood on the step, holding a casserole dish.
“Brought you an apple crumble,” she muttered. “Your favourite.”
Emily stepped aside without a word. Margaret glanced around.
“It’s… nice here.”
“Come in, I’ll put the kettle on.”
They sat at the table, the silence between them not hostile for the first time in years. Margaret studied her daughter like she was seeing her anew.
“You’ve changed,” she finally said. “I thought you’d fall apart, but you’re… glowing.”
Emily smiled.
“I feel alive again, Mum.”
“How’s work?”
“Promotion. Head accountant now.”
“And David—”
“Filed for divorce himself,” Emily shrugged. “Guess he believed me about the evidence.”
Margaret stirred her cooling tea, quiet for a long moment.
“You know,” her voice wavered, “I nearly”I nearly left your father too, back when you were little—couldn’t stand the drinking, the shouting—but I stayed for you, and now I see I should’ve been as brave as you’ve been.”
