Left Alone at Fifty
Missing you, darling. When will I see you again?
Helen slumped onto the edge of the bed, her husbands phone in hand. James had left it on the bedside table. The screen lit up with a new message from a name she didnt recognise. A womans name. As Helen scrolled through the chat, thirty years of marriage seemed to shatter with every line she read.
Sweet nothings. Photos. Plans for weekends when he was supposedly off fishing with the lads.
She placed the phone back carefully, then simply sat for a while, staring into space. The clock in the kitchen ticked away, the neighbours telly could be heard faintly through the wall, and Helen found herself thinking she already knew exactly what would come next. Every line. Every gesture. Shed been here before. Twice.
James came home just before eleven, knackered and tetchy. He dropped his holdall in the hallway and wandered straight into the kitchen, where Helen was making herself a cuppa.
All right, Helen. Anything to eat?
She silently slid his phone towards him on the table, screen pointing up. James reached for it out of habit, then paused as it dawned on him. His face changed in an instant.
Helen, I
Dont tell me its a work chat, Helen turned to the hob. Please. Not this time. At least lets skip the performance.
He didnt answer. Just slumped into a chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Helen finally faced him, leaning against the counter.
So. Who is she?
No one. Honestly. Just I got carried away. Stupid.
Stupid, right. Helens voice was cool. Got it.
Two days later, James appeared clutching a ridiculously large bunch of roses. Red, expensive, all decked out in fancy brown paper. He set them down on the kitchen table, and Helen noticed his fingers were shaking.
Helen, can we talk? Properly?
She poured herself a glass of water and sat opposite him.
Go on, then.
I know, I know. I really messed up. Third time, yeah. I know thats what youre thinking. But weve been together forever, havent we? Family, the kids are grown up. Doesnt that mean something?
Helen fidgeted with the glass in her hands.
I promise, itll never happen again. Swear to you. I dont even know how this keeps happening, but I really do love you, James reached for her hand, but Helen pulled hers away. Where would you even go, at fifty? Why bother? Lets just forget it all. Clean slate.
Helen looked at the wild roses. At her husband. At the wedding ring on his finger. She remembered believing these promises two years ago. And four years ago before that. Always hoping this time would be the last time.
Ill think about it, she finally said.
Just to end the conversation.
The next weeks blurred into an odd sort of cohabitation. James made an effort. Came home early, pitched in with chores, actually listened to her. But Helen noticed the details. The way hed hastily turn his phone face-down when she walked in. The way he flinched at every ping. How his eyes lingered far too long on the young girl at the till in Tesco.
What, you lost something over there? she quipped one day in the supermarket queue.
Eh? No. Not at all. He looked away much too fast. Lets go, car might get cold.
Soon, though, James was getting snappy over nothing. Snarled if she came into the room and caught him with his phone. No doubt the messages continued, just now with even more caution. Helen didnt bother to check. She knew the score.
Most nights, Helen lay awake beside her husbands steady snore and pondered not about him, but about herself. What kept her in this marriage? Love? She couldnt recall when shed last felt honestly happy sharing space with James. Habit? Thirty years is a lot of laundry and memories, grown-up kids and joint council tax bills. Or fear? Most definitely. She was forty-eight. What on earth would she do on her own?
One evening, Helen rang her daughter. Emily answered on the third ring.
Mum? Everything all right?
Yeah, no, I mean Emily, can we have a proper chat?
Of course. Whats happened?
So Helen told her. About the messages. About round three. The roses, the pledges. About not knowing what to do.
Emily let her finish without interruptions.
Mum, what do you actually want?
I honestly have no idea, Helen admitted.
Well, heres the thing: you dont have to put up with it. Honestly. You owe him nothing. Thirty years? So what? Thats not a reason to let him fool around endlessly.
But what would I
Move in with me, Emily cut her off. Got a spare room. Stay for a bit, work it out, get back on your feet. Youre an accountant, theres always jobs going. Well find you a flat. Mum, this isnt the end. Its just a different chapter. If you want to, anyway.
Helen was silent, clutching the phone.
Think about it, Emily added. Im here, whatever you decide.
Emily didnt rush her for a reply. Said there was a decent one-bedroom going down her road, cheap rent, nice landlady. The grandkids would adore seeing their gran every day, not just on Christmas and birthdays. The health centre was hiring in their finance office desperate for someone who knows what theyre doing.
Mum, you do know you deserve a decent life, right? You dont have to live like this, always patched up and pretending.
For the first time in years, Helen realised someone was telling her she had a right to happiness. Not endurance. Not martyrdom. Not keeping the family together at all costs. Just happiness.
It took Helen three days to pluck up the nerve to broach the subject with James. She practised her lines, woke up at dawn with her heart pounding. In the end, she simply said it over breakfast, between the eggs and coffee.
Im filing for divorce.
James froze, mug suspended mid-air. For a moment, he looked at Helen as if shed started speaking Flemish.
What? Helen, youre not serious?
Deadly.
Oh, come on now. He set the mug down with a snort. Weve had a row. It happens. No need to jump straight to the lawyers.
Its more than a row, James. Thats three affairs in five years. Ive had enough.
Had enough, have you? The smugness drained away. And what about me? Thirty years with you, you think thats been a Picnic at Ascot?
Helen just finished her tea and stood up.
Wait a minute! James jumped up, blocking her path. What do you think youre playing at? Where do you think youre going? Whos going to want you at your age, eh?
Myself.
Myself! he barked out a laugh, harsh and desperate. You looked in the mirror lately? Nearly fifty. What, you think blokes will be queuing around the block?
Im not looking for queues.
So what do you want? He loomed over her. What do you want, Helen? I fed you, clothed you, put a roof over your head. What did you ever do thatd make me want to come home?
Helen looked right back at him at the flushed cheeks, throbbing vein, and spittle at the corner of his mouth.
So Im the reason you cheated?
Who else? Honestly, look at you the dressing gown, slippers, your endless stews. Utter boredom. Cant talk to you, cant oh, whats the point. And now you want to throw it all away out of pride.
Helen stepped back. For five years shed hunted for real remorse in this man, waited for actual regret. It was never there. Not then, not now. James wasnt angry because he was losing her. He was angry that he was losing his comfortable life ironed shirts, hot dinners, a spotless home.
You know what, Helen said quietly, Thank you.
For what?
For this conversation. I wasnt sure before. Now I am.
She brushed past him and left the kitchen. He shouted after her about ingratitude and wasted years and how shed regret it. Helen ignored him, already putting her things into a bag.
A month later she stood in the middle of her own little flat, just two bus stops from Emilys house. The fridge hummed away, the place smelt of fresh paint and apples for some reason, and moving boxes filled the hallway. Her new life. Scary, yes, and odd, but Helen realised for the first time in years she was actually breathing.
The grandchildren turned up that very evening. Five-year-old Daisy announced, after an official inspection, that the flat obviously needed a cat. Eight-year-old Harry brought over his old blanket so Gran wouldnt get cold. Emily brought a pot of soup and a bottle of prosecco.
To the new place, Mum!
Helen laughed for real. Goodness, when was the last time shed laughed like that? Not glancing over her shoulder, not worrying James would start moaning about the noise.
Six months later, her son Thomas moved to town with his wife and their toddling baby. Found a job, got a flat not far away. Soon, Sunday lunches at Helens became the new ritual: crowded kitchen, voices flying everywhere, kids bickering at her feet, Emily arguing with her brother about the latest news.
Helen would stand by the cooker stirring the gravy, thinking how the loneliness shed dreaded had only ever existed in her head. It was a story shed told herself for thirty years, locking herself away. Her real family was here now they loved her just because. Because she was Helen.
James still rang every now and then. Pleaded for her to come back, said hed changed, swore blind he understood now. Helen would listen, say she was happy for him, and hang up. No anger, no bitterness. That was all in the past. Someone elses story, not hers.
Daisy tugged at Helens skirt:
Gran, can we go to the park tomorrow? The ducks are back!
Of course we can, love.
And Helen smiled to herself. Life, at last, was beginning to fit.
