Left Alone at Fifty
Miss you, darling. When will I see you again?
Mary sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at her husbands phone. Richard had left it on the bedside table, and lo and behold, the screen lit up with a message from someone named Chloe. Mary scrolled through the chat, and with every syrupy endearment and candid snap, thirty years of marriage quietly crumbled beneath her fingers. Affectionate emojis. Weekend plans. All those football trips with the lads, apparently.
She placed the phone back exactly where shed found it and stared blankly at the far wall for a while. From the kitchen, the persistent tick of the clock. From next door, the faint braying of a game show on TV. Mary, feeling oddly detached, realised she already knew how everything would unfold. Every phrase, every little dramatic gesture. Shed lived it before. Twice, in fact.
Richard showed up, thoroughly knackered and in a foul mood, some time after ten. His overnight bag hit the hallway tiles; he strolled in to find Mary making herself a cuppa.
All right, Maz? Got anything to eat?
In silence, Mary slid his phone across the table, screen up. Richard reached for it by accident, then registered what shed done. His expression darkened instantly.
Mary, I
Oh, please dont say its a work thing, Mary turned her back to him and fussed with the kettle. Just dont. Not this time.
He said nothing. Just slumped into a chair and rubbed his face. Mary eventually leaned against the counter and faced him.
So, who is she?
Nobody. Honestly, its nothing. I just Richard trailed off, eyes darting around the floor. It was a stupid bit of fun.
Fun, she echoed. Right.
Two days later, Richard blustered in with a bouquet of red roses, swaddled in posh brown paper. He plonked them onto the kitchen table, his hands visibly trembling.
Mary, lets talk. Properly, yeah?
She poured herself some water and sat down across from him.
Well? Go on.
Look, I get it, I really do. My fault, yeah, I know you think Ive done this before and I have. But weve been married so long. The kids are grown up now. Doesnt that count for something?
Mary spun her glass slowly in her hands.
Ill never do it again. I swear to you, I have no idea how I get myself into these fixes, but I really do love you, Mary. Richard reached for her, but Mary quietly moved her hand away. Maz, where will you even go? Youll be fifty soondo you really want to be on your own at our age? Why not just forget it happened? We could start over.
She looked from the roses to her husband to the wedding ring glinting on his finger. She remembered believing the same promises beforetwo years ago, and then four years before that. Always trusting the next time would really be the last.
Ill think about it, she murmured finally.
If only to end the conversation.
The following weeks became an odd kind of living together. Richard tried. He came home early, ran the hoover around, made awkward jokes. But Mary noticed the little changesthe way he instinctively left his phone facedown whenever she walked in. The twitch at every notification. How his gaze kept drifting over the checkout girls at Tesco and lingered just a shade too long.
What are you eyeing up over there? she quipped one day as they waited in line.
Me? Nothing. He turned away far too fast. Come on, before the car gets ticketed.
Gradually, though, he started snapping at small things. Barking if she entered the room while he was glued to his phone. The messages, Mary was sure, never stoppedhed simply grown better at hiding them. She didnt bother checking. No point. She already knew.
Late at night, Mary lay awake listening to Richard snoring and thoughtnot about him, but about herself. What exactly kept her here? Love? She couldnt recall the last time shed truly been happy beside Richard. Habit, maybe. Thirty years of joint bills, old photos, a shared collection of now fully-grown children. Fear? Yes. Above all, yes. She was forty-eight. What on earth would she do alone?
One evening, she rang her daughter. Eleanor answered on the third ring.
Mum? Is everything okay?
Nothings wrong. Well Mary closed her eyes. Ellie, can we talk? Properly?
Of course. Whats up?
And so Mary told her. About the messages. The third betrayal. The roses and the empty apologies. How she no longer knew what to do.
Eleanor listened without a single interruption.
Mum, what do you want?
I honestly dont know.
Okay then. Hear me out: You dont have to put up with this. Thats the first thing to realise. Thirty years? So what? Thats not a contract for misery.
But where would I even
With me, Eleanor broke in. Spare rooms ready. Stay as long as you want. Youre an accountant; youll find work. Theres a flat going across the way, lovely landlady. Mum, this isnt the end. Just a new beginning. Different city, if you want it.
Mary said nothing, pressing her phone to her ear like an anchor.
Think about it, Eleanor added. Ill back you whatever you decide.
Eleanor didnt push for an answer. She mentioned the available one-bedroom next door, how the landlord seemed decent, how the grandchildren would adore daily visits rather than seeing Nanna pitifully parcelled out on Christmas and Easter. How the GPs surgery was after someone handy with numbersperfect for her.
Mum, you do know youre allowed a life that doesnt involve endless humiliation? A happy one, even?
Mary listened, slightly stunned by the idea that happiness might actually be an optionfor her. Not more patience or forgiveness for the sake of the family, but contentment. Hers.
She rehearsed her break-up line for three whole days, waking up at 4am with her heart jackhammering. And then, over breakfast, somewhere between the fried eggs and the coffee, she simply said:
I want a divorce.
Richard froze, teacup raised mid-sip. He stared at Mary as if shed just announced shed joined a cult.
What? Are you serious, Maz?
Completely.
Oh, come off it. He put down his cup with a hairy smirk. We had an argument, thats all. No need to rush off to the solicitor.
Its not an argument, Richard. Its the third affair in five years. Im done.
Done, are you? His sneer dropped. What about me, then? Its not been a barrel of laughs for me either, you knowthirty years with you is hardly a holiday.
Mary ignored him. She finished her tea, stood up.
Wait! You cant be seriouswhere do you think youre headed? Wholl want you now, eh?
Myself.
Myself! Have you seen yourself in the mirror lately? Nearly fifty. Its hardly going to be a queue at the door.
I dont need a queue.
So what do you want? Richard moved closer, trying his old looming routine. What do you want, Mary? Ive fed you, clothed you, kept the roof over your head. And youwhat have you ever done to make me want to come home?
She looked up at her husbandface flushed, vein pulsing at his temple. Five years, shed waited to see remorse, real regret. There was none. Even now, Richard was angry not because hed lost herbut because hed mislaid his ready meals, pressed shirts, and clean lounge.
You know what? Mary said softly, Thank you.
For what?
For finally clearing things up. I wasnt surenow I am.
She walked out. Richard blustered behind her about ingratitude, wasted years, how shed be sorry. Mary barely heard; she was already folding jumpers into suitcases.
A month later, Mary stood in her little flat, third floor, two bus stops from Eleanors. The fridge hummed, the air smelled faintly of fresh paint and, curiously, apples. Her boxes lined the hall. The whole business was terrifying and strange and exhilarating. But for the first time in ages, Mary breathed deep and easy.
That very evening, the grandkids bundled in. Five-year-old Molly wandered about, quick to declare theyd need a cat to make the place proper. Eight-year-old Ben deposited his scruffiest old blanket: So you wont get chilly. Eleanor brought soup and a bottle of prosecco.
To new beginnings, Mum.
Mary laughedreally laughedfor the first time in years, without worrying whether her husband would appear and start moaning about the racket.
And not six months later, her son Simon moved to town with his wife and their one-year-old. He landed a job, rented a flat nearby. Sunday lunch at Marys quickly became tradition: crowded kitchen, voices bouncing off every wall, children darting beneath the table, Eleanor and Simon arguing politics for fun.
Standing at the cooker, Mary stirred the gravy and thoughtthis loneliness shed feared so much was a myth, a shadow thatd kept her locked up for three decades. Her real family was here, loving her simply for being herself, not for the services she provided.
Now and again Richard would call, muttering about how much hed changed, would she come back, et cetera. Mary was polite, always, but not a sliver of anger lingered. He was simply nobody she recognised anymore.
Molly pulled at her sleeve:
Nanna, can we go feed the ducks at the park tomorrow? Theyre back, you know!
Of course we can!
And Mary smiled. Life, as it turned out, was actually getting rather lovely.
