“Don’t you dare lecture me!” Margaret’s voice was sharp, standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched. “Thirty years I’ve lived with you, Edward! Thirty! And you? Silent as the grave!”
Edward slowly looked up from his newspaper at his wife. Grey hair stuck out, her face flushed red with anger. He knew another row was brewing.
“Margaret, calm down. Let’s talk properly.”
“Properly?!” She threw her hands up. “When was the last time you spoke to me properly? Asked how my day was? What was on my mind? Answer me!”
Edward folded the paper neatly, placed it on the table. He stood, walked to the window. Outside, a drizzly October rain fell, maple leaves yellowing and dropping one by one.
“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t talk much.”
“Much?!” Margaret nearly choked on her outrage. “You barely speak to me! Come home from work, eat dinner in silence, stare at the telly. I tell you about our neighbour, Linda, whose grandson got into university, and you just grunt, ‘Hmm, nice.’ I say I want to go to the cottage, harvest the tomatoes, and you say, ‘Do what you want.’ Am I a real woman or just a shop mannequin?”
Edward turned to face her. Tears welled in Margaret’s eyes, but she stubbornly held them back.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realise it mattered that much.”
“Didn’t realise!” She laughed bitterly. “Eddie, what *do* you think of me? Am I just the cook? The cleaner? Or a habit, like your old slippers?”
He tried to reply, but Margaret had already spun around and marched to the door.
“You know what? Don’t bother. It’s perfectly clear.” The door slammed.
Edward remained alone in the living room, listening to his wife stomping around the kitchen, banging dishes. Then that noise stopped too. He sank back into his armchair, picked up the paper, but the words blurred. Margaret was right – he’d drifted away. When had it begun? After his father died? Or earlier, when he became site manager and work swallowed him whole?
Edward remembered how they’d met. Margaret worked in a bookshop; he’d gone in for an engineering manual. She’d smiled so brightly he forgot his purpose. He just stood staring until she asked if he needed help.
“Something interesting,” he’d said. “What do you recommend?”
“What do you enjoy reading?” she’d asked.
“Anything. Technical manuals, thrillers, the classics.”
Margaret handed him a volume of Thomas Hardy.
“Try this. Romances. Beautifully written.”
Edward bought the book, but barely read it, too busy thinking about the girl with kind eyes. He returned the next day.
“Did you like it?” Margaret asked.
“Very much. What else would you recommend?”
This went on for a week. He bought books, inventing reasons to talk. Finally, he summoned the courage to ask her to the cinema.
“There’s a new film at the Odeon,” he said. “Fancy it?”
Margaret laughed. “I wondered if you’d ever ask.”
They married a year later. Edward recalled their first flat – a tiny one-bedder on the city outskirts. Margaret hung curtains; he put up shelves. Evenings were spent on the kitchen floor, drinking tea, planning their future.
“I want two children,” Margaret said. “A boy and a girl.”
“And I want a house with a garden,” Edward replied. “You growing flowers, me tinkering with the car in the garage.”
“And let’s never argue,” she added.
“Never,” he agreed, kissing her forehead.
But the children didn’t come. Doctors couldn’t explain it, urged them not to fret, to live for themselves. Margaret cried at night, thinking her husband didn’t hear. He heard, but felt helpless, unsure what to say. Gradually, they stopped talking about it. Talk dwindled altogether.
Edward climbed the career ladder; Margaret moved into the school library. They bought a three-bedroom house, then a cottage. Margaret grew flowers; he fussed over the car in the garage. But their conversations grew scarce.
Now, in the empty silence, Edward understood they were both at fault. He’d retreated into himself; Margaret stopped trying to break through his shell. So here they were: after thirty years of marriage, strangers under one roof.
The next morning, Margaret was icy, restrained. She served breakfast silently, answered questions with single words. Edward tried to talk.
“Margaret, let’s go to the cottage this weekend. Help with the garden.”
“No need,” she clipped. “I’ll manage.”
“What about the theatre? They say the new play’s good.”
“I’m busy.”
Edward gave up. All day at work, he thought about his wife, their failing marriage. That evening he bought chrysanthemums – Margaret’s favourites – and keyed open the front door.
“Margaret, I’m home!” he called.
Silence. He entered the living room and saw a note on the table. Margaret’s handwriting made his heart lurch.
*‘Eddie. Gone to stay with my sister in Liverpool. Need to think. Don’t know when I’ll return. Margaret.’*
Edward sat heavily, reading the note repeatedly. Chrysanthemums lay on the table, scenting the air. The house felt tomb-still.
At first, he was furious. Silly woman! Getting in a huff! Grown adult acting like a child. Let her stay with her sister, see how she misses home.
But fury faded fast. The house without Margaret felt like a museum. Silent breakfasts, solitary dinners, pointless telly – this wasn’t life. It was mere existence.
Edward started noticing things he’d overlooked before. Margaret’s slippers by the bed. Her hand cream on the dressing table. The ladle she’d stirred soup with – always placed just so on the cooker. The book on her nightstand with the pressed flower bookmark.
He rang Linda, Margaret’s sister.
“How is she?” he asked.
“Miserable,” Linda answered frankly. “Cries every day. Says her life’s been wasted.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“She won’t. She said, please don’t call yet.”
“Linda, what should I do?”
“Dunno, Eddie. But Maggie’s suffering. And you must be too.”
“I am,” he admitted. “Tell her I’m waiting.”
“I will.”
Edward began coming home and talking to the empty house. He told Margaret about his day, interesting things from work. Shared thoughts he’d always kept bottled.
“Margaret,” he’d say aloud over a cuppa in the kitchen. “Remember Davies from the next department? Came in today heartbroken. His wife left him. Says he took her for granted. Now realises he can’t live without her. Told him, go beg forgiveness, explain himself. He says it’s too late, she’s moved on. That’s us men, eh, Margaret? We don’t know what we’ve got ’til it’s gone.”
He bought the big, fancy telly with the great sound Margaret always wanted. Hung the painting she’d chosen months ago, which he’d kept putting off. Tended lovingly to her plants on the windowsill.
“See,” he told the begonia, “I’m learning. Late, but learning.”
One evening, Linda rang.
“Eddie, Margaret’s looking for a job
William squeezed her hand across the breakfast table, their journey forward feeling less like a path to rediscover and more like one they would choose to walk along, together, every single day.
