Penelope always woke up just before her alarm, as if her body had its own built-in clock. She’d rise, wash her face, and start breakfast. By the time her husband, Richard, stepped into the kitchen—clean-shaven, smelling faintly of cologne—the table was set: scrambled or soft-boiled eggs, sliced bread, cheese, ham, and a steaming cup of strong coffee. Penelope herself only ever had coffee and a sliver of cheese, no bread.
They’d been married thirty years. By now, they knew each other so well they barely needed words, especially in the mornings. “See you tonight,” “Running late today,” “Thanks…” They could read moods from glances, footsteps, even silence. Why waste breath?
“Thanks,” Richard said, finishing his coffee before standing.
When they were newlyweds, he’d kiss her cheek before leaving for work. Now, it was just a word before the door clicked shut. He worked as an engineer at a rail factory, leaving early to beat the London traffic.
Penelope cleared the table, washed the dishes, and got ready. She lectured at a university just two bus stops from their house, but she always walked—rain, wind, or shine. Tall, athletic, and lean, she wore trouser suits in fine grey pinstripes year-round, with pastel blouses underneath. Summer was the only time she bothered with dresses.
Her once-dark hair had gone silver, which she left untouched, twisted into a thin braid and coiled at the nape of her neck. No makeup, no jewellery except her wedding ring.
As a professor, she talked all day. At home, she preferred quiet. Richard liked it that way. To most, they seemed the perfect couple—no arguments, no raised voices.
Richard was two years older but still handsome. Penelope had long accepted that women noticed him. Early on, she’d been jealous, but with age came philosophy. “Where’s he going to go? No one else will cook for him like I do,” she’d tell herself. And damn it, she *was* a good cook.
Their daughter had married an army officer after university and moved away.
Students were wary of Penelope. She rarely smiled, always composed, never unfair. You could bargain with her in exams—if a student admitted they didn’t know the answer but had studied, she’d nudge them to a pass. But cheat? Instant failure. Some tried the “pitiful act” routine, hoping for pity marks. It never worked. She smelled lies a mile off.
She didn’t socialise with colleagues or indulge in gossip.
Once, in the canteen, she overheard two freshers chatting. They hadn’t seen her.
“God, that chemistry prof is such a spinster. If it weren’t for the wedding ring, I’d swear she’d never been married,” one giggled.
“She *has* a husband, actually. Quite fit, too. And a daughter, married now,” the other replied.
“What’s he see in *her*, then? And how’d you know?”
“We live in the same neighbourhood. She’s… fine, I guess.”
“*Fine?* Dresses like a bloke. Doubt she even *has* boobs.”
Penelope finished her lunch, stood, and stared at them.
“Sorry,” they squeaked, faces red.
*Spinster. Frump. So that’s what they think.* In the staff room, she examined herself in the mirror. *Well. What **does** Richard see in me?* The bell rang, and she headed to class.
At home, she started dinner—a slow-cooked stew, timed perfectly for his return. Everything was ready. She glanced out the window. Richard always parked below. But not today. Then—the click of the front door.
She frowned, walking to the hall.
“Did you not drive? Car trouble?”
“No, parked somewhere else.”
She didn’t ask why. Back in the kitchen, she pulled the stew from the oven. Richard followed, sitting heavily.
“Penny, sit down.”
She set aside the oven mitt and sat across from him, hands clasped. She knew instantly—something was wrong. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Right. I’m in love with someone else. I’m leaving.” He wiped his sweaty brow.
Her fingers tightened until they ached.
“Sorry. I’ll pack my things.” He stood and left.
She stayed frozen. *Go after him. Stop him. Talk.* But she didn’t move. The closet door creaked. Hangers clinked. Drawers scraped open—passports, probably. A suitcase zipper. Silence. Then wheels thudding over carpet, louder on the tile.
He took forever putting on his coat and shoes. *He’ll come back. Say he changed his mind.* But the door shut. The lock clicked.
She sat for ages, staring at nothing. Then her face crumpled into her hands.
That’s why he hadn’t parked below. So the neighbours wouldn’t see. Or maybe *she’d* been waiting in the car. Penelope splashed water on her face. *The stew.*
Her first thought? Bin it, ceramic pot and all. Then she remembered the elderly couple down the hall and knocked on their door.
A young woman answered.
“Hello. Where’s—?” Penelope realised she didn’t even know their names.
“The Wilsons? They sold up—their son took them in. We just moved in yesterday! I’m Alice, my husband’s James. Smells amazing in there.”
“This is for you. Housewarming.” She tried to smile, failed, handed over the pots, and left.
That night, she cycled between crying and pacing, arguing with an imaginary Richard. *Why now? Why not years ago? What do I do?* His voice in her head: *Didn’t you always know? I fell in love…*
Morning came. She rose before the alarm, as always. Coffee. Walk to work. That evening, for the first time, she didn’t cook. Just stared at the telly.
A knock. *Richard?* But he had a key. Reluctantly, she answered.
Alice stood there, beaming, holding a plate of pie.
“Sorry to bother you! That stew was incredible—never tasted anything like it. James insisted I ask for the recipe. Thought I’d return the favour. First pie I’ve ever made.”
“Come in,” Penelope said. “Let’s try it.”
They moved to the kitchen. The kettle hissed.
“Just you? Husband working late?” Alice asked.
Penelope shrugged.
“James and I only married two months ago. I’m thirty-six—first time! Barely made it down the aisle. Lived with Mum till now, so I’m hopeless in the kitchen. James was divorced—”
Alice suddenly noticed Penelope’s sharp, icy look.
“Oh God, you think I stole him? No! His wife left *him* three years ago. Took their daughter. He adored her. Couldn’t stand the empty flat, sold it, gave her half. Lived in rentals after. When we met? He was a mess. Drinking. Looked terrible. Felt sorry for him, honestly. Mum warned me not to marry him. But he’s kind. Quit drinking. Fixes *anything*—just ask if you need help.”
“Pie’s too sweet,” Penelope said.
“Yeah, I know. Teach me to cook? Oh! I’m a hairdresser—I could do your hair. A short cut would *suit* you. Your face—”
“Sorry, Alice. I don’t dye my hair. Or cut it.”
“But I’m *good*. Trust me.”
“No.” Sharper than she meant.
“Right. Sorry.”
Alice left. Penelope studied herself in the mirror. *Maybe… a cut?*
Days later, she ran into Alice outside.
“I’ll take you up on that haircut.”
“Brilliant! I’ll make you look like Helen Mirren.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. When?”
“Weekend?”
“Perfect. Don’t buy dye—I’ll bring everything.”
Alice dashed off. Penelope watched her go, dubious.
On Saturday, she baked a pie—her first proper meal in days. The doorbell rang as she slid it into the oven. Alice burst in, clutching a case.
“Ready?” She paused at the hallway mirror. “This’ll work. Chair?”
“Alice, I’m not sure—”
“You *forgot*? Haircut and colour!”
“Oh. Right.” She *had* forgotten.
“Something smells amazing!”
Alice chattered constantly, but Penelope didn’t mind. Maybe she needed the noise.
“Just put a pie in,” she said.
“Let’s colour first, then tea, then the cut.”
Penelope fetched a chair. Alice draped her in a cape, mixed dye, then—before Penelope could protest—loosened the braid and *snip*. The coil of hair hit the floor.
“Don’t panic. Your hair’s thin and grey—trustAs she looked at her reflection—lighter, brighter, undeniably *herself*—she realised that sometimes, the bravest thing a woman could do was not to hold on, but to let go.
