The early morning light barely pierced the curtains when Evelyn shook her husband’s shoulder, clutching a charred frying pan in one hand and a fading hope in the other that this was just one of his jokes.
“Get up, William. It’s late. You’ll be sacked if you’re late again.”
“I’m not going,” he muttered, eyes shut, turning his face to the wall. “I’ve had enough. I’m done.”
Evelyn laughed at first—surely he was just groggy after the bank holiday. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t just quit. We’ve just paid for Louise’s wedding—now back to the grind. Bills won’t pay themselves.”
His voice was hollow. “I mean it, Evie. I resigned. Wrote the letter before the holiday. Yesterday was my last shift.”
Her grip tightened on the pan. “Have you lost your mind? That job took years to land! You’ve only two years left till pension! Just grit your teeth!”
“I can’t. I’m spent.” His words were slow, like weights sinking in water. “We raised five kids. Three sons, two daughters. Fed them, schooled them, got them steady lives. And me? I deserve a rest now. My work’s done.”
Evelyn’s face paled. “So you’ll just leech off them? My pension’s a pittance. You expect the lot of them to keep you fed?”
“Of course. They’re my own flesh and blood. Five of them. Surely one father won’t starve?”
“You selfish old fool!” She grabbed his sleeve, shaking him. “They’ve got their own troubles—mortgages, school fees, bills up to their eyeballs! And you’d rather sit idle?”
He shoved her off—hard—and she staggered into the dresser, wincing. “Leave me be. It’s decided.”
Tears pricked her eyes. She knew that tone—no room for argument. Clutching her shawl, she stormed next door to Marjorie, the sharp-tongued widow even the constables sought for advice.
“Marj, he’s gone mad! Threw in his job—says he won’t work anymore! How do I talk sense into him?”
Marjorie arched a brow. “Oh, give the man a break. Five kids? That’s no small feat. He’s knackered, love. Let him rest awhile.”
“Rest? I’ll give him rest!” Evelyn’s laugh was bitter. “Just wait till the kids hear. They’ll sort him out proper.”
A week later, the house was full—laughter, children darting underfoot, the table groaning under roast beef and Yorkshire puddings. But once the plates were cleared, silence fell like an axe.
“Dad,” began Thomas, the eldest, “Mum says you’ve quit your job?”
William nodded. “Aye. Had enough. Forty years is plenty.”
“But—two more years and you’d have full pension!” cut in James, the middle son. “You can’t just stop!”
“I’ve made my choice. Five of you—you’ll manage to keep your old man fed, won’t you?”
Behind him, Evelyn smirked. The children shifted. Thomas cleared his throat.
“Well—we’re stretched thin, Dad. The car loan’s killing us…”
“And Sophie’s piano lessons—bloke charges a fortune,” James’ wife added. He stayed silent.
“I’ve just started the extension,” muttered Daniel, the youngest. “Won’t finish before winter. Can’t take on more.”
The daughters chimed in—one had new furniture on instalments, the other’s husband was offshore for months, money tight as a drum. Evelyn rose, victory sharp in her voice:
“See? They’ve got their own lives. And you—you’d be a burden. Go on, then. Tomorrow, you march back and beg for your job. Don’t come home without proof, or you’ll sleep on the street.”
William stood slowly, scanning the faces of his children, then his wife. His voice was gravel.
“I raised five of you… and not one will feed your father?”
He walked upstairs without another word.
The next morning, he found work. Half the pay, but a job all the same. Evelyn crowed—she’d won.
Two days later, he didn’t come home.
The knock came past midnight. The hospital rang—massive heart attack. Collapsed on the job. Died in the ambulance before they reached A&E.
Now Evelyn lives alone. Her pension barely covers tea and toast. The daughters visit sometimes. The sons? Christmas calls, if she’s lucky.
And in the quiet, his last words echo:
*”I raised five of you… and not one will feed your father?”*
