“If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!” Emma snapped.
That evening, the silence in the house felt heavier than usual. Emma stirred the soup slowly, listening to the steady ticking of the wall clock. Once, that sound had annoyed herback when the house was full of their sons voices, laughter, and constant bustle. Now, the ticking was her only companion in the emptiness of what used to be a lively home.
She glanced at her husband. David, as usual, was hunched over his phone, the screens glow reflecting off his glasses. Once, shed found it comfortingseeing him there, at home with her. Now, it just made her quietly furious.
“Dinners ready,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
He nodded without looking up. She set out the platesthe nice ones, saved for special occasions. Though what counted as special now? Their sons rarely visited; no grandchildren yet. Just the two of them, alone in this big house, every corner holding memories of better days.
Emma ladled the soup, garnishing it with fresh parsley and basil from the windowsillher little herb garden, grown just for his favourite dishes. She placed sliced bread beside the bowl, still warm from the oven.
David finally set his phone aside and picked up his spoon. She held her breath. First spoonful. Second. On the third, he frowned.
“Tastes off,” he muttered, pushing the bowl away.
Something inside her snapped. She stared at her handsred from hot water, skin roughened from years of scrubbing. All day, shed been on her feetwashing his shirts, pressing his trousers, making this *damn* soup. On the stove, his favourite tea steeped just the way he liked itbecause “otherwise its rubbish.”
Her gaze flicked to the neat stack of ironed laundryevery fold precise, just as he preferred. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of folding shirts *his* way because “otherwise they crease.”
“You know what?” Her voice shooknot with tears, but anger. “If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!”
He looked upreally looked at her, for the first time all evening. Surprise flickered in his eyes, as if he couldnt believe this quiet, obliging woman had raised her voice.
Emma stood abruptly. The chair scraped loudly, but she didnt care. She grabbed her coatold, bought three years ago because “why do you need a new one? This ones fine.”
“Where are you going?” His voice wavered with concern, but she was already out the door.
The cool evening air hit her face, and for the first time in years, Emma felt like she could breathe. She didnt know where she was going. Didnt know what came next. But for the first time in decades, the unknown didnt scare her. It felt like freedom.
—
The small flat on the third floor greeted her with silencenot the heavy kind shed left behind, but something light, almost peaceful. No ticking clock counting down her life. No disapproving looks. No endless “why didnt you?”
She woke earlyold habits died hard. For years, shed risen at six to make breakfast, iron shirts, pack lunches Today was different. Emma lay in an unfamiliar bed, watching sunlight creep across the wall. No one rushed her. No one needed anything.
“I can just lie here,” she whispered, and laughed at the novelty.
But old routines tugged at her. Her hands reached to make the bed, dust the shelves, start the endless cycle of chores. She stopped herself.
“No. Today, I do what *I* want.”
She lingered in front of the bathroom mirror, studying her reflection. When had she last *really* looked at herself? Not a quick check before leaving the housebut properly? The lines around her eyes were deeper, more silver in her hair. But her eyes they looked alive.
Outside, the October morning was crisp, smelling of fallen leaves and coffee from the café down the road. Shed passed it a hundred times, always hurrying to the shops. “Waste of money,” David would say. And shed agreed, telling herself home-brewed was better.
The bell jingled as she stepped inside. The scent of fresh pastries and cinnamon wrapped around her. Emma hovered awkwardly, feeling like an intruder in this cosy space.
“Morning!” The young barista smiled. “What can I get you?”
“I” She faltered. Shed made coffee for others for yearsnever thought about what *she* liked. “What do you recommend?”
“Our caramel latte with cinnamon is lovely. And the almond croissants just came out of the oven.”
In another life, shed have refusedtoo pricey, too indulgent, what would David say But today was different.
“Yes, please. And a croissant too.”
She sat by the window, watching people pass. At the next table, a group of young women laughed loudly, unselfconsciously. When had Emma last laughed like that? Not politely, not forcedjust freely?
The first sip of coffee spread caramel warmth over her tongue. She closed her eyes. God, could life really taste this good?
Her phone stayed silent. For the first time in twenty-five years, David wouldve woken to no breakfast, no ironed shirt, no packed lunch. Was he angry? Bewildered? Had he even noticed?
“More coffee?” the barista asked.
Emma checked her watchhabit ingrained in her bones. By now, shed usually be back from the shops, starting lunch. But today
“Yes, please. And another croissant.”
—
The phone rang as she unpacked her few belongings in the rented flat. “James” flashed on the screenher eldest. Her hand trembled. For the first time, she didnt want to answer her own childs call.
“Hello,” she said quietly.
“Mum, whats going on?” James sounded irritated, just like his father. “Dad says youve left. Are you serious?”
Emma sank onto the bed. How could she explain to her grown son what she barely understood herself? The years of quiet despair, of feeling invisible, of losing herself in caring for others?
“James, I”
“Come on, Mum!” He cut her off. “Youre being childish. So Dad criticised the souphes always been like that. Is that really worth this?”
His tone was patronisinglike scolding a toddler. The lump in her throat grew. Even her son, the boy shed cradled, loved so fiercely, didnt see her as a person with her own feelings.
“Its not about the soup,” she said softly.
“Then what?” Command crept into his voice. “Whats so awful? Dads beside himself, you know. He tried cooking last nightcan you believe it?”
She pictured it: David fumbling with vegetables, swearing at the stove. Once, that image wouldve sent her rushing back. Now
“See?” She almost smiled. “He *can* look after himself.”
“Mum!” James sounded scandalised. “Youre breaking up the family! What will people *say*?”
*People, people* The word echoed. Shed spent her life worrying about these faceless “people.” What neighbours thought. What relatives said. Now her own son wielded the same guilt.
She stood, walking to the window. A pigeon preened on the ledge, carefree. Free.
“Have you ever asked how *I* felt all those years?” Her voice steadied. “Ever wondered what *I* wanted?”
“What does that”
“It *matters*,” she said, surprising herself with her firmness. “Twenty-five years, I lived for you all. Cooked, cleaned, supported, sacrificed. And you you didnt even *see* me. I was just furniture. Always there, always working, always serving.”
Silence. Then, softer: “Mum you *wanted* that. You always said family came first.”
“Family *does* come first,” she agreed. “But Im part of that family too. Im a person. And I wont be just staff anymore.”
“But Dad”
“Im not coming back,” she said. “Not now. Maybe never. I need to learn to live for *me*.”
After hanging up, she stood at the window a long time. Her reflection in the shop opposite showed a woman with straight shoulders, something new in her eyesresolve? Pride? Freedom?
When her younger son called, she silenced the phone. For the first time, she thought: *Theyre adults. Theyll manage.*
—
A knock came a few days later. Emmas heart leapt. She checked the peepholeDavid. Shifting awkwardly, like he had decades ago when meeting her parents for the first time.
She took a breath before opening.
“Hi,” he muttered, thrusting a crumpled bunch of roses at her. Probably grabbed from the petrol station.
“Hello.” She stepped aside.
The tiny hallway felt cramped with him in it. He smelled familiarc
