“If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!” Emily snapped.
That evening, the silence in the house felt heavier than ever. Margaret stirred the soup slowly, listening to the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. Once, the sound had annoyed herback when the house was alive with the voices of their sons, laughter, and constant bustle. Now, the ticking was her only companion in the hollow space of what had once been a home.
She glanced at her husband. James, as usual, was hunched over his phone, the glow from the screen reflecting in his glasses like strange, flickering ghosts. There was a time she found comfort in this sighther husband, home, safe beside her. Now, it only stoked a quiet, simmering irritation.
“Dinners ready,” Margaret said, forcing her voice to stay even.
He nodded without looking up. She set the table with the fine china she saved for special occasionsthough what counted as special now? The boys rarely visited, there were no grandchildren yet. Just the two of them, stranded in this too-big house with its corners full of memories.
She ladled the soup, sprinkled fresh parsley and thyme from the windowsill where she grew herbs just for him, laid out slices of warm bread beside his plate.
James finally set his phone aside and picked up his spoon. She held her breath. First spoonful. Second. On the third, he wrinkled his nose.
“Tastes off,” he muttered, pushing the bowl away.
Something inside her snapped. Margaret looked down at her handsred from hot water, rough from years of scrubbing. Shed spent the whole day on her feetironing his shirts, pressing his trousers, making this bloody soup. His favourite tea still simmered on the hob, brewed just the way he liked itbecause “any other way tastes wrong.”
Her gaze flicked to the stack of folded laundryeach shirt creased precisely, just as he demanded. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of folding his damned shirts the same way because “otherwise they wrinkle.”
“You know what” Her voice trembled, but not from tearsfrom rage. “If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!”
He looked upactually looked at her, really looked, for the first time in months. His expression was pure shock, as if he couldnt believe this quiet, obedient woman could raise her voice.
Margaret stood abruptly. The chair legs screeched against the floor, but she didnt care. She grabbed her coatthe same one shed worn for three years because “what do you need a new one for? This still has years in it.”
“Where are you going?” His voice had an edge of panic, but she was already gone.
The front door slammed behind her. The crisp evening air hit her face, and for the first time in years, Margaret 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 herit thrilled her.
The little flat on the third floor greeted her with a different kind of silence. Not the suffocating quiet of that house, but something light, airy. No ticking clock counting down her life. No disapproving glances. No endless “why didnt you?”
She woke earlyold habits clung like cobwebs. Six a.m., the hour she used to rise to make breakfast, iron shirts, pack briefcases But today, everything was different. Margaret lay in an unfamiliar bed, watching sunlight crawl across the wall. No one needed her. No one expected anything.
“I can just lie here,” she whispered, and then laughed at the absurdity of it.
But old habits died hard. Her hands twitched toward the sheetsstraightening, smoothing, tidying. She stopped herself.
“No. Today, I do what I want.”
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time, studying her reflection. When had she last really looked at herself? Not a glance to check her hair, but properly? The lines around her eyes were deeper, more silver in her hair. But her eyesthey looked alive.
Outside, the morning smelled of fallen leaves and coffee from the café down the street. Shed walked past it a thousand times, always hurrying to the shops. “Waste of money,” James always said. And shed nodded, assuring herself coffee at home was better.
The bell above the door tinkled. Inside, the scent of fresh pastries and cinnamon wrapped around her. Margaret hesitated in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in this warm little world.
“Morning!” the barista chirped. “What can I get you?”
“I” She faltered. Shed made coffee for others for decadesnever stopped to think what she liked. “What do you recommend?”
“Our caramel lattes lovely. And the almond croissants just came out of the oven.”
A lifetime ago, shed have refusedtoo expensive, too indulgent, what would James say? But today
“Yes, please. And a croissant too.”
She sat by the window, watching strangers pass. At the next table, a group of young women laughed, unselfconscious, full of joy. Margaret realised with a joltwhen had she last laughed like that? Not politely, not dutifully, but freely?
The first sip of coffee bloomed caramel-sweet on her tongue. She closed her eyes, savouring it. Godwas life always this delicious?
Her phone stayed silent. For the first time in twenty-five years, James woke to no breakfast, no ironed shirt, no packed lunch. What was he doing now? Angry? Bewildered? Or had he even noticed?
“More coffee?” the barista asked.
Margaret checked her watchan old reflex. This was when shed normally be back from the shops, starting lunch. But today
“Yes, please. Andanother croissant.”
The phone rang as she unpacked in the flat. “Thomas” flashed on the screenher eldest. Her hand wavered. For the first time, she didnt want to answer.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Mum, whats going on?” Thomas sounded irritatedjust like his father. “Dad says you left. Are you serious?”
Margaret sat on the edge of the bed. How could she explain to her son what she barely understood herself? The years of quiet despair, of fading into the background, of becoming nothing but hands that cooked and cleaned?
“Tom, I”
“Come on, Mum, grow up!” he cut in. “Dads always been like this. Youre blowing things out of proportion!”
There it wasthat patronising tone, like she was a child throwing a tantrum. Her throat tightened. Even her son, the boy shed carried, raised, loveddidnt see her as a person.
“Its not about the soup,” she said quietly.
“Then what?” His voice turned sharp. “Dads beside himself. He tried cooking last nightcan you imagine?”
She pictured itJames fumbling with vegetables, swearing at the stove. Once, that image wouldve sent her rushing back. Now
“See?” she said, amazed at her own steadiness. “He can take care of himself.”
“Mum!” Thomas spluttered. “Youre breaking up the family! What will people think?”
People. Always people. Her whole life lived for their invisible approval. Now even her son wielded their judgement like a weapon.
She walked to the window. A pigeon preened on the ledge, free, unburdened.
“Have you ever asked how I felt all these years?” Her voice grew stronger. “Ever wondered what I wanted?”
“Whats that got to”
“Everything!” The word burst out of her. “Twenty-five years, I lived for you all. Cooked, cleaned, sacrificed. And youyou never saw me. I was just furniture. Always there, always working, never a person.”
Silence. Then, softer: “Mum you always said family came first.”
“It does,” she agreed. “But Im part of that family too. And I cantwontbe invisible anymore.”
After the call, she stood by the window a long time. The reflection in the shop glass showed a woman with straight shoulders, steady eyes. Something new thereresolve? Dignity?
The phone rang againher younger son. She silenced it, thinking, for the first time: “Theyre grown. Theyll manage.”
The doorbell chimed. Margaret startled, though shed known this moment would come. Her pulse thudded. She peeked through the spyholeJames. Shifting awkwardly, just like when theyd first met.
She didnt open it right away. Breathed in. Out.
“Hi,” he muttered, thrusting a wilted bouquet of rosesprobably bought at the petrol station on the way.
“Hello.” She stepped aside.
The tiny hallway cramped with his presence. He smelled familiartobacco and, oddly, fish and chips.
“Kitchen,” she said. “Well talk there.”
At the table, James shifted on the rickety stool. His gaze swept the rented flat with poorly
