“If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!” Emily snapped.
That evening, the silence in their home felt heavier than usual. Emily slowly stirred the soup, listening to the monotonous ticking of the clock on the wall. Once, that sound had irritated herback when the house was filled with their sons voices, laughter, and constant bustle. Now, the ticking was her only companion in the emptiness of what had once been a lively home.
She glanced at her husband. Richard, as always, was hunched over his phone, the screens glow reflecting off his glasses, casting odd flickers of light. There was a time shed found comfort in the sighthim home, beside her. Now, it only stirred a dull resentment.
“Dinners ready,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
He nodded without looking up. She set the table with the good china, the set shed saved for special occasions. Though, what counted as special these days? Their sons visited rarely, no grandchildren yet. Just the two of them in this big house, every corner whispering memories of better times.
Emily ladled the soup, carefully adding fresh herbsparsley and basil from the windowsill, grown just for his favourite dishes. A freshly sliced loaf of bread sat beside his bowl.
Richard finally put his phone down and picked up his spoon. She held her breath, waiting. First spoonful. Second. On the third, he grimaced.
“Bland again,” he muttered, pushing the bowl away.
Something inside her snapped. She looked at her handsred from hot water, skin rough. All day shed been on her feet: washing his shirts, ironing his trousers, cooking this bloody soup. On the stove, his favourite tea still simmeredthe one she brewed just so because “otherwise its not right.”
Her gaze shifted to the pile of ironed laundryeach piece folded perfectly, the way he liked. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of folding shirts just so because “otherwise they crease.”
“You know what” Her voice wavered, not from tears, but anger. “If you think I do nothing for you, try living without me!”
He looked upfinally, truly looked at her. Surprise flickered in his eyes, as if he couldnt believe this quiet, obedient woman had raised her voice.
Emily stood abruptly. The chair scraped loudly, but she didnt care. She grabbed her coatthe old one, bought three years ago because “why do you need a new one? This still has years left.”
“Where are you going?” His voice held a note of alarm, but she was already past listening.
The front door slammed behind her. The cool evening air hit her face, and for the first time in years, Emily felt like she could breathe properly. She didnt know where she was going. Didnt know what came next. But for the first time in too long, she wasnt afraid of the unknownshe felt something dizzying, exhilarating. Freedom.
The small flat on the third floor greeted her with an unfamiliar quietnot the oppressive kind shed left behind, but something light, airy. No ticking clock counting down her life, no disapproving glances, no endless “why havent you”
She woke earlya habit ingrained from years of rising at six to make breakfast, iron shirts, pack briefcases But today was different. Emily lay in an unfamiliar bed, watching sunlight creep across the wall. No one rushed her, demanded her attention, expected service.
“I can just lie here,” she whispered, laughing softly at the thought.
But old habits died hard. Her hands itched to make the bed, dust, start the familiar cycle of chores. Emily stopped herself.
“No. Today, I do what I want.”
She stood a long time before the bathroom mirror, studying her reflection. When had she last really looked at herself? Not a glance to check her appearance, but properly? The lines around her eyes had deepened. More silver streaked her hair. But her eyes they looked alive.
Outside, the crisp October morning smelled of fallen leaves and coffee from the nearby café. Shed passed it a hundred times, hurrying to the shops. “A waste of money,” Richard always said. And shed agreed, telling herself homemade coffee tasted better.
The bell above the door jingled. Inside, the air was rich with the scent of baked goods and cinnamon. Emily hesitated, feeling like an intruder in this cosy space.
“Good morning!” the young barista smiled. “What can I get you?”
“I” Emily faltered. Years of making coffee for others, but shed never considered what she liked. “What would you recommend?”
“Our signature caramel-cinnamon latte is lovely. And weve just baked almond croissantsfresh from the oven.”
In the past, shed have declinedtoo expensive, too indulgent, what would Richard say? But today was different.
“Yes, please. And a croissant too.”
She sat by the window, watching the world pass by. At the next table, a group of young women chatted animatedly, their laughter genuine. When had she last laughed like that? Not politely, not forced, but freely?
The first sip of coffee spread caramel sweetness across her tongue. She closed her eyes, savouring it. God, could life really be this delicious?
Her phone stayed silent in her bag. For the first time in twenty-five years, Richard would have woken to no breakfast, no ironed shirt, no packed lunch. What was he doing now? Angry? Bewildered? Or had he not even noticed, lost in his phone?
“More coffee?” the barista asked, passing by.
Emily checked her watchan ingrained reflex. By now, shed usually have been 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. “Daniel” flashed on the screenher eldest. Her hand trembled. For the first time, she didnt want to answer her own childs call.
“Hello,” she said, quieter than usual.
“Mum, whats going on?” Daniels voice was sharp, just like his fathers. “Dad says youve left. Whats this nonsense?”
Emily sat on the edge of the bed. How could she explain to her grown son what she barely understood herself? How to describe years of quiet despair, of feeling invisible, of losing herself in caring for others?
“Daniel, I”
“Mum, enough!” he cut in. “Youre an adult. So Dad criticised the souphes always been like that. Is that really worth this?”
His tone was patronisingas if humouring a child. A lump rose in her throat. Even her son, the boy shed cradled, given so much love, didnt see her as a person with her own feelings.
“Its not about the soup,” she said quietly.
“Then what? Dads beside himself, you know. Last night he tried cookingcan you imagine? Spent hours in the kitchen.”
She pictured it: Richard fumbling with vegetables, swearing at the stove. Once, the image wouldve made her rush back to take over. Now
“See?” She smiled, surprising herself. “He can manage.”
“Mum!” Daniel huffed. “Youre breaking up the family. What will people think? Arent you ashamed?”
“People, people” The word echoed. Shed spent her life worrying about these invisible “people.” What would the neighbours say? The relatives? Now even her son wielded the same guilt.
She stood, walking to the window. A pigeon perched on the ledge, preening carelessly. Free. Unburdened.
“Have you ever asked how I felt all these years?” Her voice strengthened. “Ever wondered what I wanted?”
“What does that”
“It matters!” Her own firmness startled her. “Twenty-five years I lived for you all. Cooked, cleaned, supported, sacrificed. And you you never even saw me. I was just furniturealways there, always functioning, always serving.”
Silence. Then Daniel softened, cajoling.
“Mum, you wanted this. You always said family came first”
“Yes, family matters,” she agreed. “But Im part of that family too. Im a person. And I cant wont be just the help anymore.”
“But Dad”
“Im not coming back,” she said firmly. “Not now. Maybe never. I need to learn to live for myself.”
After hanging up, she stood by the window a long time. In the shopfront opposite, a womans reflection stood tallshoulders back, something new in her eyes. Resolve? Dignity? Freedom?
The phone rang againher younger son. Emily muted it, thinking for the first time: “Theyre adults. Theyll manage.”
A knock at the door made her jump, though shed expected it. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Through the peephole: Richard, shifting awkwardly, just like when hed first met her parents.
She didnt open it immediately. First, she breathed. Collected herself.
