“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. Charlotte slowly stirred the stew, listening to the relentless ticking of the clock on the wall. Once, the sound had irritated herback when the house echoed with the voices of their sons, laughter, and the constant hum of life. Now, the ticking was her only companion in the hollow shell of what used to be a home.
She glanced at her husband. Richard, as usual, was buried in his phone, the glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses. There had been a time when she found it comfortingproof he was there, next to her. Now, it only stoked a quiet, simmering resentment.
“Dinners ready,” she said, forcing her voice steady.
He nodded without looking up. She set out the platesfine china, saved for special occasions. Though what counted as special now? The boys rarely visited, no grandchildren yet. Just the two of them in this big house, every corner whispering memories of better days.
Charlotte ladled the stew, added fresh herbs from the windowsillparsley and thyme, grown just for his favourite meals. Beside the plate, she placed warm slices of freshly baked bread.
Richard finally set his phone down and picked up his spoon. She held her breath, watching. First mouthful. Second. Then his face twisted.
“Tastes off,” he muttered, pushing the bowl away.
Something inside her snapped. She looked at her handsred from hot water, rough from years of scrubbing. All day shed worked: washing his shirts, pressing his trousers, cooking the damned stew. His favourite tea still brewed on the hobprepared just the way he liked, because “anything else is rubbish.”
Her gaze flicked to the neat stack of ironed laundryeach shirt folded precisely, as he preferred. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years of folding those bloody shirts the *right* way because “otherwise they crease.”
“You know what?” Her voice tremblednot with tears, with fury. “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, compliant woman had raised her voice.
Charlotte stood abruptly. The chair screeched against the floor, but she didnt care. She grabbed her coatold, bought three years ago because “why waste money on a new one?”
“Where are you going?” A note of worry crept into his voice, but she was already out the door.
The cold evening air hit her face, and for the first time in years, she felt like she could breathe. She didnt know where she was going. Didnt have a plan. But for once, the unknown didnt frighten herit exhilarated her.
—
The small flat was quietnot the suffocating silence of home, but something lighter, freer. No ticking clock counting down her life, no disapproving stares, no endless “why didnt you?”
She woke earlyold habits died hard. Years of rising at six to make breakfast, iron shirts, pack lunches. But today was different. Charlotte lay in the unfamiliar bed, watching sunlight crawl across the wall. No one rushed her. No demands.
“I can just lie here,” she whispered, then laughed softly at the thought.
But old instincts tugged. Her hands itched to make the bed, dust, fall back into routine. She stopped herself.
“No. Today, I do what *I* want.”
She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, studying her reflection. When had she last *really* looked at herself? Not a quick glance, but properly? The lines around her eyes had deepened. More grey in her hair. But her eyesthey were alive again.
Outside, the crisp morning smelled of fallen leaves and coffee from the café down the street. Shed passed it a hundred times, always hurrying to the shops. “Waste of money,” Richard always said. And shed agreed, convincing herself home-brewed was better.
The bell jingled as she stepped inside. The scent of fresh pastries and cinnamon wrapped around her. She hesitated, feeling like an intruder in this cosy space.
“Morning!” The barista smiled. “What can I get you?”
“I” She faltered. Years of making coffee for others, never thinking what *she* liked. “What do you recommend?”
“Our caramel lattes lovely. And the almond croissants just came out of the oven.”
Before, shed have refusedtoo pricey, too indulgent, what would Richard 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 women laughed loudly. When had she last laughed like that? Not politely, not because she had tobut because she meant it?
The first sip of coffee flooded her mouth with sweetness. She closed her eyes. God, had life always been this *delicious*?
Her phone stayed silent. For the first time in twenty-five years, Richard woke to no breakfast, no ironed shirt, no packed lunch. Was he angry? Confused? Or had he not even noticed?
“More coffee?” the barista asked.
Charlotte checked her watchhabit ingrained. This time yesterday, shed have been back from the shops, starting lunch. But today
“Yes, please. And another croissant.”
—
The call came as she unpacked in the rented flat. “James” flashed on the screenher eldest. Her hand shook. For the first time, she didnt want to answer.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Mum, whats going on?” James sounded irritated, just like his father. “Dad says you left. Are you serious?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. How could she explain what she barely understood herself? The years of quiet despair, of dissolving into everyone elses needs?
“James, I”
“Oh, come *on*!” he cut in. “Its just soup. Dads always been picky. Dont be childish!”
His tone was patronisinglike scolding a toddler. A lump rose in her throat. Even her son, the boy shed carried, loved, couldnt see her as a person.
“Its not about the soup,” she said quietly.
“Then what?” Commanding now. “Dads beside himself. He *cooked* last nightcan you believe it?”
She pictured Richard fumbling with pans, swearing at the hob. Once, that image wouldve sent her rushing back. Now
“See?” She almost smiled. “He *can* look after himself.”
“Mum!” he spluttered. “Youre breaking up the family! What will people *think*?”
*People, people* Her whole life, shed lived for these faceless critics. Now her own son wielded their judgement.
She moved to the window. A pigeon preened on the ledgefree, unburdened.
“Did you ever ask how *I* felt all these years?” Her voice steadied. “What *I* wanted?”
“But”
“I lived for you. For twenty-five years. Cooking, cleaning, supporting. And youyou didnt even *see* me. I was just furniture.”
Silence. Then, softer: “Mum you *wanted* that. You always said family came first.”
“Family *does* come first,” she agreed. “But *Im* family too. And I wont be invisible anymore.”
After, she stood by the window a long time. The woman reflected in the glass stood taller, her eyes alight with something new. Resolve. Pride. *Freedom.*
The phone rang againher youngest. She silenced it. For the first time, she thought: *Theyre grown. Theyll manage.*
—
A knock at the door. Shed expected it, yet her heart pounded. Through the peephole: Richard. Shifting awkwardly, like the nervous boy whod first met her parents.
She took a breath before opening.
“Hi,” he mumbled, thrusting a crumpled bunch of petrol-station roses at her.
“Hello.” She stepped aside.
The tiny hallway cramped with his presence. He smelled of cigarettes andoddlybacon.
“Kitchen,” she said. “Well talk.”
He eyed the shabby flat with poorly hidden disdain. “Youre *living* here now?”
She ignored the jab.
“Youre really not coming home?” he demanded. “Over *soup*?”
“Its not about the soup.”
“Then what?” His voice rose. “I dont drink, dont cheat, provide”
“Im not *other women*,” she cut in. “Im *me*. And I wont apologise for it.”
He stared, as if seeing her for the first time. “Youre serious?”
“Yes.”
He stood, suddenly older. “Fine. Dont come crying later.”
At the door, he paused. “You know I don
