Im fifty, and a year ago my husband rather unexpectedly went off to meet his maker. There was no lingering illness, nothing we could have prepared for. Just a late-night phone call, a mad dash to St Marys Hospital, and a doctor saying things I still couldnt reproduce if you paid me two hundred quid. What I do remember, absolutely clear as day, is coming home that very night, sitting on my bed, and realisingfor the first time in decadesthat my chest wasnt weighed down like a sack of potatoes.
Wed been married nearly thirty years. Honestly, you could spot his stubborn streak from a mile off when we first met. He was one of those blokes with heavy words, always correcting, always absolutely right, always raising his voice just enough to remind you whos boss. If things didnt go his way, hed point it out as if the Queen herself was listening. If I had a different opinion, hed say I was being dramatic, didnt understand, shouldnt meddle in things I know nothing about. After a while, I simply stopped answering back. Its far easier to keep schtum than to argue.
Life together became a long-term exercise in tiptoeing. I could read his mood as soon as he opened the front doorif he was quiet, I stayed quiet. If he came in irritable, I dodged him. I arranged the house, the meals, even my words, according to his moods. If anything went wrongeven the tiniest thingI knew a scene would follow. In front of the kids, in front of guestsit made no odds.
So many times I thought about leaving. But there was always something holding me back. I hadnt a penny to my name, nowhere to go, two little ones at my side. He controlled the money, the decisions, everything. When I hinted at separating, hed tell me Id never manage alone, nobody would support me, and that he was the only one who knew how to bring the kids up right. As much as it hurt to hear, some silly part of me believed him.
And so the years ticked by. I stopped wanting tenderness. Stopped waiting for attention. Stopped thinking about myself. I got used to living in constant tension. Slept lightly, woke up at any noise. Always alert, always tiptoeing so I wouldnt make him angry.
On the day he died, the house was overflowingcalls, people popping in, tasks, tears, unfamiliar faces. I did what I had to: signed papers, accepted condolences, arranged the funeral. I cried a little at the actual burial. People stared at me as if they expected me to collapse, scream, turn to dust. I didnt. They told me to be strong, and I nodded, though I didnt feel strong. I felt something else.
That first night alone was peculiar. I went to bed expecting to wake up with my chest tight, as always. But it didnt happen. I slept like a log. In the morning, I woke without the knot in my stomach that had been my constant companion for years. The house was quiet. A lovely, peaceful quiet.
As the months rolled on, I started noticing little changes. I made decisions without asking permission. Ate whatever I fancied. No one checked up on how Id done things. No one spoke to me sharply. No one made me feel awkward. One day, the kids said I seemed differentcalmer, less on edge. And I felt it too.
Im not saying his passing filled me with joy. But neither will I pretend I miss him. What I felt was reliefa deep exhale. As if my body had put down a load it had been lugging around for years.
I never left because I didnt know how. Because I was scared. Because I endured far more than I should have. Today, I live alone. The house feels lighter. So do I.
Is it wrong to feel this way?
