“Better Late Than Never”
“Mum, have you completely lost your mind?”
Her daughter’s words struck Lydia like a punch to the gut, sharp and brutal.
It hurt.
She kept peeling potatoes in silence, her hands trembling slightly.
“People are already pointing fingers! If it were Dad, fine—he’s a man—but you? A woman! The heart of the home! Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek, clung for a moment, then fell onto her hand. Another followed. Soon, the tears wouldn’t stop, but her daughter, Tamsin, kept raging.
Her husband, Connor, sat slumped in a chair, shoulders hunched, lower lip jutting out.
“Dad’s ill, for heaven’s sake! He needs care!” Connor sniffled. “Is this really how you act? After all he’s done for you? Gave you his youth, raised a child together—and now you just turn tail and run? No, darling, that’s not how it’s done…”
“And how is it done, then?” Lydia asked quietly.
“What? You’re joking, aren’t you? Look at Dad—she’s mocking you now!”
“You’re acting as if I’m some villain, Tamsin, not your own mother. Funny how you’ve suddenly remembered your father…”
“Mum! What rubbish! Playing the victim like this? I’ve had enough—I’m calling Gran, let her deal with you, this is disgraceful!”
“Can you imagine?” Tamsin turned to her father, voice dripping with disdain. “I’m coming back from uni, and there they are—arm in arm, strolling through the park! Probably reciting his terrible love poems, weren’t they? Wrote them himself, did he, Mum?”
“You’re cruel, Tamsin. Young and stupid.”
“No remorse, none at all. Fine—I’m calling both grandmothers. Let them sort you out!”
Lydia straightened up, smoothed her housecoat, brushed away invisible crumbs. Then stood.
“Right then, dears. I’m off.”
“Where, Lyd?”
“I’m leaving you, Connor.”
“What—how? Where? What about me?”
Tamsin, still hissing into the phone, glared at her mother.
“Tammie! Tamsin!” Connor wailed as if at a funeral.
“What? Dad—your back again? Where does it hurt?”
“Ohhh, ohh… Tamsin… your mum… she says she’s leaving.”
“Leaving? Where? Mum, what on earth’s gotten into you? At your age?”
Lydia smirked. She was already packing, folding clothes neatly.
She’d wanted to leave before, but then Connor fell ill—another flare-up of his sciatica. Oh, how he’d suffered, how he’d moaned…
“Lyd… might be a slipped disc…”
“MRI didn’t show anything.”
“Ah, doctors! What do they know? They probably hide it—waiting to bleed us dry later. Like what happened to Pete at work—started with sciatica, creams, pills, then suddenly—bam! Herniated disc, some fancy long name…”
Back then, she hadn’t left. Couldn’t abandon the poor soul.
But now…
“How much life do you have left, Lyd?” Her friend Lizzie had told her bluntly. “You’ve slaved for them like a galley rower. What good has your Connor ever done you? Nothing!”
Lizzie smacked the table for emphasis.
“He spent his youth chasing skirts—oh, he did! Even brought home that hairdresser—what was her name? Milly! Ugh, like a cow in a chocolate wrapper. You worked two jobs, did side gigs, while Connor lounged on the sofa.”
“Let Connor go to a spa—his poor back! Oh no, Connor must jet off to the seaside, but you? You’re stuck digging in your in-laws’ garden. Meanwhile, you’re limping at forty—perfectly normal, right?”
“Well, Lizzie,” Lydia had muttered then, “Connor’s…”
“What? Made of different stuff? Oh, right—he’s a *man*, the sacred creature. Look at other men—breaking their backs to provide. But you? You’re the one killing yourself while he lounges.”
“Lizzie,” Lydia had hesitated. “You’ve always seemed to… dislike Connor. Like he wronged you somehow. Always avoided him, never mixed at gatherings…”
Lizzie exhaled sharply.
“Fine. I’ll tell you.”
Lydia braced herself.
“I’ve got no reason to like that weasel, Lyd. I’ll never forget—his grubby little hands all over me.”
Lydia froze.
“You remember how heavy I slept back then? Like the dead. We were at his birthday bash at the cottage—I’d had a few, passed out in the guest room. Woke up struggling to breathe—that *rat* had his stinking hand over my mouth, the other groping under my blouse.”
“I clawed his face bloody. He blamed it on the neighbour’s cat.”
“The worst part? His *mother* was right there, watching. Then had the nerve to scold *me*—said I’d tempted him. Threatened to tell you I’d thrown myself at him if I spoke up.”
“I’ve avoided him ever since. Didn’t want to wreck your marriage—you seemed so happy with him back then, pregnant with Tamsin.”
Lydia sat in stunned silence.
All these years, Lizzie had endured that.
Lately, Lydia had started noticing things—how other women talked about their husbands.
*”Oh, I’ll check with Mike, Paul, Greg first.”*
They flaunted gifts, holiday photos. Lydia’s own ‘family’ portrait? Once a year, on Connor’s birthday.
Trying to recall any meaningful gift from him, she drew blanks.
A vacuum cleaner. A dumpling steamer—because *Connor* loved dumplings. Perfume? His mum’s ancient bottle, regifted proudly.
Three tulips and a sprig of mimosa on Mother’s Day. A single rose on her birthday.
How had she *lived* like this?
Lizzie had put it bluntly:
“Lyd, why’d you marry *him*?”
Lydia hesitated.
“He was… premature. Six months.”
“What?”
“His gran kept him warm in a boot by the stove.”
Lizzie gaped. “And that made you marry him?”
“I pitied him, Lizzie. All the lads were off riding bikes, playing guitar, dancing. Connor? Clumsy, thick glasses. Just… lost.”
“Lyd, you could’ve had *anyone*. Why *him*?”
“Your mum was strict—you know that. Then he started following me home, whining. Mum caught us talking once—next thing, *’If he’s courting you, you’ll marry.’*”
“I was a fool, Lizzie. Only now do I see it.”
“He’s been ‘ill’ his whole life—too weak to lift things, ‘gastritis’, this, that. I used to love hiking—with him, I became his *nurse*. Everyone was marrying—I thought he was safe. Quiet. Pathetic.”
Lizzie sighed.
“You pitied him like a mangy kitten, but never pitied *yourself*.”
Lydia’s voice cracked.
“Begged Mum not to make me marry. Swore I didn’t love him. You know what she said? *’You’ll get used to it. Half the country does. Be grateful he doesn’t drink or beat you.’*”
They’d wept together that night, long overdue.
Now, Lydia scanned the room.
She’d leave. Rent a flat, file for divorce. Fight for what was hers—every stitch earned by *her* hands.
Tamsin would side with Connor. Fine.
No, she wasn’t leaving for another man.
Peter was just a friend—she wouldn’t cheapen that. Truthfully? She wanted *peace*. To live for *herself*.
***
Oh, the backlash.
*”Connor’s devastated, you heartless tart!”*
*”Beg his forgiveness!”* her mother shrieked. His mum faked a heart attack—Lydia just stepped over her.
Tamsin eventually apologised. Came back, trying.
Connor? Turned up with four carnations in newspaper. Begged.
She refused.
A month later, he was parading with Milly—back pain miraculously gone.
Lydia didn’t care.
She was learning—just *living*.
Tamsin booked her a salon day.
Peter invited her hiking—like old times.
It’s never too late to start again.
Hard at first, then… easier.
