It’s Never Too Late
“Mother, have you completely lost your mind?”
The words struck Lydia like a blow to the ribs, sharp and merciless. Painful. She said nothing, her hands steady as she peeled potatoes.
“People are already pointing fingers—’There goes the wayward mother!’ If it were Father, fine, he’s a man, but you? A woman! The heart of the home! Have you no shame?”
A single tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek, clinging for a moment before dropping onto her hand. Then another. Soon, they fell in silence while her daughter raged on.
Konstantin, Lydia’s husband, sat slumped in a chair, shoulders hunched, lower lip jutting out.
“Father’s ill—have you forgotten? He needs care!” Konstantin sniffled. “Is this how you repay him? After he gave you his youth, after you raised a child together? Now you turn your back?”
“And how *should* it be done?” Lydia asked softly.
“What? Are you mocking me? Look at Father—she’s mocking us!”
“You talk as if I’m not your mother, Tanya, but some sworn enemy. Oh, how quick you are to defend *him*…”
“Mum! Stop playing the victim! I can’t take this—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* deal with you—what a disgrace!”
“Imagine,” Tanya turned to her father, “I’m walking home from uni, and there they are—strolling arm in arm! Probably whispering his *own* poetry, wasn’t he, Mum? Love verses, I bet?”
“You’re cruel, Tanya. Cruel and foolish. Too young to understand…”
“Not an ounce of remorse! Fine—I’m calling *both* grandmothers. Let *them* sort you out. Father and I are done.”
Lydia straightened silently, smoothing the wrinkles from her housedress, brushing away invisible specks. Then she stood.
“Right then, my dears. I’m leaving.”
“Where, Lyd?”
“I’m leaving you, Kevin.”
“Wha—how? *Where?* What about *me*?”
Their daughter, phone pressed to her ear, glared at Lydia, hissing furious words into the receiver.
“T-Tanya!” Kevin wailed like a mourner. “Tanya!”
“What? Father—your back? Where does it hurt?”
“Ohh, oh… Tanya… she… your mother… she’s *leaving*.”
“Leaving? *Where?* Mother—what nonsense is this? At your age?”
Lydia smirked. She packed her suitcase neatly. She’d meant to leave before, but then Kevin took ill—his sciatica flared, poor lamb, how he’d groaned…
“Lyd… think it’s a slipped disc…”
“An MRI showed nothing.”
“Pfah! What do those quacks know? They *hide* it—wait to bleed you dry! Like old Pete at work—sciatica, creams, pills, then *bang*—some *dreadful* hernia with a name like—”
Back then, Lydia had stayed. She couldn’t abandon the wretched man.
But now…
“How much life d’you have left, Lyd?” her friend Lizzie had said. “You’ve slaved for them like a galley rower. What’s Kevin ever given you? *Nothing.*” Lizzie smacked the table. “Spent his youth tomcatting—dragged that hairdresser home—what was her name—?”
“Millie.”
“Aye, *Millie*, like a cow on a chocolate wrapper! *You* worked two jobs, odd hours, while *Kevin* lounged. *He* needs a spa—his *poor back*! Off Kevin goes to the seaside, while *you* weed his mother’s garden! But *your* limp at forty? *That’s* fine, eh?”
“Oh, Liz,” Lydia had demurred, “Kevin’s…”
“What? Cut from finer cloth? Ha! Sacred creature, is he? Look at other men—*they* break their backs for their families. *You’re* the packhorse!”
“Liz…” Lydia ventured timidly, “you’ve always… disliked Kevin. Did he… wrong you?”
Lizzie exhaled. “Right. I’ll say it.”
Lydia braced.
“I’ve no cause to love that weasel. Never forget—nor wash off—how his clammy paws groped me. Remember? I slept like the dead back then. His birthday at the cottage—I’d had a drop too much, just started seeing Mike. You told me to lie down. Woke up—couldn’t *breathe*—that *rat* had a hand over my mouth, the other up my blouse! Scratched his face raw—he blamed the *cat*!”
Lydia swayed.
“Know the worst? His *mother* watched from the next bed! Said *I’d* tempted her precious boy. Threatened to tell *you*—she laughed. Said if I squealed, she’d claim *I* jumped *him*! So I left. Didn’t want to wreck your ‘happy home.’ You were pregnant with Tanya then…”
Lydia sat frozen. All these years, Lizzie had borne it…
And lately, Lydia *had* noticed—how other wives spoke of consulting husbands over trifles, flaunted gifts, shared holiday snaps. *Her* family portrait? Once a year, on *Kevin’s* birthday.
What had *he* ever given her?
Ah—a vacuum. A dumpling steamer (*he* loved dumplings). Perfume—ancient, from his mother’s cabinet. Three tulips on Mother’s Day. A *single* rose for her birthday…
How *had* she slept through her own life?
Lizzie had been blunter still:
“Why’d you *marry* him, Lyd?”
Lydia hesitated. Then—
“He was born at six months…”
“*Who*?”
“Kevin. His gran steamed him in a boot.”
“A *what*?”
“In the old oven—cooled it, stuffed him in a felt boot…”
Lizzie gaped. “And *you*—what—finished the job?”
“No! He was her only—his dad died young. They were older…”
“Fascinating. Still—how’d *you* end up hitched? I was on placement—came back, and *surprise*—*Kevin*’s in the picture! Out with it!”
Lydia sighed. “I pitied him. Other lads had motorbikes, guitars—danced or spun nunchucks like Bruce Lee. Kevin? Weakly. Big glasses. Clung like a burr. Mum saw us talking once—said if he’s ’round so much, wed him! Fool I was, Liz. Thought him steady. Just… sad.”
Lizzie groaned. “Picked a mangy kitten. And starved *yourself*.”
Lydia wept. “I begged Mum—swore I didn’t love him. Know what she said? ‘You’ll grow to. Half the country does. At least he won’t beat you—or drink.’”
They’d talked—and cried—for hours that night.
Now, Lydia surveyed the room. She’d rent a flat, file for divorce, fight for her share (though *she’d* bought every stitch). Tanya would side with Kevin—so be it.
No, she wasn’t leaving for Peter. Just friendship. Truthfully? She wanted *peace*.
****
Oh, how they’d scolded her! *Poor Kevin*—*she*, the harlot, wrecking a ‘perfect’ home.
“Go back! Beg his forgiveness!” her mother shrieked. His mother faked ‘heart pains’—Lydia stepped *over* her. ‘Heartless! What if it *were* real?’ The neighbours *cheered*—they’d seen her life.
And then…
Tanya came. Apologised. They rebuilt slowly.
Kevin brought four carnations—wrapped in *newsprint*—pleaded. She refused. A month post-divorce, he paraded with *Millie*—back *miraculously* healed.
Lydia didn’t care. She was learning—to *live*, not sacrifice.
Tanya booked her a salon day.
Peter invited her hiking—like their youth.
It’s never too late to start anew. Hard at first—then smoother than butter.
