The mother shrieked, “You’ve betrayed me!” as the father vanished without a word.
Rosalyn slept soundly until the shrill ring of the telephone shattered the stillness. She fumbled for the receiver, her heart already pounding in her chest.
“Rosalyn!” Her mother’s voice trembled with desperation. “Come home at once!”
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Rosalyn was fully awake now, struggling to steady her nerves. “Have you and Dad quarrelled again? You’ve done this all your lives—sort it out yourselves!”
“There’s nothing to sort!” her mother cried, voice breaking. “Your father is gone!”
“Gone…? Has something happened to him?” Rosalyn went still, a chill creeping through her veins.
“Just come home—you’ll see for yourself!” her mother snapped. “This isn’t a matter for the telephone!”
“See *what*?” Rosalyn nearly shouted in confusion.
“Come now!” The line went dead.
Trembling, Rosalyn began packing. She raced to her parents’ house in the outskirts of Cambridge, unable to imagine what awaited her there.
Rosalyn could scarcely remember a time when peace had reigned in her childhood home. Her mother, Margaret Whitford, was always shouting, while her father, Arthur Whitford, would press his lips into a thin line and say nothing. He appeared indifferent to her tirades, but Rosalyn knew better—inside, he was seething.
The quarrels had begun when Rosalyn was still in school. What had been occasional spats soon became daily battles. Her mother’s voice, loud as church bells, carried through the neighbourhood so that even those lounging on benches outside would shake their heads and mutter, “How does he bear it? Poor man.”
No one ever asked how Rosalyn endured it. Outwardly, the family seemed respectable—her father chaired a research department at the university and earned well, while her mother kept house and supervised their daughter. But “kept house” was generous. Margaret dictated everything—her husband’s life, Rosalyn’s, even the housekeeper Arthur had hired in hopes of quieting his wife. It hadn’t worked.
Margaret carried on her rows unashamed, as if Rosalyn were merely part of the furniture. The girl had dreamed of escape, and she got it—scholarship to university in London, then a swift departure from her suffocating home. Yet even her rare visits were poisoned by the constant bickering.
Once, after another of Margaret’s tirades, Arthur had snapped, “What more do you want, woman? The moon on a platter?” For a moment, her mother had faltered—he’d never interrupted her before—but then she laughed, and silence followed. Brief as it was.
At Rosalyn’s wedding, Margaret outdid herself. She nudged Arthur, corrected him, and when the toastmaster invited him to speak, she leaped up. “*I’ll* give the speech! You can’t trust him with anything important!” The guests exchanged glances while Rosalyn burned with shame.
After the ceremony, Arthur secretly gifted his daughter a flat in London, warning her never to tell Margaret. Rosalyn kept the secret, confiding only in her husband, Henry. “Blimey,” he’d said. “Hope we never have secrets like that.” “We won’t,” Rosalyn assured him. “I take after my father—I won’t tolerate a lifetime of rows.”
These memories haunted Rosalyn as she drove to her parents’ home, bracing herself for her mother’s complaints and her father’s weary eyes. But reality was worse.
Margaret flung open the door, wailing, “I gave him everything—my youth, my life! And this is how he repays me!”
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Rosalyn gripped her shoulders.
“Gone! Slipped away in the night!” Margaret burst into tears.
“Gone?” The floor seemed to tilt beneath Rosalyn.
“He went to bed, and by morning—vanished! Took his things and left!”
“Did you call him?”
“Of course! He won’t answer! You try—he’ll speak to *you*!”
Rosalyn dialled her father’s number. He answered at once, voice eerily calm. “I know why you’re calling. I’ve earned the right never to see your mother again. Staying at a friend’s cottage. If you need me, I’m here—for you.”
“Dad, where are you?” Rosalyn asked, aware of her mother’s glare.
“The cottage. For now. We’ll see. Understood?”
“Yes,” Rosalyn whispered.
“What did he say?” Margaret demanded. “That traitor!”
“Mum, enough! He’s not a traitor. He’s tired of your screaming.”
“He told you that?”
“No. *I* did. He’s staying with a friend. He’ll come back—don’t fret.”
He never did. Margaret hunted down the cottage, pounded the door, screamed—no answer. She called Arthur relentlessly, only to be ignored. She even accused him of taking a lover. When she found no evidence of infidelity, her fury doubled. “How dare he leave me for no reason? Am I nothing to him?” she sobbed down the line.
Rosalyn finally snapped. “Mum, he doesn’t want your forgiveness. He hasn’t divorced you, still pays the bills, makes no demands. He just wants freedom. He’s had enough.”
“*He’s* had enough?” Margaret shrieked. “*I’m* the one who suffered!”
Then she wept—broken, helpless. For the first time, Rosalyn saw her mother truly defeated.
The end came cruelly. Two years later, Arthur passed away. His friend delivered his final wish: “Bury me alone.” When Margaret heard, she laughed bitterly. A year after that, she fell ill. Rosalyn tended to her until the end. A week before she died, Margaret whispered, “I had all I needed… I just didn’t see it.”
Now Rosalyn often visits the churchyard. Where her parents lie, there is only silence. Too late, they found their peace.
