Move to your own place, I declared, and the words fell heavy at the dinner table. I could no longer postpone the conversation with my wife, Eleanor, that night.
Ellen, sit down, I asked, voice flat.
Eleanor turned off the gas, swiveled slowly, and asked, Whats the matter?
I avoided her gaze; shame clung to me. Im leaving. Theres another womanOlive. We work together. This isnt a fling, Ellen. Its love, the real thing. I cant keep lying to you or to myself.
Eleanor took the news with a composure that surprised me. She didnt weep, didnt smash plates, and didnt beg me to stay. She accepted my decision, though one point lingered uneasily: my insistence that she gather the childrenmy daughter from a previous marriage and our son, Timothyand move to her own territory.
He was, after all, the one who now needed space for his new life.
That night Eleanor lay awake, thoughts racing. Seventeen square metres, two children, my modest accountants wagejust enough to keep us afloat. And a help if possible from the very man who had just betrayed us. How could I go on? Why should I be the one to suffer, to shatter myself and the kids for his comfort and new love?
In the morning I told him, Fine, Victor. Ill move.
He smiled, Good girl. I always thought you were sensible.
But theres a condition, I cut in.
Whats that? he asked, wary.
Youve fallen for someone else; I wont argue with the heart. I wont split the flat, though by law I could have half. Keep it for yourself.
Really? he exclaimed, relief flooding his face. Thank you!
Yes. Daphne and I will take my studio; two of us can manage there.
Well rearrange, buy a bunk bed, make it work.
What about Timothy? Victor stammered, eyes wide.
Eleanor fixed her stare on him. The boy stays with you.
What with me? he laughed nervously. Youre joking. Hes small! He needs his mother!
In England, parents share equal rights and duties, Victor. Youre his father. You wanted him, you asked me to bear him, remember? I need an heir, a lad to kick a ball. So play the part. Ill pay child support as the law demands and collect him on weekends, as far as possible.
You you cant do this! Victor roared. Youre his mother! What mother deserts her child?
Im not deserting; Im leaving him to his own father, in a spacious flat near the garden. Why should I cramp him in a tiny room, change his nursery, rob him of comfort? You yourself said the conditions there werent ideal. Let him live well, with you and Olive. Let her learn the role of stepmother now that you plan a future together.
My work! Victor shouted. Im busy all day! Who will take him to the nursery? Who will pick him up? Who will feed, wash, put him to bed?
I have work too, Eleanor replied calmly. Im busy as well. Ive managed these four years. Now its your turn. The boy needs a proper male upbringing. You always said I spoil him. So raise him. Make a man of him.
Victor clutched his head, pacing the bedroom. This is madness! Olive wont agree! Shes twentyfive; why would she want anothers child?
Thats your problem, dear, Eleanor said, crossing her arms. Youre the head of the household. Decide.
Double standards wore me thin. Want a new life? Take the responsibility.
The packing took two days. Victor drifted like a man adrift, alternating between pleading, threatening, and invoking conscience.
Ellen, think of the gossip! he hissed as I boxed Daphnes dresses. Your parents, my parents theyll turn you into a laughingstock!
Let them gossip, I sealed the box with tape. I cant support two people on one salary and a single room. Do you want our childrens mother ending up in a hospital?
The hardest part was speaking to my own mother, who called three times that evening, crying into the receiver. Darling, how can you leave Timothy to his father? Hell be
Mother, I answered wearily, you live far away. What can you do? Send money? Your pension is a pittance.
Id decided. Victor was a fatherlet him be one in more than words.
The night of departure Timothy ran about the flat, thinking it a game. I crouched before him, smoothing his tangled hair. My heart tore; I wanted to cling to him, to run away with him. Yet I knew that any weakness would let Victor step on my throat, and Id be left alone with two children, no money, while he revelled in his new life.
Son, I said, looking into his bright eyes, Mum and Daphne will stay elsewhere for a while. Youll stay with Dad. He loves you very much.
Will you come back? Timothy asked, clutching his stuffed rabbit.
Ill be back on Saturday. Well go to the park, have icecream. Listen to Dad.
Daphne stood at the doorway, headphones around her neck, silent but supportive. Victor loomed in the hallway, pale as a wall.
Are you really leaving? Just like that? he asked.
The keys are on the dresser, I replied. The medicine list is on the fridge; his throat is a bit sore, needs gargling. Dont forget the Thursday meeting at the nursery.
And I walked out.
The first week of Victors solo life was chaos. Mornings began not with coffee and a kiss from Olive, but with Timothys shout, Dad, Im hungry! Then frantic hunts for missing socks, burnt porridge, and milk that vanished. Timothy refused food, spat, demanded cartoons.
Eat, you hear me! Victor barked, already late for work. Timothy began to sob. Victor felt like a bewildered creature, grabbing at his belt, then tossing it aside, flinging a chocolate bar just to quiet the boy.
At the nursery the staff gave him sideways looks. Dad, why is the child in a dirty shirt? Dad, you forgot a spare top. Dad, the curtains need paying for.
Work fell apart. His boss summoned him twice, hinting that personal affairs should not interfere with duties. Evenings turned into another act: fetching Timothy from the nursery, dashing to the shop, cleaning, cooking. Within five minutes of him tidying up, Timothy would scatter toys across the floor.
Olive appeared on the third day, wrinkling her nose. Victor, we were supposed to go to the cinema, she said, halfshoes off.
What cinema, Olive? Victor mumbled, one sock off, hair in a mess. I cant leave Timothy alone.
Lets hire a nanny then!
Nanny? Look at the rates! Half my salary goes to the mortgage!
Timothy burst into the hallway, smudged with crayon, collided with Olives trousers, and shouted, Auntie! Look, Im a tiger!
Ow! Olive yelped, jumping back. What are you doing? Victor, get him! This is a Dolce doll, its worth a fortune!
Hes a child, Olive! Victor roared. Stop the tantrum! Help would be nice!
I? Help? I wasnt hired as a babysitter! Im a woman who wants attention! Olives eyes widened. And you your ex! She set this up!
My ex spent four years raising him while I was at work! Victor blurted, surprised by his own outburst. Olive scoffed, turned, and slammed the door. She never returned.
By Saturday Victor looked like a shadowskinny, stubblecovered, dark circles under his eyes. The flat resembled a battlefield. When the doorbell rang, he scrambled, tripping over toy cars. Standing there were Eleanor and Daphne.
Mum! Timothy shrieked, lunging at her.
Eleanor lifted the boy, kissed his cheeks. Hello, my darlings. How are you?
Victor leaned against the wall, knees trembling, as if seeing Eleanor for the first time. He suddenly grasped the Herculean effort shed endured all those years, smiling through bruises and silences while he called it staying at home.
Ellen he croaked.
She raised an eyebrow. Take him, please. I cant manage. Ill lose my job. Olives gone. I Im at my limit.
Eleanor set Timothy down. Go, boy, show Daphne your new drawings.
The children darted to the bedroom. Eleanor surveyed the mountain of unwashed dishes, the dried groats on the stove, and sat on the same stool shed occupied a week before.
I wont return here, Victor, she said evenly. After what youve done, I cant live with you.
Dammit, Olive! Victor flailed his arms, covering his face. Ive realised my mistake. Ive been wrong, all around.
But Timothy Im a bad father, Ellen
Learn, Eleanor snapped. But I know a child shouldnt suffer. So I have a proposal.
Victor lifted his head, hope flickering like a bruised dog. What? Ill agree to anything.
Ill take Timothy. The children stay in this flat. You move out
To where? he asked, bewildered.
To my studio, those seventeen metres. Live there, bring anyone you wish. Id rewrite the tenancy deed, splitting the property equally between us, ensuring you couldnt evict us again for some new romance.
Victor opened his mouth, ready to claim robbery, to say it was his home too then remembered the past week: the nightly cries, the fever, the endless GroundhogDay of panic. He saw the empty flat, his helplessness.
Eleanor wasnt bluffing. If he refused, shed turn and leave, leaving him alone with a responsibility he was catastrophically unprepared for.
Alimony is fixed, she continued, noting his hesitation. Youll also cover half the club fees. Visit your son whenever you wish; I wont stand in your way. But well live here, without you.
Victor stared a long moment, then exhaled. Alright. I agree.
Eleanor nodded. Pack your things, Victor. The studio is free. Ill give you the keys now.
He rose, trudged to the bedroom for his suitcase. He had lost everythingfamily, son, pride. Yet as he zipped his bag, a strange certainty settled in him: perhaps this was the only right decision of the past seven years.
