The husband declared that she was nobody in this house.
“Who do you even think you are, telling me what to do?” Gerald spun away from the fridge, a can of lager clutched in his hand. “You’re nobody in this house, got it?”
Lorraine stood by the stove, stirring a pot of beef stew, feeling her hands tremble. The ladle clattered against the pot’s rim.
“Nobody?” she echoed softly. “Am I not your wife?”
“Wife!” Gerald scoffed, cracking open the can. “Some wife. More like a glorified housekeeper—and not even a good one at that.”
Lorraine turned off the hob and faced him. Forty-three years of marriage. Forty-three years of making his dinners, ironing his shirts, raising their children while he climbed the corporate ladder.
“A housekeeper, is it?” Her voice hardened. “Who washes your shirts? Who cooks, cleans, looks after your mother when she’s ill?”
“That’s your job!” Gerald slammed the can on the table. “I bring in the money, pay the mortgage—what do you do? Boil a bit of stew? Any woman could do that.”
“Any woman,” Lorraine repeated. Something inside her snapped. “Right.”
She untied her apron and hung it on the hook. Gerald drained his lager, his back turned to her.
“So, any woman,” she muttered under her breath. “We’ll see about that.”
She walked to the bedroom and pulled an old suitcase from the wardrobe. Gerald heard the rustling and peered in.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” she said calmly, folding her things into the case. “If I’m nobody here, then I don’t belong here.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Gerald scowled.
“To Evelyn’s. For a little while.”
Evelyn was Lorraine’s younger sister—a nurse at the local clinic, living alone in a modest flat.
“Oh, come off it,” Gerald waved a hand. “Don’t be daft. Who’s going to make dinner?”
“Why does it matter?” Lorraine zipped up the bag. “You said any woman could do it. Go find one.”
Gerald gaped as she pulled on her coat.
“Lorraine, don’t be like this. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she said, buttoning her coat. “You just said how you really feel. I’m nobody here.”
“I said don’t be daft! Who said you could leave?”
Lorraine paused at the door and looked at him.
“No one. I gave myself permission. Or do I not even have that right?”
She stepped out, leaving Gerald dumbstruck.
Outside, the October chill bit at her cheeks. She boarded the bus to Evelyn’s, ignoring the calls buzzing in her pocket.
Evelyn opened the door in a dressing gown and slippers.
“Lorraine! What’s happened?” She spotted the suitcase.
“Can I stay the night?”
“Of course! Come in. What’s going on?”
They sat at the kitchen table while Evelyn brewed tea. Lorraine recounted the fight.
“The absolute nerve!” Evelyn fumed. “After all these years!”
“I’ve given everything,” Lorraine dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “And he says any woman could do it.”
“Let him find one, then,” Evelyn snorted. “See how he manages without you.”
Lorraine’s phone rang again—Gerald.
“Don’t answer,” Evelyn advised. “Let him stew.”
She set the phone down and ignored it.
Morning came, and Lorraine woke on the sofa. Evelyn was already heading to work.
“Stay as long as you need,” she said, handing over a spare key.
Alone in the unfamiliar flat, Lorraine sat idle—strange, when she’d usually be fixing Gerald’s breakfast, packing his lunch, planning the day.
The phone stayed silent. He must’ve thought she’d slink back, tail between her legs.
She made herself toast and coffee, staring out the window. The quiet was unsettling—sad, yet oddly freeing. How many years since she’d eaten without worrying about Gerald’s meals?
That afternoon, their eldest daughter, Charlotte, called.
“Mum, Dad rang. Says you had a row?”
“We did.”
“Over what?”
“He said I’m nobody in the house. Just a bad housekeeper.”
“Mum!” Charlotte gasped. “How could he?”
“Quite easily, apparently.”
“But you’ve given your life to this family!”
“That’s what I thought. Turns out I’m just staff.”
Charlotte hesitated.
“Mum, where are you now?”
“Aunt Evelyn’s.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Dunno. Might look for work. If I’m just a housekeeper, I’ve got experience.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! You’re adults—work it out!”
“Work what out?” Lorraine laughed bitterly. “He told the truth. I am nobody there.”
“He was just stressed! He didn’t mean it!”
“Stressed,” Lorraine repeated. “And me? Forty-three years of stress don’t count?”
Charlotte sighed.
“Fine, I’ll talk to him. But think—is one comment worth splitting the family?”
“One comment?” Lorraine shook her head. “It’s not one comment. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud.”
That evening, Evelyn returned exhausted from her shift.
“How are you holding up?”
“Alright. Charlotte called.”
“And?”
“Told me to make up with Gerald.”
Evelyn sat beside her.
“What do you want to do?”
“Dunno,” Lorraine admitted. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am nobody.”
“Don’t say that! You’re a wonderful wife, mother, homemaker. If he can’t see that, he’s a fool.”
“Easy for you to say,” Lorraine murmured. “I’m sixty-seven. Where do I go?”
“Anywhere’s better than with a man who doesn’t respect you.”
The next day, Lorraine went back for her things. Gerald was at work—the house was a mess. Unwashed dishes, crumbs on the table, the bed unmade. Two days without her, and it was chaos.
She packed a bag, but the door opened. Gerald stood there.
“Oh, you’re here,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “About time. You making dinner?”
“No,” she said. “I’m nobody here, remember?”
“Don’t be like that,” he waved. “How long are you going to sulk? I didn’t mean it!”
“Didn’t you?” She stopped at the door. “Then what did you mean?”
“I’d had a few, that’s all. Lost my temper.”
“Right,” she nodded. “And when you’re sober, you call me a queen, do you?”
Gerald grimaced.
“Don’t be daft. You’re a wife, a mother—normal stuff.”
“Normal,” she repeated. “So, nobody special.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? We’re an ordinary family!”
“I want respect. Appreciation.”
“I do appreciate you! But that’s your job—cooking, cleaning!”
“And yours is just money?”
“Obviously!”
“Nothing else? Love? Respect? Support?”
Gerald floundered.
“Well—I married you, didn’t I? Isn’t that proof enough?”
“No,” she said. “That’s just habit.”
She picked up her bag.
“Lorraine, wait! What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” she said, not turning. “I’m nobody. And nobody expects anything.”
Back at Evelyn’s, her sister frowned.
“Made up yet?”
“No. He thinks I’m being dramatic. That I should come back and cook his tea.”
“And you?”
“I think he’s right. I am just a machine for cooking and cleaning.”
Evelyn hugged her.
“You’re so much more than that.”
“Maybe to the family. Not to him.”
That evening, their son, Oliver, called.
“Mum, what’s going on? Dad says you’ve left.”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“He said I’m nobody in the house. Just a housekeeper.”
“Mum! How could he?”
“Easily.”
“But you’re the best mum, the best wife!”
“Thanks, love. But your father disagrees.”
Oliver hesitated.
“Maybe he didn’t mean it?”
“Oliver, I’ve known him forty-three years. He meant it.”
“So what now?”
“Dunno. Might find work. Live on my own.”
“Mum, don’t rush this. Think about it.”
The next day, Gerald called Evelyn.
“Tell Lorraine to come home. I’m sick of eating takeaways.”
“Have you apologised?”
“For what? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You called her nobody.”
He never understood, not even when she walked away for good, that respect wasn’t just a word—it was the foundation of everything she’d given him, and without it, she was no longer willing to stay.
