“Who do you even think you are, telling me what to do?” Robert spun around from the fridge, a can of beer in his hand. “You’re nobody in this house! Got it?”
Margaret stood by the stove, stirring a pot of stew, her hands trembling slightly. The ladle clinked against the edge of the pan.
“Nobody?” she repeated quietly. “Am I not your wife?”
“Wife!” Robert scoffed, cracking open the can. “More like a glorified housekeeper. And not even a good one at that.”
Margaret turned off the hob and faced him. Forty-three years of marriage. Forty-three years of cooking his meals, washing his shirts, ironing his trousers. Forty-three years of raising their children while he built his career.
“A housekeeper, is it?” Her voice steadied. “Who washes your clothes, then? Who cooks, cleans, looks after your mother?”
“That’s your job!” Robert slammed the can on the table. “I bring in the money, pay the bills—what do you do? Make stew? Any woman could do that.”
“Any woman,” Margaret echoed. Something inside her snapped. “Right.”
She untied her apron and hung it on the hook. Robert drained his beer, his back still turned.
“If I’m just ‘any woman,’” she muttered under her breath, “we’ll see about that.”
She went to the bedroom and pulled an old suitcase from the wardrobe. The rustling made Robert peer in.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing,” she said calmly, folding her clothes into the case. “If I’m nobody here, then I don’t belong here.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“To Emily’s. For a while.”
Emily was Margaret’s younger sister. She lived alone in a modest flat and worked as a nurse at the local clinic.
“Oh, come off it,” Robert waved dismissively. “Stop being daft. Who’s going to cook?”
“Does it matter?” Margaret zipped up the suitcase. “You said any woman could do it. Find yourself one.”
Robert watched, baffled, as she slipped on her coat.
“Marg, don’t be like that. I didn’t mean it.”
“No, of course not,” she said, buttoning her coat. “Just speaking the truth. I’m nobody in this house.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! Who said you could just leave?”
She paused at the door and glanced back.
“I did. Or do I not even have that right?”
She stepped out, leaving him gaping behind her.
Outside, the October air was crisp. Margaret caught a bus to her sister’s. The phone rang in her pocket—Robert calling—but she ignored it.
Emily answered the door in slippers and a dressing gown.
“Maggie! What’s happened?” She spotted the suitcase.
“Can I stay tonight?” Margaret asked.
“Of course—come in.”
They sat in the kitchen over tea. Margaret recounted the argument.
“The nerve of him!” Emily fumed. “After all these years!”
“I gave him my whole life,” Margaret dabbed her eyes. “And he says any woman could do it.”
“Let him find one, then,” Emily huffed. “See how he manages without you.”
The phone buzzed again—Robert.
“Don’t answer,” Emily advised. “Let him stew.”
Margaret set the phone aside.
In the morning, she woke on the sofa. Emily was getting ready for work.
“Stay as long as you need. I’ve got spare keys.”
Left alone, Margaret sat idle—strange, when at home she’d have been fixing Robert’s breakfast, tidying, planning the day.
The phone stayed silent. He must have assumed she’d cool off and return.
She made herself toast and coffee. It was odd—sad, yet freeing. How long since she’d eaten in peace, without worrying about what to cook for him?
Later, their eldest daughter, Claire, called.
“Mum, Dad rang. He said you’d had a row?”
“We did.”
“Over what?”
“He called me a nobody. Said I was just a housekeeper, and a bad one.”
“Mum! How could he?”
“Quite easily. Guess it’s what he really thinks.”
“That’s not true! You’ve given everything to this family!”
“I thought so too. Turns out I’m replaceable.”
Claire sighed.
“Mum… where are you now?”
“At Aunt Emily’s.”
“How long are you staying?”
“Don’t know. Might look for work. If I’m just hired help, I may as well get paid.”
“Don’t be silly! You’re both adults—work it out.”
“Work what out?” Margaret gave a bitter laugh. “He said what he meant.”
“Mum, he was just stressed—”
“For forty-three years?”
Claire hesitated.
“I’ll talk to him. But think—is one stupid remark worth breaking up the family?”
“One remark?” Margaret shook her head. “No, love. He just finally said it out loud.”
That evening, Emily returned exhausted from her shift.
“How’s it going?” she asked, hanging up her coat.
“Claire rang. Wants me to make up with Robert.”
“And?”
Margaret shrugged. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am just a housekeeper.”
“Don’t talk rot! You’re a brilliant wife and mother. If he can’t see that, he’s a fool.”
“Easy for you to say,” Margaret murmured. “I’m sixty-seven. Where do I go?”
“I don’t know. But you can’t stay with a man who disrespects you.”
Next day, Margaret went home for more clothes. The flat was empty—Robert at work.
The sink was piled with dishes. Crumbs littered the table. The bed was unmade. Two days without her, and chaos had taken over.
She was packing when the door opened. Robert walked in.
“Oh, you’re back,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “About time. Making dinner?”
“No.” She zipped her bag. “I’m nobody here, remember?”
“Oh, give it a rest. How long are you going to sulk? I didn’t mean it.”
“Didn’t you?” She paused at the door. “When *are* you serious, then?”
“Had a few beers, said something stupid. Happens.”
“Happens,” she echoed. “So when you’re sober, what am I? A queen?”
Robert scowled.
“Don’t be daft. You’re my wife. A normal wife.”
“Normal,” she repeated. “So nobody special.”
“What’s all this ‘special’ nonsense? We’ve got an ordinary life—what more d’you want?”
“Respect. Appreciation.”
“I *do* appreciate you! But it’s your job! A wife keeps house—that’s how it is!”
“Is it?” Margaret nodded. “And what’s *your* job, then?”
“Earning the money! Obviously!”
“Just money?”
“What else?”
“Love. Respect. Support.” She held his gaze. “When did you last tell me you loved me?”
Robert faltered.
“I—well—it’s obvious, isn’t it? Forty-three years together—isn’t that proof enough?”
“No,” she said. “That’s just habit.”
She slung her bag over her shoulder.
“Margaret, wait! What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” she said, not turning back. “I’m nobody. Nobody expects anything from nobody.”
At Emily’s, her sister studied her face.
“Made up?”
“No. He thinks I’m throwing a tantrum. Expects me back at the stove.”
“And you?”
“He’s right. I *am* just a housekeeper.”
Emily hugged her.
“You’re so much more than that.”
“Maybe to the kids. Not to him.”
That night, their son James rang.
“Mum, Dad says you’ve left. What’s going on?”
“I have.”
“Why?”
“He said I’m nobody in that house. Just hired help.”
“*Mum.* He *didn’t.*”
“He did. And meant it.”
James was silent.
“Maybe he didn’t phrase it right—”
“Forty-three years, love. I know what he thinks.”
“So… what now?”
“Don’t know yet. Might find work. Live on my own.”
“Don’t rush, Mum. Think it through.”
The next day, Robert called Emily.
“Tell her to come home. I’m sick of microwave meals.”
“Have you apologised?”
“For what? I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You called her a nobody.”
“Just a figure ofShe never went back, and Robert eventually learned that respect couldn’t be microwaved like his sad little dinners.
