The husband left for a younger woman. I did not weep. I sat down, took a breath, and for the first time in years I felt a lift of relief.
Peter and I had been married for thirtythree years. We wed when I was twentytwo and he twentysix. In the beginning there was the rush of love, building a house together, the mortgage, the first child, the second, endless renovations, and evenings spent working overtime. We lived a normal life, like most folkno grand passions, but also no tragedies.
As the years went by we drifted apart. He would come home late from the office, always with some excuse about a new project. I kept to my routineshifts at the town library, grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, helping the grandchildren with their homework, chatting with Mrs. Whitaker next door. At night we watched television, each of us curled up in our own corner of the sofa.
We stopped touching. I cant even recall the last time his arms were around me. I didnt complain; I told myself that was what a mature partnership looked like, that love simply changes its shape.
Two years ago Peter began to act strangely. He started caring about his appearance, shedding the belly hed carried for decades. He dusted off shirts that had sat untouched in the wardrobe for years and began wearing them again. He even dusted off his old cologne. Suddenly he spoke of business trips and assignments that had never existed before. I pretended not to notice.
I was afraid to ask. Deep down I knew something was amiss, but I told myself, Perhaps its just a phase, Maybe hell tire of it.
Then one evening, when he came home and didnt even eat dinnera first in our long marriagehe said:
Margaret, we need to talk.
He sat opposite me, looked straight into my eyes, and said:
Ive met someone. Shes younger. I feel alive with her. Im leaving.
That was all. No shouting, no hesitation.
I looked at him. He was fiftynine; I was fiftyfive. And I felttrulya wave of relief. Not a tear fell, not a drama unfolded. I went to the kitchen with a mug of tea and there settled a silence I hadnt known in decades. For the first time in a long while, no one complained that the tea was too sweet, no one smacked their lips at supper, no one slammed doors because the remote was missing.
I didnt sleep that night, but not from sorrow from the freedom to finally think of myself. Peter moved out a week later, taking a suitcase, a few shirts, his old computer. The rest, he declared, was already mine.
Our children reacted in their own ways. Our daughter was outraged. Fathers gone mad, Mum, what does he think hes doing? she kept saying. Our son stayed quiet; he had always been closer to his father. I didnt need anyones support. I was free.
I began to do the things I had always postponed. I signed up for a painting class, even though I had never held a brush before. I spent a weekend in York with Mrs. Whitakermy first unplanned trip in twenty yearswithout the dread of someone waiting at home with a sour look.
I started going to bed whenever I wanted, ate supper in bed, rearranged the furniture in the sitting room, bought a new tablecloth with bright, oversized flowers that Peter would have loathed but that I adored.
People around me reacted oddly. Some asked, How are you coping? At your age, its rather sad Others, perhaps more quietly, seemed pleased that Peter got what he deserved. I cared little for their opinions.
For many years I lived in a marriage where I was invisiblechef, accountant, nurse, cleanerbut never a wife, never a woman. When Peter left, I didnt lose love; I lost a weight.
I know how it sounds, as if I were rejoicing at someone elses misfortune. It isnt. I am simply grateful for the life I have reclaimed.
I have no idea how long his fling with the younger woman will lastmaybe long, maybe it will end swiftly. That is no longer my concern.
My concern now is tea with honey, reading late into the night, long walks without a hint of guilt. My concern is me, myself, and I.
And for the first time in thirty years, I truly feel at home.
