Margaret Dawson carefully arranged the plates on the table, straightened the napkins, and glanced at the clock once more. Her husband would be home from work in half an hour, so it was time to start frying the pork chops. The roast potatoes were ready, the salad prepared, the bread sliced neatly—everything just as it should be, everything as he liked it.
“Mum, can I go round to Emily’s tonight?” called her eighteen-year-old daughter, Lucy, from her room. “She’s got some new films from London.”
“No, love. Dad will be home soon—we’ll have dinner as a family,” Margaret replied without turning. “You can go later.”
“This is so childish! I’m eighteen!” Lucy protested, but she didn’t argue further. She knew her mother wouldn’t budge.
Margaret smiled to herself. Eighteen was still so young. Why, she’d been married by that age, while Lucy was still so naive. Then again, perhaps that was for the best. Let her stay a daughter a little longer, before life made her someone else’s wife.
The front door clicked open, and in walked Richard Dawson—a broad-shouldered man with greying temples, weary but content. His construction work was exhausting, but it paid well, and that was what mattered.
“Hello, love,” he said, kissing Margaret on the cheek. “Something smells good.”
“Your favourite pork chops,” she smiled. “Sit down, I’ll bring everything out.”
“Where’s Lucy?”
“In her room, I’ll call her. Lucy! Dad’s home!”
Lucy hurried out, hugging her father.
“Dad, can I go round to Emily’s after dinner? She’s got some really interesting films—”
Richard frowned.
“What kind of films? You shouldn’t be filling your head with nonsense when you’ve got exams coming up. College isn’t far off—you need to focus.”
“They’re not nonsense, Dad, just normal films—”
“I said no, and that’s final!” His voice rose. “Margaret, why don’t you ever put your foot down with her? She’s getting out of hand!”
Margaret quickly stepped in.
“Come on, Richard, she’s just curious. Lucy, sit down and eat—we’ll talk later.”
Dinner passed in relative silence. Richard spoke about work—how the boss had raised targets again while cutting bonuses. Margaret nodded along, refilling his plate, pouring his tea. Lucy said nothing, barely looking up from her food.
“Margaret, what’s the gossip about the Thompsons?” Richard asked suddenly, finishing his last bite.
“What about them? They keep to themselves.”
“No, I heard Mrs. Thompson’s got some office job now, and he’s the one at home with the kids.”
Margaret set her teacup down carefully.
“Well, if it works for them…”
“Works for them?” Richard scoffed. “A man should provide for his family, not play babysitter! A woman’s place is in the kitchen and with the children. That’s how it’s meant to be.”
“But if she earns more—”
“No ‘buts’!” He slammed his fist on the table. “There’s an order to things! The man leads, the woman supports. End of story.”
Margaret nodded quietly and began clearing the table. She had never known how to argue with Richard—nor had she wanted to. Why cause trouble when silence kept the peace? Maybe he was right. She’d spent her life at home, and they’d managed just fine.
Lucy glanced at her mother, then at her father.
“Can I at least go to Emily’s later? Just for a bit?”
“No!” Richard barked. “Homework first, no gallivanting about!”
Lucy sighed and retreated to her room. Margaret watched her go, a pang in her chest. Poor girl—never out, always cooped up. But what could she do? If her father said no, then no it was.
A few days later, Margaret bumped into their neighbour, Anne Wilson, at the market. Anne was beaming.
“Margaret, have you heard? My Sophie’s got into university—London School of Economics! Imagine, my girl off to the capital!”
“That’s wonderful,” Margaret said sincerely. “What will she study?”
“Economics. She wants to be a financial analyst, manage companies. I was nervous at first—so far away! But then I thought, why hold her back? Let her see the world.”
“And your husband? Was he alright with it?”
Anne hesitated.
“We had a row about it. He kept saying education’s wasted on a girl—she’ll just marry and have babies anyway. But I told him times have changed. Women need careers now. We argued for weeks, nearly came to blows. But I stood my ground. I don’t think she’ll regret it.”
Margaret nodded silently. That evening, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Lucy would soon be applying too—but where? Richard had already made his views clear: no need for university, a teaching diploma would do. A quiet job, then marriage—simple.
But Lucy dreamed of journalism. She wanted to study at university, write articles, interview people. She’d spoken about it with shining eyes—when Richard wasn’t around. The moment he was there, he shut her down.
“Journalism’s no job for a woman. Travelling, dealing with all sorts—it’s not proper.”
And Margaret stayed silent. She didn’t defend Lucy. She didn’t challenge Richard. She just said nothing, as always.
Summer flew by. Lucy applied to the teaching college, as instructed. She got in easily—she’d always been bright. On enrolment day, she came home sullen.
“Well done, love!” Richard beamed. “We’ll have a teacher in the family! A solid choice.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Lucy muttered before disappearing upstairs.
Margaret watched her go, that familiar ache returning. But what could she do? Fight Richard? Upset the household? No—better to let it lie.
The teaching course was easy for Lucy, but joyless. She attended like it was a punishment, barely speaking about it at home. Margaret tried to ask, but got only shrugs.
“It’s fine, Mum. Just coursework.”
“Are the lecturers good?”
“They’re alright.”
“Made any friends?”
“A few.”
And that was all.
One evening, when Richard was working late, Lucy suddenly burst into tears at dinner.
“Lucy, what’s wrong?” Margaret asked, alarmed.
“Mum, remember Emily? From school?”
“Of course. What about her?”
“She’s at uni, studying journalism. I saw her yesterday—she loves it. The people, the assignments, everything. And what am I doing? Singing nursery rhymes to toddlers.”
Margaret didn’t know what to say. She stroked Lucy’s hair, like she used to when she was little.
“Teaching’s important work, love. You’re shaping young minds.”
“But I didn’t want this,” Lucy whispered. “I wanted to write. To learn. To travel. Now what? Stuck in a primary school forever?”
Margaret floundered. These weren’t questions she’d ever faced. In her day, it was simple—school, then marriage or work, then children.
“You’ll understand when you’re older,” she said finally.
Lucy wiped her eyes and left.
Another year passed. Lucy grew quieter, more withdrawn. She barely spoke at home. Margaret worried, but didn’t know how to help.
Then, out of nowhere, Lucy announced she was getting married.
“Married?” Richard spluttered. “You hardly know him!”
“I do, Dad. His name’s James, he’s a mechanic. He’s lovely.”
“What about your diploma? You’re nearly done!”
“I’ll drop out. Why do I need it now? I’ll be a wife, then a mother.”
Richard hesitated.
“But you’re so close…”
“I don’t want it,” Lucy said flatly. “James doesn’t believe wives should work. He’ll provide.”
Margaret listened, uneasy. Lucy’s words sounded right, but her voice was hollow, her eyes empty.
“Lucy, do you love him?” she ventured.
“Of course,” Lucy said too quickly. “Isn’t it obvious?”
It wasn’t. Not at all. But Margaret said nothing—as always.
The wedding was small, at a local hall. Lucy looked beautiful, but distant. She smiled when expected, said the right things, but Margaret could tell—it was all an act.
The newlyweds moved into James’s cramped flat. They lived quietly, never fighting, but never happy either. James was controlling, always laying down rules. Lucy obeyed without question, as if she’d given up entirely.
Six months later, she was pregnant. Margaret was thrilled—a grandchild!—but Lucy showed no excitement.
“How are you feeling?” Margaret asked.
“Fine.”
“Is James happy?”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
Lucy paused.
“Does it matter? It’s happening anyway.”
The words struck Margaret. “It’s happening anyway”—that was what she’d told herself
