**Never Too Late to Start**
*”Mum, have you completely lost your mind?”*
The words hit Lydia like a punch to the gut. Sharp, stinging. She stayed silent, peeling potatoes with steady hands, but inside, the pain throbbed.
*”People already whisper about you—’There goes Lydia, gone wild!’ If it were Dad, fine—he’s a man. But you? A woman? The heart of the home! Aren’t you ashamed?”*
A tear slid down Lydia’s cheek, then another. Soon they fell freely, yet her daughter Tamsin raged on.
Her husband, Colin, slumped in a chair, shoulders hunched, lip jutting out. *”Dad’s sick—he needs care! This is how you repay him? After everything? He gave you his youth, raised a child with you, and now you just—what? Run off?”* He sniffled. *”Mum, you can’t do this…”*
Lydia exhaled. *”Then how *should* I do it?”*
*”What? Are you joking? Look at Dad—she’s mocking us!”*
*”Honestly, Tamsin, you act like I’m your worst enemy, not your mother. Oh, suddenly you’re his defender?”*
*”Mum! Stop playing the victim! I’ve had enough—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* deal with this disgrace.”*
*”Can you believe it?”* Tamsin turned to her father. *”I saw them—walking arm-in-arm, him reciting poetry. His own rubbish verses, I bet. Something about love, right, Mum?”*
*”You’re cruel, Tamsin. Young and stupid.”*
*”Not a shred of remorse! Fine—I’m calling both grans.”*
Lydia straightened her dress, brushed invisible lint away, and stood.
*”Right then. I’m off.”*
*”Where, Lyd?”* Colin croaked.
*”Leaving you, Col.”*
*”What? *How?* What about me?”*
Tamsin, phone pressed to her ear, shot her mother a venomous glare.
*”Tams—Tamsin!”* Colin wailed like at a funeral.
*”What? Dad, is it your back? Where does it hurt?”*
*”She… your mum… she’s leaving.”*
*”Leaving? *Where?* Mum, have you gone mad? At your age?”*
Lydia smirked, neatly folding clothes into a suitcase. She’d almost left once before—when Colin’s sciatica flared up. *”Lyd, I think it’s a slipped disc…”*
*”The MRI showed nothing.”*
*”Doctors hide things. They want more money—just ask Pete at work. ‘Sciatica, sciatica,’ they say, then boom—it’s a ‘severe herniation’ or some nonsense…”*
Back then, she’d stayed. But now?
*”How much life do you have left, Lyd?”* her friend Liz had said. *”You’re a slave to them. What’s Colin ever given you? *Nothing.* He spent his youth chasing skirts—remember that hairdresser, what was her name?”*
*”Milly.”*
*”Right, *Milly.* Like a dog after chocolate. You worked two jobs, *plus* side gigs, while he lazed about. Oh, but *Colin* needed spa trips for his ‘bad back’—off to the seaside! Meanwhile, you limped at forty, hauling veg for his mum. *That’s* normal?”*
Lydia had excuses then. Now, the scales fell.
She remembered how Liz had flinched from Colin for years. Finally, the truth spilled: *”I’ll never forget waking up to his grubby hands on me. His *mother* watched and blamed *me.* Said if I spoke up, she’d claim *I* came onto him.”*
Lydia sat stunned.
Other wives consulted husbands—*”Must ask Nigel, Tom, Dave…”*—flaunted gifts, holidays. Lydia’s photos? Just Colin’s birthday, yearly. His gifts? A vacuum, a steamer (“Colin *loves* dumplings!”), or his mum’s ancient perfume. Three tulips on Mother’s Day. A single rose for her birthday.
Liz had been blunt: *”You *slept* through your life.”*
Tamsin had grown selfish—maybe Lydia’s fault. *”I shouldn’t have listened to Colin and his mum. Should’ve had that second child…”* The doctor had pleaded. She refused. Later, Colin blamed her.
Even marrying him was pity. *”He was so… *pathetic.* All the boys rode motorbikes or played guitar. Colin? Clumsy, thick glasses.”*
Her mum had scolded: *”If he’s courting you, *marry* him.”* Liz gaped. *”You wed him because you felt *sorry* for him?”*
Lydia shrugged.
Now, scanning the room, she knew—she’d rent a flat, file for divorce. Fight for what she’d earned. Tamsin would side with Colin. So be it.
She wasn’t leaving for Peter. Just peace. A life *her own.*
***
Oh, the backlash. Colin—poor soul; Lydia—a harlot.
*”Beg his forgiveness!”* her mum shrieked. Colin’s mum fake-fainted. Lydia stepped right over her. Neighbours backed *her*—they’d seen the truth.
Then… Tamsin apologised. Mother and daughter rebuilt.
Colin brought four carnations, wrapped in newspaper. *”Come home.”*
She didn’t. A month post-divorce, he strolled arm-in-arm with Milly. His back? *Miraculously* cured.
Lydia didn’t care. She booked a salon day with Tamsin. Peter invited her hiking—like old times.
It’s never too late to start. Hard at first, then… smoother.
