No Longer a Wife
John, have you checked your blood pressure today? Have you taken your tablet? Mary peered into the sitting room, rubbing her hands on her apron.
For heavens sake, Mary, do give it a rest with the blood pressure! he grumbled, eyes glued to his phone. Ive got a meeting in an hour. Wheres my blue cotton shirt? The one from Marks. Did you iron it?
I ironed three shirts for you yesterday, as you asked. You said that blue one needed the dry cleaners there was a mark on it
Youre always mixing things up! Cant trust you with anything. Just give me any shirt. And make sure the teas good and strong, none of your bloody chamomile, I cant stand it anymore.
Marys shoulders tensed, but she said nothing and went to the kitchen.
It was a November day, rain drizzling down in that English way, grey and damp. The block of flats across the street looked dismal, with only a couple of yellowed lights glowing behind the uniform windows. Mary Watson, fifty-six, stood by the stove watching the old kettle boil, its enamel chipped on the spout. Shed meant to replace it last spring. She hadnt got round to it. Life just kept getting in the way.
She made a mug of strong builders tea no chamomile, no peppermint just the way John liked. She took the plate of sandwiches shed made at six that morning: buttered granary, good cheddar, crusts cut off for his delicate stomach. She sliced a tomato, tasteless as they are in November, but its still a bit of vitamins. She set it all on a tray and took it through.
John Watson, fifty-eight, sat in his armchair, staring at his phone. Three months ago hed been made head of his department. Before that, he was just one of the senior engineers, same as hed always been. But when Simmons retired, John, oldest in the team, got the nod. The promotion gave him an extra three hundred quid a month, his own office, and evidently a completely new outlook on himself and the universe.
Put it there, he nodded at the coffee table, not bothering to look up.
Mary set down the tray, hesitated.
John, honestly, just take your tablet. You complained you had a headache yesterday.
I said I had a headache yesterday. Not today. Right, off you go, I have a call to make.
She left. She stood for a moment in the hall by the coat hooks: his overcoat, her padded winter jacket, the umbrella with the bent spoke. She leaned against the wall, staring into nowhere. Then she picked up a cloth and started wiping the kitchen windowsill, because she had no clue what else to do with herself right then.
It had been like this for about three weeks ever since John got promoted and went off to some team-building event in the Home Counties. Hed come back sharper, different haircut, new expression. At first, Mary had been pleased. She thought, hes come alive again, thats good. But then, she started noticing things.
He began criticising her cooking. Used to eat what he was given and never said a word, but now it was, the stews oversalted, the shepherds pie is dry, Why on earth are we eating tinned beans, Im a manager now, not a student. She double-checked, thinking she must have misheard, but he looked at her as if shed said something ridiculous.
Mary, its about time you started making proper meals. Fish pie, decent salads, not your egg mayo at Christmas.
She made the fish pie. She made the salads. He ate in silence, and she thought, well, crisis averted. But the next day he came home in a mood and told her that his new friend from the seminar, Edward, had a wife who didnt work, kept house immaculately, and looked like a proper person.
Mary had said nothing. There was plenty she could have replied: that she too had been out of work for four years since they made her redundant at the council office. That she was up each morning at six, long before him, and asleep after hed gone to bed. That she kept the house, fetched his prescriptions, queued at the chemist for his blood pressure and cholesterol tablets, monitored his medicine intake. That she took his winter tyres round the corner for fitting each year, because he was too busy. She could have said all that. But she didn’t. She’d grown too used to silence.
Then, two days ago, everything shifted.
He came home around eight shed just finished simmering a chicken soup, light stock, double strained, because of his cholesterol. Two hours cooking, the kitchen fragrant with dill and carrot.
Whats taken you so long? she called from the kitchen.
Got held up, he barked, leaving shoes at the door, nowhere near the shoe rack.
The soups ready. Come eat.
He walked in, peered into the pot, grimaced.
Chicken again.
John, the doctor said chickens best for…
I know Ive got cholesterol, Mary. Im not a child. Im just sick of hospital grub at home.
She ladled the soup out. Cut some bread. He ate, got up, left the dirty bowl. She cleared up, wiped the hob, brushed the crumbs away. Then, as she went through to tell him there was stewed fruit if he wanted some,
He was in the armchair, phone in hand. Something pink flashed on the screen, but he hid it.
John, do you want some compote?
He looked at her for a long moment, weighing something.
No, he said, and then, after a pause, Mary, just look at yourself.
She stared, confused.
What?
Im saying, look at yourself. When was the last time you went to the hairdresser? Look at your hair straggly as anything. Your old tartan dressing gown. Honestly, you look like an old granny from the sticks.
The kitchen tap was dripping. A TV murmured next door, muffled and meaningless.
John, she said quietly.
What, John? Im just being honest! I have to attend events, meetings. People come round a wife ought to look decent, but you… well, really.
People come round? she repeated, slowly. Which people? You havent invited anyone over in three months.
Because Id be embarrassed! he snapped, and embarrassed landed in the room as heavily as a stone. Look at Simmonss wife a pleasure to see. Polished, stylish. But you… Youve let yourself go, always in that gown, uncoloured hair…
Johnathan she said his full name, which was rare. Youll be sixty soon. Im fifty-six. Were not young anymore.
Precisely! He jumped up, as if this was critical. Thats why you have to keep yourself up! Ive signed up to the gym, going every week. And you just sit at home all day, cant even…
Sit at home all day, she repeated, her voice flat, oddly calm. Very well, John. I understand.
She left the room, quietly closed the door. Back in the kitchen, she put away the bread, switched off the lights. Every gesture calm, mechanical, but inside, something shifted. Not snapped or crashed just moved, like rearranging furniture: it feels odd, but soon you think, should’ve done it ages ago.
That night she didnt sleep. She lay on her side of the bed, staring at the ceiling. He soon started snoring, as always. She listened, and for the first time, thought about her life.
For the last ten years, she realised, her life had been one of service. Up early, cooking, washing, scrubbing, shopping for medicines, booking his appointments, running errands (theyd sold the car three years ago, after his blood pressure became an issue, so shed book taxis, paid from her card). She monitored his tablets: Ramipril for blood pressure, Rosuvastatin for cholesterol, a new one for his joints, expensive nearly twenty pounds a pack. She kept a notebook, replenished stocks before they ran low, just like the doctor recommended: never miss a tablet.
And now hed told her straight: he was ashamed of her, that she was like a country granny, that Simmonss wife was better.
Mary lay there and slowly, by one in the morning, a simple, sharp thought came: enough.
Not Ill leave, not Ill divorce him, not Ill make a scene. Just: stop doing things he ignores and takes for granted. Stop being a resource turned on and off like a tap: on, water flows; off, nothing. Now it was his turn.
Morning came. She got up at six, as usual. Made herself a cup of chamomile tea the one he hated. Sat at the table with her phone. Looked up the number for that trendy hairdresser in the shopping centre shed never dared visit fifty quid for a cut. She booked for next Wednesday. She found a free Nordic walking group in the park nearby, mornings at half-eight. Added it to her phone calendar.
When John came into the kitchen at seven, only his mug waited for him. Bread in the bread bin, butter in the fridge. He could manage.
What about breakfast? he asked, looking around.
Breads out, butters in the fridge, cheese too, she said, eyes on her phone.
He hesitated. Made his own tea, cut bread, stood eating at the counter. Left for work without another word.
Mary watched the door close and felt something close to relief.
That Wednesday, she went for the haircut. The stylist a young woman with one side shaved and ears full of studs examined Marys tired hair.
Havent coloured it in a while?
Three years, Mary admitted. Always seemed too busy.
Good length. Lets add some colour, a bit of a highlight no harsh lines. And tidy the shape.
She sat in the chair for two and a half hours, watching herself gradually emerge as someone else not young, of course, but alive. Herself, but more so. The woman shed let slip away.
It cost £36. On the way home she bought a proper face cream, not the cheapest chemist brand, but one for mature skin, £8. She hesitated £8 was a lot, but remembered Simmonss wife and bought it anyway.
That evening John noticed her hair. He said nothing.
She hadnt expected he would.
Next week, his blood pressure tablets ran out. Normally, Mary would have noticed, checked the pack, gone to the pharmacy ahead of time. Now, she saw the empty box and left it on his bedside table. Let him work it out.
He came home, changed, sauntered past the table, didnt seem to notice. She said nothing.
Next morning, he reached for a tablet, found none.
Mary! he called from the bedroom. Im out of tablets!
I know, she called from the kitchen.
So why didnt you buy any?
Youre a grown man, John. You can sort it.
Pause. A long one.
Ive got work.
Ive got things to do, too.
She didnt clarify. But she really did have things: Tuesday and Thursday mornings she went walking in the park, with two women of her age, Nina and Ruth. Nina, a deputy head at the local school, loud as a flock of starlings, and Ruth, a quiet soul recently retired, who looked after her grandchildren. Together they strolled, chatted, breathed fresh air. Mary realised she quite liked this sort of thing. Who knew?
John eventually bought the tablets himself, coming back from Boots looking like he’d scaled Everest. Put the box on the table. Said nothing. Nor did she.
Around that time, she rang her old work friend Jean, a familiar face from her admin days.
Jean, you free Saturday?
Why?
Just fancy going out. To the pictures, or for a coffee?
Mary, you all right? Jean sounded surprised; they hadnt done coffee in four years.
Better than usual, said Mary.
Saturday, they met outside the tube. Jean gasped at Marys hair.
Blimey, what have you done! Looks miles better!
Went to the hairdresser at last.
About blooming time! I kept thinking, whens she going to…
Its happened, said Mary, smiling as they went into the café.
They ordered lattes and cake, settled by the window. The first real snow was falling outside, large wet flakes that melted as soon as they touched the pavement.
Well go on, Jean prompted.
And Mary told her: about Johns promotion, the seminar, his new attitude. About the oversalted stew, Simmonss glamorous wife, look at you, embarrassed. She spoke coolly, detached, as if telling somebody elses story.
Jean listened, stirring her coffee.
So what have you decided?
I havent exactly decided anything, Mary said. I just stopped doing things he doesnt value. Not from spite. Just no reason to, really.
No reason, Jean repeated. I see. She was quiet a moment. Youre right.
I dont know if its right. But I cant do otherwise.
Jean nodded, took a bite of cake.
Dyou think Johns even noticed?
That I don’t chase after his pills? Yes. That I dont iron his shirts every day? That too. Yesterday he put on a crumpled one without a word and left.
No row?
No. Mary shrugged slightly. He seems at a loss, really. Used to me saying nothing but now, well, my silence is different.
Jean regarded her searchingly.
Are you thinking about divorce?
Sometimes, yes. But not yet. First, I want to work out who I am, without all this. Without the medicine, the soup, the shirts I cant remember the last time I saw just me.
They had more coffee, headed home as the city grew dark and snow swept the roads. Jean hugged her at the station.
Keep in touch. And shall we do this again, same time next week?
Absolutely, said Mary.
On the tube home, Mary thought that she hadnt sat across from Jean over coffee, unrushed, just the two of them, for maybe six years, maybe more. Always too busy always Johns needs, Johns health, Johns stew.
John was watching TV when she got in. The kitchen had an unwashed mug and a plate with egg on it he’d clearly cooked for himself. She glanced at the mess. Before, shed have cleaned it without thinking. This time she left it.
Whereve you been? he asked, eyes on the telly.
With Jean.
Long time.
Yes.
She went to wash her face, put on her new face cream. Looked at herself in the mirror: fifty-six, certainly not young, but not frightening, either. Crows feet, a line by her mouth, but with the highlighted hair it suited her. An older woman, and that was all right.
December brought proper cold. Mary bought herself sturdy leather boots, not those cheap wellies shed worn three winters running. Spent £90 and didnt regret it.
There was something subtle changing in the flat. She still cooked, but no longer tailored every meal to his dietary needs. She made what she fancied: proper stew with good meat, potatoes and chicken, sometimes even ready-made pasta if the mood struck. No more special steamed patties. Eat whats here, you know what the doctor said, mind yourself.
His shirts now went through the regular laundry cycle, none of the careful washing and pressing. Before, everything was done just-so, for him. Not anymore.
He noticed. Said little. Occasionally, he made odd remarks:
Pasta again?
Yes, shed reply calmly.
Have you stopped cooking properly?
There was soup yesterday. Roast on Sunday.
He would leave grumbling, but what could he say? He couldnt very well come out and say, why do you no longer revolve around me? Even for John, that was a step too far.
Meanwhile, Mary kept up her morning walks. She got to know Nina better, who recommended a good womens doctor shed neglected checkups for years and finally booked in. She also signed up for free watercolour classes at the library, just for something new. Two hours every Wednesday, nothing to worry about except the brush and the page.
By mid-December, John started coming home late. That used to make Mary anxious, calling him, watching his dinner go cold. Now, she simply ate alone whenever she was hungry and went to bed at her own pace. Hed return at nine, ten, even close to midnight once. She never asked. He no longer explained.
She realised he had someone else not from his phone, but from the moment he came home one evening smelling of someone elses perfume sweet and sharp, nothing from the office or a pub. The moment she caught the scent, there was simply: Ah, so thats that.
She was surprised to find it didnt hurt. She expected pain but felt something else: weary curiosity, and above all, relief. If he left now, it would be his choice, not her failure.
She said nothing. Slept well.
This went on for three weeks. He went to work, stayed out late, took calls in the bathroom. Once, through the door, she overheard, “…I told you, Lottie, Saturday…” Lottie. Fine.
She had plenty to think about. Thirty-two years with this man, a grown-up son, Michael, settled in Birmingham with wife and two kids. In their youth John was different: cheery, quick with a joke, a dad who went fishing with Michael. She couldn’t name the exact year he changed. It crept up slowly, like damp in a cellar invisible at first, then all-consuming.
She thought about herself, too. How shed poured her energy into caring for him, completely forgetting about herself not just her appearance but her soul. She didnt even know what she liked: what music, what books, where shed go if she could. All that drowned by years of soup and tablets.
The painting classes turned out to matter more than she expected. Sitting in the quiet library, the instructor, Mrs Stafford, a youthful fifty-two, showed them how to mix colours, blend shades. Mary painted a leaf, then an apple, then the view from the library window. She hadnt painted since school and the soft green merging into yellow was unexpectedly lovely.
One session in January, Mrs Stafford said, You have a real feel for colour, Mary. Truly. Just a passing comment, but it meant the world John Watson hadnt said anything of the kind to her for years.
In early January, it became clear Lottie was finished. Mary learned not from some confession, but from his routine returning to normal: home at seven, telly on, no more bathroom phone calls. He looked a bit lost, coughed more.
She made the soup, he ate it wordlessly. Once he sat beside her, as she drank her tea, and said to no one in particular:
Cold out today.
Yes, she replied. Minus four, the news said.
Hmm.
And off he went. That was all.
She later learnt through a mutual acquaintance, Steve from down the road, what happened with Lottie: Heard John was seeing some lass? She ditched him quick, so they say. Mary said shed heard as much. Steve chuckled and changed the subject.
She figured it out herself. The other woman probably thought shed landed an executive with cash and restaurants, a more interesting life but what she really got was a fifty-eight-year-old with blood pressure, cholesterol, and a fixation on his specific kind of tea and ironed shirts. No wonder it didnt last.
She didnt pity him. If anything, she felt as one does after a bad toothache eases: not elated, but simply grateful for the lack of pain.
By February, his health began to fray visibly. Without Marys careful regimen, his tablets were a shambles: missed doses, taking two at once, the boxes scattered haphazardly in the drawer. Shed see him double-dose to make up for missing a day. She stayed silent the doctor had warned him, many times.
He grew paler, sometimes complained of buzzing in his ears, waking up in the night. Once, he said:
Feeling dizzy this morning.
See the doctor, she replied.
Youll book me in, wont you?
Call reception, John. The numbers on your NHS card.
He stared. She went on drinking her tea.
I dont remember how to do all that.
Youre an educated man. Head of department. Youll manage.
He did. Went along. Came back with a new prescription, another tablet to add.
Heres the list, he put it on the table.
All right.
Will you get it?
Im passing the chemist tomorrow. Give me the money.
He looked startled. Shed always bought the medication herself, from their housekeeping money, always kept track. Now, she asked for cash.
He handed it over. She brought the medicine home, put it with the rest. No notes, no instructions, just the box.
March brought a thaw. Clouds leaked and the pavements gleamed with puddles, the trees bare and wet. Mary would head out for walks just because, not always with her poles, sometimes simply to enjoy the air. She bought herself a new spring jacket: flattering, with a belt, in a pale beige not some lumpy old coat for once. In the changing room, for the first time in ages, she bought something simply because she wanted to.
Michael and his wife Anna came to stay for a few days in March. Michael, tall and forty, resembled John in his youth, but was gentler. Anna was lovely, easy to talk to. They brought a jar of honey and Quality Street.
Dinner the first night was a real spread: roast potatoes, herring under a fur coat Marys nod to the familys odd Anglo-Russian traditions and a proper pork pie, made from her mothers recipe. John was quiet at the table, contributed little. Michael chatted about work, the kids; Anna asked about Marys new classes.
Youre painting, Mum? Michael was surprised.
Learning. Watercolours.
Thats brilliant! Will you show us?
She brought out her paintings: the apple, some flowers in a jug, the library view. Michael examined them with deep interest; Anna said they were lovely.
Mum, you honestly look ten years younger.
Just finally got to the hairdresser, said Mary.
She noticed Michael glancing at his dad. John ate his pork pie in silence. There was tension there, but Michael didnt ask.
The next day, while Anna popped out to the shops, Michael joined Mary in the kitchen as she rolled out pastry.
Mum. Is everything all right?
What makes you say that?
Well… Dad seems flat. Is he not well?
Struggling with his blood pressure. He saw the doctor, got more tablets. He looks after it himself, hes a grown-up.
Michael was quiet, kneading a ball of dough.
So youre not fighting?
No, Mary said honestly. They werent. They simply lived in parallel, under one roof.
Mum, if you ever need anything…
Im fine, Michael. Truly.
And she was. That was the strange thing she truly was.
They left on Sunday. The flat was quiet again. Mary cleared away the dishes, wiped the counter. John watched TV.
Late that evening he came into the kitchen for water, stood at the window.
Michaels doing well, he said.
Yes, he is.
And the kids…
Yes.
He finished his water, left. Mary stood looking out at the streetlamps, faint flakes of late snow spinning through the dark.
April arrived, and John had a hypertensive episode. Nothing dramatic enough for 999, but enough to panic him: he rose one morning and collapsed onto the hallway floor.
Mary. Im not feeling right.
She came out, looked at him, red-faced, sweating, slumped against the wall.
Come on, lets get you to bed, she said.
Helped him back to the bedroom. Took his blood pressure with the monitor: 185 over 110. Not good.
Take your ACE inhibitor, the one in the drawer, she told him. Lie down, stay put. Ill check again in half an hour.
Where are you going?
Kitchen.
She went to boil the kettle. Listened for his movements. After an hour, the pressure was down to 160 over 95. Passable.
Stay in bed today, she said. Dont even think about going out.
Ive got work…
Call in sick. Youre staying put.
He obeyed. She brought him tea and a few crackers. Not because he asked. Just because theres a difference between not waiting on someone and leaving someone to suffer.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling.
Mary, he spoke after a long silence.
Yes?
I He trailed off, then said something unexpected: Ive been acting like an idiot these last months.
She didnt reply right away, but sat on the edge of the bed.
Yes, John, she said quietly. You have.
Well He stared at the ceiling. It was that promotion. Gave me ideas. Felt like Id made it. Thought things ought to be different.
You did make it. Head of department.
Right. Silence. And youre still here, as you always were He fumbled for words.
I know what youre trying to say, she replied gently.
She stood, took his mug, went to the kitchen. It wasnt a reconciliation, nor an ending. No hugs, no tears, no grand declarations. He said idiot, she agreed. That was that.
April drifted into May. Mary kept on with her classes and walks. Nina invited her to the theatre; Mary hadnt been in a decade. They bought tickets to a play in the city theatre, sat in the stalls with orange squash from the bar, watching actors throw themselves into other peoples dramas.
She was fifty-six and finally saw: this wasnt an ending, it was something altogether new.
With John, they continued their parallel lives. He stopped critiquing her meals, no more digs about Simmonss wife. Sometimes they had civil chats about everyday things. Sometimes they sat in the same room: he with his TV, she with a novel Nina recommended. It was peaceful, almost normal, except for one crucial thing Mary no longer felt obliged by anything.
Once, he asked her to order his medication online, because its cheaper.
I dont know how, he said. Youd manage.
John, its simple. Type in the name, add to basket, choose the branch for collection.
You just do it better.
I can. But you can learn.
He did. Spent ages on the phone, called her over once for help, she explained. He placed his own order.
That, too, mattered: not doing for someone what they could do themselves. She saw now: shed thought helping meant handling everything. It wasnt help. It was replacing somebody erasing her own needs.
June turned hot. She bought a new summer dress, light, floral tried it on at home, looked in the mirror. Not a country granny at all: just a woman in a flowery dress.
Older couples, she now understood, all found their own peace. Some fought, some got on beautifully, some ignored each other. She and John had found a fourth way: not war, not peace, certainly not indifference. Something where each functioned alone, still sharing a roof.
What the future held was uncertain. Sometimes she thought about Jeans question divorce? She didnt reject it, but she wasnt in a hurry. Shed understand herself first. Then decide.
Summer flowed by. She went for a fortnight to Birmingham, to Michaels her first time travelling alone in years; John said he had work, so she went solo. She made a pillow for her granddaughter, a new skill picked up online. Two weeks with Michael, Anna, and the children six-year-old Stephen and four-year-old Maisie it was the best fortnight in ages: walks, porridge breakfasts, bathtimes, reading bedtime stories. This was care, but the joyful kind, not draining, or obligatory.
Michael would ask after her happiness how she was, how things were at home. She answered honestly. He didnt offer advice. Good lad, she thought.
She came home tanned, lighter, relaxed. John met her in the hallway: Home, then. He took her bag. It was something, at least.
August was muggy. She bought a small fan for the bedroom, splurged on a big watermelon in the market ate half herself, the rest she gave to John. He said thank you, for the first time in ages.
In September, when mornings turned crisp and yellow leaves scudded across the pavements, the inevitable happened.
Friday evening, John came home around eight. His face was pallid, movements careful. Mary sat in the kitchen with her book.
Mary, he called from the doorway. I dont feel good.
Whats wrong?
My blood pressure, I suppose. My head, and here, he tapped his chest feels tight.
She looked at him, took in the grey face, frightened eyes, hand clutching his shirt.
How long?
Since lunch, I think. Hoped itd go.
Did you take a tablet?
At three. Didnt do much.
Sit down.
He perched at the table. She took his pressure: 190 over 115. Worse than last time.
John, she said, this is serious. You need an ambulance.
Nah, no need. Maybe just another tablet…
No. 190, pain in your chest? Thats not going away with a pill. You need a doctor.
You can you ring for me…?
She stopped. Stood with the monitor in hand, looking at him.
She saw everything the washed-out face, the fear, the hand pressed to his chest. She felt for him: real pity. He was not a well man, and he was scared. No malice about it.
But she also saw something else: that for this whole year, he hadnt really seen her at all. Hed said words that cant be unsaid. She had stopped being a person to him long before she stopped being his servant.
And she knew what she would and would not do.
John, she said, steady, you have your phone. You know the number.
He stared at her.
What?
Call the ambulance yourself. Dial 999. Give them the address, explain chest pain, high pressure. Theyll come.
Mary… his voice was scared, childlike. Wont you help…?
I have helped: took your blood pressure, told you whats needed. The rest is up to you.
But I…
John. She set the monitor down. You can do this. Youre a grown man. You run a department. Youll manage.
She left the kitchen, walked to the sitting room, quietly closed the door. Not slamming, not locking just closed.
After a while, came his voice from the kitchen, soft, trembling:
Hello? Yes, ambulance please. The address is…
She poured herself a cup of chamomile tea. Walked through to the kitchen quietly as he finished talking to the dispatcher. He glanced at her. She stood by the window gazing out at the damp, empty street below, lit by the dim glow of streetlamps. The plane trees had lost most of their leaves, pavement littered with wet yellow.
He finished the call, silence fell.
Theyre coming, he said.
Good, she replied.
Will you will you come with me to the hospital?
She turned away from the window. Saw the fear, the pain, the helplessness. Real pity burned in her.
No, John, she said gently. I wont. The doctors will look after you.
Mary…
The ambulance will come. Thats their job.
She took her tea, went to the sitting room, quietly closing the door behind her. Sat by the window, gazing outward seeing another window opposite, the plane tree below it, the glow of distant flats.
She heard sounds from the kitchen: movement, unfamiliar voices clear, quick, businesslike. Snatches of conversation: pressure, ECG, best we take you in. His shuffling apologies, like a schoolboy.
A voice: Your wife at home?
His: Yes. But she… shes not coming.
A pause, then the paramedics calm, nonjudgmental answer: All right. Coat on, lets be off.
Door. Lift. Silence.
That was the night I finally realised: sometimes, a marriage ends long before the paperwork does. In serving someone endlessly, you disappear, and its up to you to find yourself again. Help when you can but only as much as is fair; never more than is right for you. No matter how many years pass, its never too late to look in the mirror, rediscover that you are not just someones wife and you never have to be, not only that, again.
