14May2025
Today I reflected on how ordinary my life has become, and how that very ordinariness feels both comforting and suffocating. I grew up in a small town near the Midlands, walking the same worndown lane that seemed to stretch forever, keeping my head down because I could never see any real reason to stick my neck out. My looks were never strikingjust average, a blend of my parents traits.
My husband, Ian, often jokes that there is nothing remarkable about me. He never noticed, or perhaps never cared to notice, any hint of beauty in me; he has long ceased to look for it. When I was a student at the university in Leeds, I was once considered one of the prettiest girls thereslim, sweetfaced, with a delicate bone structure. My mother, Agnes, came from a hardworking farming family in Norfolk; she was sturdy, a little rough around the edges, the sort of woman who inherited a sturdy constitution from generations of field labourers. Yet my father, Frederick, came from a line of engineers and scholars, universityeducated and wellread. Their influence gave me a slightly different shape: a finer nose than my mothers, shoulders that do not flare out, and legs that are more suited to city streets than to mudcapped boots.
Thus, I emerged as a quiet, somewhat shy girl with a decent educationsomething my parents were proud of. My grandmother Agnes used to chide me mercilessly, Raise a respectable daughter and dont let her waste away! She would sit at the kitchen table, tapping the tablecloth, spilling gossip about the village, the harvest, the neighbours, before calling me out from behind the glass pane of the kitchen door. I would step out, hesitant, glancing at her disapproving eyes. Frederick would retreat to his study whenever Agnes began her tirade, preferring the quiet of his desk to the clatter of her kitchen.
When I was three, I fell seriously ill with pneumonia. The doctors said I might not recover, and my mother, Olivia, who had been caring for my newborn brother, stayed by my side day and night. Aunt Anne (my mothers sister) came from London with a thick woollen coat and took me to the towns infirmary. That night, Ian shouted that I should not have been allowed out of the house, but Olivia soothed him down. With proper care and a good diet, I recovered quickly, clutching my mothers hand and feeling an overwhelming gratitude that I could not quite articulate.
Agnes possessed a fierce, unyielding spirit; she seemed to strike at whatever I feared to think about. Ian never liked her, perhaps because she reminded him of the relentless expectations of his own mother. What have I done for you? she would lament loudly, handing me a piece of dark chocolate and demanding I take a bite. Olivia would intervene, Ian doesnt allow sweets before dinner; its not our custom. The word custom made Agnes blush, and the whole room fell into an uneasy silence. I learned to keep my head down, to be the quiet one at gatherings, always nodding, never speaking out of turn.
Over time, Agnes grew weary of staying at Ians parents house. After a few heated arguments she stopped visiting, only calling when Ian was away, listening to the long, echoing ring before sighing and hanging up. How are you, dear? she would whisper, wiping away tears with a handkerchief. I would assure her that things were finestudying at university, a day off, my mother at the clinic, my father at workwhile inside I felt the world was a rigid set of rules, a little stage upon which I performed my part.
My father, Frederick, was the patriarchintelligent, welleducated, proud of his academic achievements. My mother, Olivia, remained simple, forever chewing sunflower seeds and spitting the shells into a cup, a habit that annoyed Frederick until he forced her onto the balcony for proper behaviour. He waved his hand and shouted, Sit there if you cant understand why its disgusting! She would sit in her thin housecoat, sighing, while he praised my brother for bringing her into the city from the countryside, for giving me a proper upbringing.
Olivia met Frederick at a dance in the local park; love sparked, and soon a childmewas born. Their families were skeptical at first, but they eventually saw the merger of city intellect and rural grit as something noble. I followed my mothers path, graduating from university and becoming a teacher, though I never actually worked, just like Olivia. Ian, though less cultured than Frederick, was still from a respectable background, though his peers were now the flashy mods of the late sixties, not the engineers my father once knew.
Ian never cared for ostentatious clothing; he read the classics, pondered philosophy, and always seemed to have a plan. Frederick had known him from a research project and approved the marriage, seeing Ian as a diligent, modest man. I moved into Ians threebedroom flat with his parents, whose own children had long since emigrated to Australia or Canada. Their mother, Margaret, handed over the household duties to me, insisting we should not both try to run the kitchen.
The flat was cramped, its walls lined with dark wood panels, piles of sheets, towels, mismatched crockery, and countless shards of cheap glassware. The curtains were heavy, the windows always drawn, as if to hide the world outside. I thought of repainting, buying new curtains, but it would cost more than Ian could afford. He seemed content, preferring to save every penny. He would fry an egg in his old slippers on Saturday mornings, refusing to spend on anything unnecessary. I would rush to the kitchen, eyes wide, wondering whether he would be home all day or out somewhere. Most weekends we stayed in; he never took me to the theatre or cinema, insisting we must be frugal.
At first I thought his stinginess was simply prudence, a sign of a responsible husband. Ian believed that a man should decide everything, and a wife should acquiescejust as my mother had done all her life. He was a gentleman of the working class, his parents having modest jobs, but his ambition was to become a lecturer in his late thirties. He talked endlessly about his unfinished dissertation, about renovating the garden shed, about restructuring our finances.
One evening, after a heated argument about money, Ian demanded I stop eating, We must cut back. He muttered something about no more sweets before tea. I felt a knot in my stomach and, in a moment of panic, vomited onto his lap. He snapped, shouted at me to leave the kitchen, and I fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. When I emerged, the flat was silent; his coat and boots were gone, as were the notes he kept in his drawer. I searched the whole house, but he had vanished.
I tried to call my parents, but the locks had been changed long ago; I could not get in. I was too ashamed to call my friends, fearing they would judge my failed marriage. Everyone thought we had a perfect life; I had always told them so. I felt lost, as if a wall had closed in around me.
Then, in the quiet of the garden, Agnes (now visiting from the countryside) sat on the swing, her spectacles perched on her nose, reading the local paper. She frowned, then smiled, then chuckled. I watched her for a few minutes before joining her on the swing. In that brief moment I felt like a small child again, being fed berries and cheese by a loving grandmother, hearing bedtime stories, dreaming of a world where everything is simple and safe. Tears flooded my eyes.
Are you all right, dear? Agnes asked, noticing my tears. I whispered that my mother had always praised Ian, calling him good and honest. Mothers dont know everything, I replied, shaking my head. You hide things, you keep secrets. I tried to raise you proud, to teach you your worth, but you slipped away from me. Agnes tried to comfort me, but the words felt like a cold wind.
She pointed to a young man, Sam, who was walking past, broadshouldered in a plain check shirt. Sam isnt a professor, but hell treat you better than your Ian, she said. He has a good heart, sings a lovely song when hes happy. I didnt know what to say.
Later that night, after the house had emptied, I sat at the kitchen table, my wedding bandthin, cheap, bought on a whimlying on the cloth. I slipped it off my swollen finger, closed my eyes, and imagined myself as a little girl drinking warm milk, safe in my grandmothers lap. The thought gave me a fleeting peace.
A few weeks later, Ian returned, looking tired from endless work calls, his face creased with fatigue. He knocked on the garden gate, looking around as if everything had changed. The greenhouse was in the wrong spot, the vegetable rows were misaligned, a light flickered on the porch, casting an angry glow. He shouted, Nora! Pack your things, were leaving! A stout voice from the doorway called, Did you get dusty on your travels? I answered, Call my wife, and the voice replied, Shes sleeping, shell stay here for a while. I felt a surge of anger and said, Give me back my ring! I bought it myself! Agnes tossed the ring onto the path; it rolled into the grass. I fell to my knees, searched frantically, and finally held it, feeling both triumph and humiliation.
We divorced quietly. Ian helped me load my few belongings into a cab, telling nosy neighbours it was a temporary separation for the sake of the child. After he left, I sat alone at the kitchen table, poured a measure of whisky mixed with watermy fathers old remedyand turned the television on, watching a weather forecast that seemed as false as the promises wed made.
Months later I gave birth to a thin boy named Harry, just as Agnes had predictedtall and lanky. Olivia, my mother, sat with him while I was at work; Frederick, now retired, would bring Harry tiny wooden soldiers and toy cars. Hes only six months old, I laughed, look at all these things! Frederick would smile, Buy more later; youll thank me. The house filled with a strange new energy, as if Harrys arrival had turned the page.
Our family, now three generationsAgnes, Olivia, and medrank tea together, each of us carrying the weight of our stories, hoping that, as long as we were alive, we could keep each other afloat. The world remains a mix of expectations, debts, and love, but perhaps that is enough. I will keep writing, keep trying, and hope that one day the pieces will finally fit.
