**Seven Reasons to Leave**
“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” Margaret flung the dishcloth into the sink, water splattering across the counter. “I can’t do this anymore! Do you hear me, William? I can’t!”
Her husband barely glanced up from his newspaper, his face tightening in annoyance.
“What’s the matter now? Nerves acting up? Have some chamomile tea.”
“Chamomile tea!” she mocked, planting her hands on her hips. “Thirty years of the same rubbish! ‘Have some tea, Margaret. Don’t shout, Margaret. Where’s dinner, Margaret?’ Am I just your housemaid? Do you even see me as a person?”
William folded the paper with deliberate slowness and sighed. Retired women always lost their minds, he thought. Too much free time to invent problems.
“Margaret Elizabeth,” he said in that infuriatingly formal tone, “explain yourself properly. What’s wrong?”
“What’s *wrong*?” She let out a brittle laugh. “Nothing’s *wrong*, William. I’ve just realized something. Too late, maybe, but I’ve realized it.”
She dried her hands on her apron, untied it, and hung it carefully on the hook. Her movements were slow, deliberate. William felt a prickle of unease—this was how she behaved when she’d made up her mind about something serious.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” He reached for the paper again. “Tea first, maybe? You promised roast for dinner—”
“Roast,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Of course, the roast. Tell me, William—when was the last time I did something for *myself*? Not for you, not for the kids, not for the grandchildren. For *me*?”
William floundered. Questions like this always left him stumped. Why would she need something for herself? She had a family, a home, responsibilities.
“I don’t follow.”
“No,” she said softly. “You never did. Do you remember how we met?”
“At the dance hall in Croydon,” he answered automatically.
“Yes. I was nineteen. I wanted to go to university—study literature. Remember?”
He vaguely recalled something about it, but it had seemed like girlish nonsense at the time. What did a woman need with higher education when she could marry well?
“I remember. So?”
“So I didn’t go. Because you said, ‘Why waste time studying when we’ll be married? Children will come, you’ll have a home to manage.’ And I listened. *First reason*.”
She walked to the window, staring at the neighbor’s children playing football in the yard. The same golden sunlight had poured through the glass that day, too, when she first thought, *My life is passing me by.*
“Then Emily was born,” she continued without turning. “I wanted to work when she turned one. The library—you know I loved books. But you said, ‘Don’t be daft. Who’ll look after the baby? Stay home, be a mother.'”
“Bloody right I did!” William snapped. “A child needs her mother!”
“*Second reason*,” Margaret said quietly. “Then James came. Then your mother moved in, remember? Ill, frail. Who nursed her? Who washed her sheets, bought her medicine, took her to the doctor?”
“You did. But that’s normal—men have jobs—”
“*Third reason.*” She turned, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. “And when *I* fell ill? That chest infection?”
William scratched his head. He dimly recalled her being unwell, but work had been mad—the factory, the overtime demands…
“Course I remember.”
“Who looked after me when my fever hit forty? Who called the doctor? Who fetched my medicine?”
The silence stretched. He remembered: he’d peeked into the bedroom now and then, asked how she was, then left to watch telly. She’d managed alone.
“I did,” she answered for him. “Dragged myself to the chemist. Called the GP. You didn’t even bring me tea. *Fourth reason.*”
She sat across from him, spine straight, hands folded. For the first time, William noticed how thin she’d grown. How much greyer her hair was. When had that happened?
“Go on,” he murmured.
“Then the grandchildren. Emily’s Sophie, James’ little Tom. Where did they go when their parents worked? To me. Who helped with homework, fed them, walked them to school?”
“Well… that’s what grandmothers do.”
“Grandmothers. Right. And where were the *grandfathers*?” Her smile was razor-thin. “In the pub with mates. Fishing. Watching telly. ‘I’ve worked all my life—now I’ll rest.’ *Fifth reason.*”
William shifted in his chair. This was veering into dangerous territory.
“Margaret, enough. What’s your point?”
“No point. Just explaining.” She rose, poured two glasses of homemade lemonade from the fridge. “Thirsty?”
He drank as she continued:
“*Sixth reason’s* simple. You don’t see me, William. At all. I’m standing here, and you look right through me. You don’t know my favourite dress, can’t recall my birthday without prompting. You’ve no idea what I read, what I fear. To you, I’m part of the furniture. Convenient. Invisible.”
“Margaret, that’s rubbish! We’ve lived together thirty years—”
“Lived. *Next to* each other. Not *with* you. Did you know I’ve been in a book club six months?”
William blinked. *What* book club? She was always home, cooking, cleaning—
“No,” he admitted.
“Exactly. Every Thursday. And for the first time in decades, people *listen* to me. Care what I think. Call me *Margaret*—not *Mum*, not *Gran*.”
She drained her glass.
“*Seventh reason*, William. The biggest one. I’m tired of being miserable. Bone-tired. Every morning, I wake up and think: *This day again. This life. More cooking, washing, cleaning. Your face if dinner’s late. The silence at the table. The loneliness in my own home.*”
Something tightened in William’s chest. Had it really been so bad? He wasn’t a monster—just a normal bloke. Worked hard, didn’t drink, didn’t cheat—
“Don’t be dramatic, Margaret. We’ve a good life. Home, grown kids, grandkids—”
“*Good*,” she echoed. “That’s the tragedy, William. *Good* means feeling *nothing*. No joy, no sorrow. Just existing. I’m sixty-two. And I want to *live* before it’s too late.”
She opened the hall closet, pulled out a small suitcase. William’s blood ran cold.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. To my sister’s in Bristol. She’s been asking for years. Says there’s a writers’ group at the community centre. Maybe I’ll read poetry, try my hand at stories.” She folded a blouse neatly. “Might be rubbish, but I’d like to try. God knows, I’ve things to say.”
“And me?” His voice cracked. “The house? The kids?”
“You’ll manage. Learn to fry eggs, iron shirts. The grandkids will grow without me. The house—” she glanced around, “—won’t vanish.”
He stood, reaching for her. For the first time in decades, words failed him.
“Margaret, let’s talk. We’ll fix—”
“Fix *what*?” She met his eyes, no anger left—only exhaustion and something like relief. “Your character at sixty-eight? Your habits? No, love. Too late.”
“But we loved each other once.”
“Once. Then you stopped seeing me, and I stopped respecting myself. What’s left? Duty. Fear of being alone.”
She snapped the suitcase shut.
“Dinner’s in the fridge. Roast, how you like it. Just heat it up.”
He stood frozen on the doorstep, watching her taxi disappear down the lane. The house behind him yawned, vast and hollow.
That night, he ate cold roast beef in front of the telly, the news murmuring unheard. Seven reasons. Each one true.
The next day, Mrs. Thompson from next door popped over.
“William, where’s Margaret? Haven’t seen her.”
“Gone. To Bristol. For good.”
Mrs. Thompson perched on a stool, shaking her head.
“Oh, William. And here I envied her. Good husband, lovely home. Turns out she was miserable.”
“Was she?” He stared at his hands. “I never knew.”
“Men rarely do,” she sighed. “Full belly, warm hearth—that’s enough for you. But women need their souls fed too. Kindness. Attention.”
After she left, William wandered through theAnd years later, sitting on a park bench in Bristol, watching Margaret read aloud to their great-grandchildren—her silver hair catching the sunlight, her laughter rich and unburdened—William finally understood that true love was never about possession, but the quiet, daily choice to see, and cherish, the person standing right beside you.
