“Enough! I’ve had it!” Patricia flung the dishcloth into the sink so hard that water splashed across the counter. “I can’t take it anymore, Colin! Do you hear me? I just can’t!”
Her husband glanced up from his newspaper, frowning slightly. “What now? Nerves acting up again? Have some chamomile tea.”
“Chamomile tea!” she mocked, gripping her hips. “Thirty years of the same rubbish! ‘Have some tea, Pat. Don’t make a scene, Pat. Where’s supper, Pat?’ Am I just your housemaid, then?”
Colin folded the paper with deliberate patience. Retirement did this to women, he thought. Once the work stopped, they invented problems for themselves.
“Patricia Anne,” he said, overly formal, “what’s the matter? Speak plainly.”
“The matter?” She let out a brittle laugh. “Nothing’s happened, Colin. Only that I’ve realised something. Too late, perhaps, but I’ve realised.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, unhooked it, and smoothed it onto the peg. Slow, methodical motions. He stiffened—she only moved like that when she’d made up her mind about something serious.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“What about?” He tried returning to his paper. “Why not have a cuppa? You’d promised toad-in-the-hole for supper…”
“Toad-in-the-hole,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Right. And tell me, Colin, when was the last time I did something for myself? Not for you, the children, the grandkids. For me?”
Colin floundered. Questions like this always made him uncomfortable. Why do anything for *yourself* when you had a family, a home, responsibilities?
“I don’t follow.”
“No, you don’t,” Patricia nodded. “Never have. Remember how we met?”
“At the pub dances,” he said automatically.
“Exactly. I was nineteen. Wanted to study literature at university—remember?”
He vaguely recalled something of the sort, but back then it had seemed like girlish nonsense. Why bother with university when you could marry well?
“Vaguely. What of it?”
“I never went. Because you said—why bother, love? We’ll marry soon, start a family. A house to run. So I listened. Reason number one.”
She moved to the window, watching the neighbour’s children kick a football in the street. Just like that sunny afternoon years ago when she first felt life slipping past her.
“Then Sophie was born,” she continued, her back to him. “I wanted to work part-time once she turned one. At the library. Always loved books, you know? But you said—‘Don’t be daft. Who’d mind the baby? Stay home, be a proper mum.’”
“And quite right too!” Colin huffed. “A child needs its mother.”
“Right. Reason number two. Then came Andrew. Then your mum moved in—remember? Ill, frail. And who tended to her? Who washed her sheets, fetched her medicines, took her to the GP?”
“You did. That’s a woman’s duty—”
“Duty. Reason three.” She turned, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. “And when I was ill? Remember when I had pneumonia?”
Colin scratched his head. He dimly recalled her being poorly, but he’d been busy—a rush order at the factory, the foreman breathing down his neck…
“Aye, of course.”
“Who looked after me when the fever spiked? Who rang the doctor? Who fetched the medicine?”
The silence stretched. He remembered then—he’d only popped in now and then, asking if she needed anything before retreating to the telly. She’d managed alone.
“I did,” Patricia answered for him. “Dragged myself to the chemist’s, called the surgery. You couldn’t even fetch me tea. Reason four.”
She sat opposite him, spine straight, hands folded. Colin suddenly noticed she’d lost weight. More grey in her hair. When had that happened?
“Go on, then,” he muttered.
“Then the grandchildren. Sophie’s Emma, Andrew’s Jack. And where did they go when their parents worked? To me. Who helped with schoolwork, fed them, took them to football?”
“Well… that’s what grandmothers do.”
“Grandmothers. Right. And where were the grandfathers?” She smirked. “At the pub with mates. Or fishing. Or glued to the telly. ‘Worked all my life, now I’ll rest.’ Reason five.”
Colin shifted, uneasy. This was veering into dangerous territory.
“Pat, enough. What’s your point?”
“Not making one. Just explaining.” She fetched a jug of elderflower cordial. “Fancy some?”
“Go on.”
She poured two glasses. He drank; she continued.
“Reason six’s simple. You don’t see me, Colin. At all. I’m standing here, and you look but don’t *see*. Don’t know my favourite dress, need a reminder for my birthday. Don’t care what I think, read, fear. To you, I’m part of the furniture. Convenient. Familiar. Invisible.”
“Pat, that’s rubbish! Thirty years together—”
“Together,” she echoed. “Side by side, not *together*. Did you know I’d joined the amateur dramatics group six months ago?”
Colin blinked. What group? She was always home, tending the house…
“No,” he admitted.
“Exactly. Every Thursday. And d’you know what? There are people there who *listen* to me. Who care what I think. Who remember my *name*—not ‘Mum,’ ‘Gran,’ ‘the wife.’ Patricia.”
She drained her glass. “Reason seven—the biggest. I’m tired of being unhappy. Just bone-weary. Every morning I wake and think—another day. Another bowl to wash, shirt to iron, supper to cook. Your face if the roast’s late. Silence at the table. Loneliness in my own home.”
Colin’s chest tightened. Was it truly that bad? He wasn’t a monster—just an ordinary bloke. Worked hard, kept the family fed, never drank nor strayed…
“Pat, don’t overdo it. We’ve a decent life. House, grown kids, grandkids—”
“Decent,” she repeated. “That’s the trouble, Colin. ‘Decent’ 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 cupboard, pulled out a small suitcase. Colin went cold.
“What’re you doing?”
“Leaving. To my sister’s—Chester. She’s been asking. Says there’s a writing group at the community centre. Poems, short stories. Might be rubbish, but I’d like to try.” She began packing. “Got plenty to write about.”
“What about me? The house? The grandkids?”
“You’ll manage. Learning to fry eggs, iron shirts. Grandkids’ll grow without me. The house…” She glanced around, “…is just bricks.”
Colin stood, lost for words.
“Pat, let’s talk. We’ll sort it—”
“Sort what, Colin?” She looked at him sadly. “Change at sixty-eight? Your habits? Your whole way of thinking? Too late, love. Years too late.”
“But we loved each other once.”
“Once. Then you stopped seeing me, and I stopped respecting myself. What’s left of love? Habit. Duty. Fear of loneliness.”
She closed the case. No anger in her eyes—just weary relief.
“I’m not abandoning you. I’m leaving to find *me*. The Patricia who wanted to learn, work, create. Who knew how to laugh and dream. Maybe she’s still there.”
“And if she’s not?”
“Then I’ll have tried.” She lifted the case. “Supper’s in the fridge. Toad-in-the-hole—your favourite. Just warm it up.”
He watched her taxi disappear, standing in the doorway of a house that suddenly felt vast and hollow.
That evening, he ate cold toad-in-the-hole. The telly droned, but he wasn’t listening. Seven reasons. All true. Bitter, uncomfortable truth.
The next day, Mrs. Wilkins from next door popped by.
“Colin, where’s Pat? Haven’t seen her.”
“Gone. To her sister’s. Chester. For good.”
Mrs. Wilkins sat on the stool, shaking her head.
“Blimey. Always envied her—steady husband, lovely home. Turns out she was miserable.”
“Miserable,” Colin repeated. “And I never knew.”
“Men rarely do,” she sighed. “You’re simple creatures. Fed, clothed, telly—sorted. But women need more. Attention. Kindness. Understanding.”
After she left, Colin wandered the house. He noticed Pat’s books on the nightstand—volumes he’d never registered. PoetryHe picked up the phone and dialed her number, his voice trembling as he whispered, “Pat, I was wrong—let me learn to see you, properly this time.”
