“That’s it! I’ve had enough!” Margaret flung the dishcloth into the sink, sending water droplets spraying across the kitchen. “I can’t do this anymore! Do you hear me, Edward? I can’t!”
Her husband lowered his newspaper with a weary frown.
“Another one of your moods? Drink some chamomile tea and calm down.”
“Chamomile tea!” she mocked, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Thirty years of the same thing! ‘Have some tea, Maggie. Don’t shout, Maggie. Where’s supper, Maggie?’ Am I just some housemaid to you?”
Edward folded the paper with deliberate slowness and sighed. Women got like this when they retired, he thought. Too much time to invent problems.
“Margaret Elizabeth,” he said, deliberately formal, “what’s the matter? Spit it out properly.”
“What’s the matter?” Her laugh was brittle, frayed at the edges. “Nothing’s the matter, Eddie. I’ve just realised something. A bit late, but here we are.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, untying it with slow, deliberate movements. Edward stiffened. He knew this quiet precision—it meant she’d made a decision.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” He reached for the paper again. “Let’s have tea instead. You promised shepherd’s pie for supper—”
“Shepherd’s pie,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Of course. Tell me, Eddie—when was the last time I did something just for me? Not for you, not for the children, not for the grandchildren. For me?”
Edward blinked. Questions like this always left him stranded. Why would anyone need something just for themselves when there was family, duty, a home to tend?
“I don’t follow.”
“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “You never have. Remember how we met?”
“Dance at the town hall,” he answered automatically.
“Yes. I was nineteen. Wanted to study literature at university. Remember?”
Edward vaguely recalled some girlish chatter about it, but it had seemed silly at the time. Why bother with higher education when a good marriage was the sensible path?
“Suppose so. What of it?”
“I didn’t go. Because you said, ‘Why waste time studying when we’ll marry? Children’ll come, a home to manage.’ And I listened. First reason.”
She walked to the window, watching the neighbour’s children kick a football in the yard. The sunlight was just like the day she first realised life was slipping past her.
“Then Charlotte was born,” she continued, back still turned. “I wanted to work when she turned one—the local library. Always loved books. You said, ‘Don’t be daft. Who’ll mind the baby? Stay home where you belong.’”
“Quite right too!” Edward bristled. “A child needs its mother!”
“Quite right,” she echoed. “Second reason. Then James came along. Then your mother moved in, remember? Ill, frail. Who nursed her? Who washed her sheets, fetched her medicine, took her to the doctor?”
“You did. But that’s women’s work—”
“Women’s work. Third reason.” She faced him then, studying him like a stranger. “When I fell ill—remember the pneumonia?”
Edward scratched his head. A dim recollection—yes, she’d been poorly, but he’d been swamped at the factory, deadlines looming…
“Course I remember.”
“Who looked after me with a fever near forty? Who called the doctor? Who fetched the medicine?”
Silence thickened. Edward remembered now—he’d barely glanced into the bedroom, asked if she needed anything, then retreated to the telly. She’d managed alone.
“I did,” Margaret answered for him. “Dragged myself to the chemist, rang the GP. You couldn’t even bring me tea. Fourth reason.”
She sat across from him, spine straight, hands folded. Edward noticed suddenly how thin she’d grown. More grey in her hair, too. When had that happened?
“What else?” he asked quietly.
“Then the grandchildren. Charlotte’s Emily, James’s Oliver. Where’d they go when their parents worked? To me. Who helped with schoolwork, fed them, walked them to class?”
“Well… that’s what grandmothers do.”
“Grandmothers. Right. And where were the grandfathers?” She gave a wry smile. “In the shed with mates. Or fishing. Or glued to the telly. ‘I’ve worked all my life—now I’ll rest.’ Fifth reason.”
Edward shifted uncomfortably. This was veering into dangerous territory.
“Maggie, enough. What’s your point?”
“No point. Just explaining.” She rose, fetched a jug of lemonade from the fridge. “Thirsty?”
“A bit.”
She poured two glasses, slid one to him. He drank as she continued:
“Sixth reason’s simple. You don’t see me, Eddie. Not really. I’m standing here, but you look right through me. You don’t know my favourite dress, can’t recall my birthday without prompting. Never ask what I think, or read, or fear. To you, I’m just… part of the furniture. Convenient. Unnoticed.”
“Rubbish! Of course I see you! Thirty years together—”
“Together,” she nodded. “Side by side. But not with each other. Did you know I’ve been in an amateur drama group six months?”
Edward gaped. Since when? She was always home, tending the house…
“Didn’t notice,” he admitted.
“Exactly. Every Tuesday. And d’you know what? There are people there who listen. Care what I think. Remember my name—not ‘Mum’ or ‘Gran’ or ‘the wife.’ Margaret.”
She drained her glass, set it down.
“Seventh reason, Eddie. The big one. I’m tired of being unhappy. Bone-tired. Every morning, I wake and think—another day, another year of cooking, cleaning, waiting. Another evening of your scowling if supper’s late. Another silent meal. Another night alone in my own home.”
A cold weight settled in Edward’s chest. Was it really so bleak? He wasn’t a monster—just an ordinary bloke. Worked hard, provided, never drank or strayed…
“Margaret, don’t overstate it. We’ve a decent life. Home, grown children, grandkids—”
“Decent,” she repeated. “That’s the trouble, Eddie. ‘Decent’ means feeling nothing. No joy, no sorrow. Just… existing. I’m sixty-two. I want to live before it’s too late.”
She opened the wardrobe, lifted out a small suitcase. Edward went cold.
“What’re you doing?”
“Leaving. To Lydia’s in Bristol. She’s asked for years. They’ve a writers’ group at the community centre. We’ll read poems, try stories. Might be rubbish at it, but I’d like to try. Got plenty to say, after all.”
“And me?” Edward’s voice cracked. “The house? The grandkids?”
“You’ll manage. Learn to fry an egg, iron a shirt. The children grew without me. The house—” she glanced around, “—won’t vanish.”
He stood, approached her. For the first time in decades, words failed him.
“Maggie, let’s talk. Sort something. Maybe I can change—”
“Change what, Eddie?” She paused, studying him with something like pity. “Your nature at sixty-eight? Your habits? The way you see the world? No, love. 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 being alone.”
She closed the case, met his gaze—not angry, just weary, almost relieved.
“I’m not leaving you, Eddie. I’m going to find myself. The Margaret who wanted to learn, work, create. Who used to laugh and dream. Maybe she’s still there.”
“What if she’s not?”
“What if she is?” She took the case, moved to the door. “Supper’s in the fridge. Shepherd’s pie, how you like it. Just heat it.”
He watched from the doorstep as the taxi pulled away, the house behind him suddenly vast and hollow.
That evening, he ate cold pie with the telly droning, replaying the seven reasons. Each one bitter, inarguably true.
Next morning, Mrs. Thompson from next door popped in.
“Edward, where’s Margaret? Not seen her about.”
“Gone,” he muttered.
“Gone where? Visiting the little ones?”
“To Lydia’s. Bristol. For good.”
Mrs. Thompson sank onto a stool, shaking her head.
“Oh, Edward. I always envied her. Husband who doesn’t drink, lovely home. Turns out she was miserable.”
“Miserable,” he echoed. “Never knew.”
“Men rarely do,” she sighed. “The following spring, under the cherry blossoms in the Bristol park where Lydia lived, Edward handed Margaret a single daffodil and asked if she’d teach him how to read poetry, and she smiled in a way he hadn’t seen in thirty years.
