“Seven Reasons to Leave”
“Enough! I can’t take it anymore!” Margaret flung the cleaning cloth into the sink, sending water splashing across the kitchen. “Do you hear me, Arthur? I can’t go on like this!”
Her husband glanced up from his newspaper with a frown.
“What’s gotten into you now? Stressed again? Have some chamomile tea.”
“Chamomile tea!” she mocked, planting her hands on her hips. “Thirty years of the same thing! ‘Have some tea, Margaret. Don’t shout, Margaret. Where’s dinner, Margaret?’ Am I just your housekeeper?”
Arthur folded the paper with a sigh. Women always lost their minds after retirement, he thought. No work to occupy them, and suddenly they imagined problems where there were none.
“Margaret Elizabeth,” he said, deliberately formal, “what’s the matter? Explain yourself properly.”
“The matter?” She laughed, a brittle sound. “Nothing’s the matter, Arthur. I’ve just realized something. Too late, perhaps, but I see it now.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, untied it, and hung it neatly on the hook. Her movements were slow, deliberate. Arthur tensed—she only acted like this when she’d made a serious decision.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“Talk about what?” He tried to retreat behind the newspaper. “Shall we have tea instead? You promised sausages for supper…”
“Sausages,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Of course, sausages. Tell me, Arthur—when was the last time I did something for myself? Not for you, not for the children, not for the grandchildren. For me?”
Arthur floundered. Questions like this always left him baffled. Why would she need to do anything for herself when there was a family, a home, responsibilities?
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “You never did. Do you remember how we met?”
“At the village dance,” he answered automatically.
“Yes. I was nineteen. I wanted to study at university—literature. Remember?”
Arthur vaguely recalled something of the sort, but back then, it had seemed like girlish nonsense. Why did a woman need higher education when she could marry well?
“I remember. So?”
“So I never went. Because you said, ‘Why bother studying when we’ll marry? You’ll have children, a home to manage.’ And I listened. That was the first reason.”
Margaret walked to the window, watching the neighbour’s children play ball in the yard. The same golden sunshine had warmed the day she first realized life was passing her by.
“Then Elizabeth was born,” she continued, back still turned. “I wanted to return to work when she turned one. At the library. I’ve always loved books. But you said, ‘Don’t be absurd. Who’ll look after the child? Stay home, be a mother.'”
“And rightly so!” Arthur bristled. “A child needs her mother!”
“Rightly so. The second reason. Then James came. Then your mother moved in, remember? Sick, frail. And who cared for her? Who washed her clothes, bought her medicine, took her to the doctor?”
“You did. But that’s natural—a man must work…”
“Natural. The third reason.” She turned, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. “And when I fell ill? Remember my pneumonia?”
Arthur scratched his head. He dimly recalled her being unwell, but he’d been busy—a rush order at the factory, the foreman breathing down his neck…
“I remember, of course.”
“Who looked after me when my fever raged? Who called the doctor? Who fetched my medicine?”
Silence stretched. Arthur remembered now—he’d only peeked into the bedroom occasionally, asked how she was, then retreated to the telly. She’d managed alone.
“I did,” Margaret answered for him. “Dragged myself to the chemist, rang the doctor myself. You didn’t even bring me tea. The fourth reason.”
She sat across from him, hands folded, spine straight. Arthur suddenly noticed she’d lost weight. More silver threaded her hair. When had that happened?
“What else?” he asked quietly.
“The grandchildren came. Elizabeth’s little Henry, James’s Oliver. And who minded them while their parents worked? Me. Who helped with lessons, fed them, walked them to school?”
“Well… that’s what grandmothers do.”
“Grandmothers. Yes. And where were the grandfathers?” She smirked. “In the pub with friends. Or fishing. Or watching telly. Because, ‘I’ve worked all my life—now I’ll rest.’ The fifth reason.”
Arthur shifted uncomfortably. This was taking a dangerous turn.
“Margaret, enough. What are you trying to prove?”
“Nothing. Just explaining.” She rose, fetched a jar of stewed apples from the cupboard. “Would you like some?”
“Yes.”
She poured two glasses, set one before him. As he drank, she continued:
“The sixth reason is simple. You don’t see me, Arthur. Not really. Here I stand before you, but you look without seeing. You don’t know my favourite dress, can’t recall my birthday without prompting. You’ve no idea what I think, what I read, what frightens me. To you, I’m part of the furniture. Comfortable, familiar, invisible.”
“Margaret, what nonsense! Of course I see you! We’ve lived together thirty years…”
“Lived,” she nodded. “Alongside each other. Not together. Did you know I’ve been attending a theatre group for six months?”
Arthur gaped. What group? She’d always been home, tending the house…
“No,” he admitted.
“Exactly. But I go. Every Wednesday. And you know what? There are people there who listen. Who care what I think. Who remember my name—not ‘Mum’ or ‘Gran’ or ‘wife.’ Margaret.”
She drained her glass, set it down.
“And the seventh reason, Arthur. The most important. I’m tired of being unhappy. Dreadfully tired. Every morning I wake and think: another day, the same life. More cooking, washing, cleaning. More of your scowling if supper’s late. More silence at the table. More loneliness in my own home.”
A weight settled in Arthur’s chest. Was it truly so bad? He wasn’t a monster—just an ordinary bloke. Worked hard, provided, never drank nor strayed…
“Margaret, don’t exaggerate. We’ve a good life. Home, grown children, grandchildren…”
“Good,” she echoed. “That’s the problem, Arthur. ‘Good’ means feeling nothing. No joy, no sorrow. Just existing. I’m sixty-two. I want to live before it’s too late.”
She went to the wardrobe, pulled out a small suitcase. Arthur went cold.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. To my sister’s in Bath. She’s been asking me. Says there’s a writing circle at the community centre. We’ll read poetry, write stories. Maybe I’m no writer, but I’d like to try. Heaven knows, I’ve things to say.”
“And me?” he asked hoarsely. “The house? The grandchildren?”
“You’ll learn to manage. Frying sausages, ironing shirts. The grandchildren will grow without me. And the house…” She glanced around, “The house won’t vanish.”
Arthur stood, approached her. For the first time in years, words failed him.
“Margaret, let’s talk. We’ll sort something. Maybe I can change…”
“What will you change, Arthur?” She paused, regarding him sadly. “Your nature at sixty-eight? Your habits? Your outlook? No, dear. It’s 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, met his eyes. No anger there—just weariness, and something like relief.
“I’m not abandoning you, Arthur. I’m leaving. To find myself. The Margaret who wanted to learn, work, create. Who knew how 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. Sausages, how you like them. Just heat them.”
Arthur watched from the doorstep as she climbed into the cab. The car vanished round the bend, yet he stood frozen, the house suddenly vast and hollow behind him.
That evening, he ate cold sausages at the kitchen table. The telly blathered news he didn’t hear. He thought of Margaret’s seven reasons, admitting each was true—bitter, ugly, but true.
Next morning, Mrs. Wilkins from next door called.
“Arthur, where’s Margaret? Haven’t seen her.”
“Gone,” he said curtly.
“Gone where? Visiting the grandchildren?”
“To her sister’s. In Bath. For good.”
Mrs. WilkinsAnd as the years passed, they learned to meet in the middle—not as husband and wife bound by duty, but as two souls who had rediscovered each other, weathered but wiser, finding warmth in the quiet understanding that love, even late-blossoming, could still take root.
