**Seven Reasons to Leave**
“Enough! I’ve had it!” Valerie flung the dishcloth into the sink, sending water droplets flying across the kitchen. “I can’t do this anymore, Nicholas! Do you hear me? I just can’t!”
Her husband peered over the top of his newspaper, his face pinched in irritation.
“What’s got into you now? Nerves acting up? Have some chamomile tea.”
“Oh, ‘have some chamomile tea’!” she mimicked, planting her hands on her hips. “Thirty years, and it’s always the same! ‘Val, have some tea. Val, stop shouting. Val, where’s my dinner?’ Am I just the hired help to you?”
Nicholas sighed deeply as he folded his paper. Retirement had turned all women mad, he thought. No work to occupy them, so they went looking for trouble.
“Valerie,” he said with exaggerated formality, “what’s the matter? Explain properly.”
“The matter?” She laughed, but it was brittle. “Nothing, Nick. Absolutely nothing. Except that I’ve finally realised something. A bit late, mind you.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, then carefully unhooked it and hung it up. Her movements were slow, deliberate. Nicholas tensed—this was how Valerie behaved when she’d made up her mind about something serious.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” He tried to retreat behind the paper. “Shall I put the kettle on? You promised shepherd’s pie for dinner—”
“Shepherd’s pie,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Of course. Tell me, Nick—when was the last time I did something for *me*? Not for you, not for the kids, not the grandkids. Just for myself?”
Nicholas faltered. These questions always flummoxed him. Why would anyone need to do things for themselves when there was family, a home, responsibilities?
“I don’t know what you’re on about.”
“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “And you never have. Do you remember how we met?”
“At the pub dance night,” he replied automatically.
“Yes. I was nineteen. I wanted to go to university—English literature, remember?”
Nicholas vaguely recalled something like that, but back then, it had seemed like girlish nonsense. Why would a woman need higher education when she could marry well?
“I remember. So what?”
“So, I never went. Because *you* said, ‘What’s the point when we’re getting married? There’ll be kids, a home to run.’ And I listened. That’s reason number one.”
Valerie walked to the window, watching the neighbour’s children playing football in the yard. It was just as sunny the day she first realised life was passing her by.
“Then Sophie was born,” she continued, her back still turned. “I wanted to go back to work when she turned one. Apply at the library. I’ve always loved books. But you said, ‘Don’t be daft! Who’ll look after the baby? Stay home, be a proper mum.’”
“Bloody right I did!” Nicholas bristled. “A child needs its mother!”
“Exactly. Reason two. Then came Ben. Then your mum moved in—remember? Poor thing, frail as a twig. And who nursed her? Who washed her sheets, fetched her prescriptions, dragged her to doctors’ appointments?”
“You did. But that’s normal—I was working—”
“Normal. Reason three.” She turned and studied him like she was seeing him for the first time. “And when *I* was ill? Remember my pneumonia?”
Nicholas scratched his head. He had a vague memory of her being poorly, but there’d been overtime at the factory, the foreman breathing down his neck…
“Course I remember.”
“Who looked after me when my fever hit forty? Who called the doctor? Who went for medicine?”
Silence stretched. Nicholas remembered now—he’d only popped into the bedroom occasionally, mumbled “How’re you feeling?” then escaped to the telly. She’d managed alone.
“I did it all myself,” Valerie answered for him. “Dragged myself to the chemist, phoned the GP. You didn’t even bring me tea. Reason four.”
She sat at the table, back straight, hands folded. Nicholas suddenly noticed how thin she’d grown. And the grey—so much more of it. When had that happened?
“Go on,” he said quietly.
“Then the grandkids. Sophie’s Lily, Ben’s little Charlie. And where did they end up when their parents were working? With me. Who helped with homework, fed them, walked them to school?”
“Well… that’s what grandmothers do.”
“Grandmothers. Right. And where were the grandfathers? Down the pub with mates. Or fishing. Or glued to the telly. ‘I’ve worked all my life—I deserve a rest.’ Reason five.”
Nicholas shifted uncomfortably. This was heading somewhere unpleasant.
“Val, enough. What’s your point?”
“No point. Just explaining.” She stood and fetched a jar of lemonade from the fridge. “Fancy some?”
“Ta.”
She poured two glasses, sliding one to him. He drank while she continued.
“Reason six is simple. You don’t *see* me, Nick. I could stand right in front of you, and you’d look straight through me. You don’t know my favourite dress. You need reminders for my birthday. You never ask what I think, what I read, what scares me. To you, I’m just part of the furniture. Comfortable. Convenient. Invisible.”
“Val, that’s rubbish! Of course I see you—we’ve lived together thirty years!”
“Lived together,” she nodded. “Side by side. Not *with* each other. Did you know I’ve been going to drama club every Wednesday for six months?”
Nicholas blinked. What drama club? She was always home, doing housework…
“Didn’t notice,” he admitted.
“Exactly. But I go. And guess what? There are people there who *listen* to me. Who care what I say. Who remember my name—not ‘Mum,’ not ‘Gran,’ not ‘the wife.’ *Valerie.*”
She drained her glass and set it down.
“And reason seven, Nick. The big one. I’m tired of being unhappy. Bone-tired. Every morning, I wake up and think: *This again. This same life. More cooking, cleaning, washing. More of your grumbling if tea’s late. More silence at the table. More loneliness in my own home.*”
Something tightened in Nicholas’s chest. Had it really been that bad? He wasn’t a monster—just an ordinary bloke. Worked hard, kept the family afloat, never drank, never strayed…
“Val, don’t be dramatic. We’ve had a decent life. Home, kids grown, grandkids…”
“Decent,” she repeated. “That’s the problem, Nick. 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 wardrobe and pulled out a small suitcase. Nicholas went cold.
“What’re you doing?”
“Leaving. To my sister’s in York. She’s been asking for ages. Says there’s a writing group at the community centre. Poetry, short stories. Maybe I’m no author, but I’d like to try. God knows I’ve got material.”
“But—what about me? The house? The grandkids?”
“You’ll learn to cope. Fry your own dinners, iron your shirts. The kids will grow up fine without me. And the house—” she glanced around, “—the house isn’t going anywhere.”
Nicholas stood, lost for words—a first in decades.
“Val, let’s talk. We’ll sort something. Maybe I can change—”
“Change what, Nick?” She gave him a sad smile. “Your character at sixty-eight? Your habits? Your whole way of thinking? No, love. Too late for that.”
“But we loved each other once.”
“Once. Then you stopped seeing me, and I stopped respecting myself. What’s left of love after that? Routine. Duty. Fear of being alone.”
She closed the case. No anger in her eyes—just exhaustion and something like relief.
“I’m not leaving *you*, Nick. I’m leaving *for me*. To find the Valerie who wanted to study, work, create. The one who laughed and dreamed. Maybe she’s still in there.”
“And what if she’s not?”
“What if she is?” She picked up the case. “Shepherd’s pie in the fridge. Just heat it up.”
He watched from the doorstep as she got into the taxi. Long after it turned the corner, he stood there, staring at a house that suddenly felt cavernous and hollow.
That evening, he ate cold shepherd’s pie as the telly droned. The seven reasons circled his mind—each one bitter, each one true.
TheA year later, as they sat together in their newly planted garden, Valerie handed Nicholas a cup of tea and whispered, “Funny how leaving was the only way to find my way back.”
