— That’s it! I’ve had enough! — Margaret flung the dishcloth into the sink, sending water splashing across the kitchen. — I can’t do this anymore! Do you hear me, Edward? I just can’t!
Her husband glanced up from his newspaper, frowning irritably.
— What’s got into you now? Nerves playing up? Have some valerian.
— Oh, ‘have some valerian’! — she mimicked him, hands on her hips. — Thirty years of the same rubbish! ‘Have some valerian, Maggie. Stop shouting, Maggie. Where’s my dinner, Maggie?’ Am I just the help to you?
Edward folded his paper and sighed heavily. Retirement made women go mad, he was sure of it. With no job to keep them busy, they invented problems.
— Margaret Elizabeth, — he said, deliberately formal, — what’s the matter? Explain yourself properly.
— What’s the matter? — She laughed, though it came out strained. — Nothing’s the matter, Ed. I’ve just realised something. A bit late, but there we are.
Margaret wiped her hands on her apron, removed it, and hung it carefully on the hook. Her movements were slow, deliberate. Edward tensed—she only acted like this when she’d made up her mind about something serious.
— Sit down, — she said. — We need to talk.
— What about? — He tried to return to his paper. — Fancy a cuppa instead? You promised shepherd’s pie for dinner…
— Shepherd’s pie, — she repeated, shaking her head. — Of course, shepherd’s pie. Tell me, Ed, when was the last time I did something for *me*? Not for you, not for the kids, not for the grandkids. For *me*?
Edward faltered. Questions like this always threw him. Why would she need to do anything for herself when there was a family to care for, a home to keep?
— Don’t know what you’re on about.
— Exactly, — she nodded. — You never did. Do you remember how we met?
— At a dance in the pub, — he answered automatically.
— Yes. I was nineteen. I wanted to go to university, study literature. Remember?
Edward vaguely recalled something of the sort, but back then, it had seemed like girlish nonsense. Why would a woman need higher education when she could marry well?
— Suppose so. What of it?
— I never went. Because you said, ‘What do you need more school for? We’re getting married. There’ll be children, a home to look after.’ And I listened. Reason number one.
Margaret walked to the window, gazing at the kids playing football in the yard. It had been just as sunny the day she first realised life was passing her by.
— Then Lucy was born, — she continued, not turning around. — I wanted to go back to work when she turned one. Get a job at the library. I’ve always loved books. But you said, ‘Don’t be daft—who’ll mind the baby? Stay home, do the mothering.’
— And quite right, too! — Edward huffed. — A child needs its mother!
— Quite right, — she agreed. — Reason number two. Then came James. Then your mum moved in, remember? Ill, frail. And who looked after her? Who washed her clothes, fetched her medicine, took her to the doctor’s?
— You. But that’s normal, a man’s at work—
— Normal. Reason three. — Margaret turned, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. — And when I was ill? That bout of pneumonia?
Edward scratched his head. He faintly recalled her being poorly, but he’d been busy—crisis at the factory, the bosses breathing down his neck…
— Course I remember.
— Who looked after me when my fever hit forty? Who called the doctor? Who fetched my medicine?
Silence stretched. Edward remembered—he’d only poked his head into the bedroom now and then, asking how she was before retreating to the telly. She’d managed on her own.
— Me, — Margaret answered for him. — I dragged myself to the chemist. Rang the GP myself. You didn’t even bring me tea. Reason four.
She sat across from him at the table, hands folded in her lap, spine straight. Edward suddenly noticed she’d lost weight. More grey in her hair, too. When had that happened?
— Go on, — he said quietly.
— Then came the grandkids. Lucy’s Emily, James’s little Noah. And where did they end up when their parents were working? With me. Who helped with homework, fed them, took them to school?
— Well… that’s what grannies are for.
— Grannies. Right. And where were the grandads? — She scoffed. — In the shed with their mates. Or fishing. Or glued to the telly. Because ‘I’ve worked all my life, now it’s my turn to rest.’ Reason five.
Edward shifted uneasily. This was heading somewhere unpleasant.
— Maggie, enough now. What’s your point?
— No point. Just explaining. — She stood, fetched a jug of squash from the fridge. — Want some?
— Aye.
She poured two glasses, slid one to him. As he drank, she continued:
— Reason six’s simple. You don’t *see* me, Ed. Not really. I’m standing right 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, what I read, what scares me. To you, I’m just part of the furniture. Handy, familiar, invisible.
— Maggie, don’t talk rubbish! ‘Course I see you! Thirty years together—
— Together, — she nodded. — Side by side. Not *with* each other. Did you even know I’ve been in a drama group six months?
Edward blinked. What group? His wife was always home, tending the house…
— Didn’t notice, — he admitted.
— Exactly. And I go. Every Wednesday. Know what? There are people there who *listen* to me. Who care what I think. Who remember my name—not ‘Mum,’ not ‘Gran,’ not ‘the wife.’ Just Margaret.
She finished her drink, set the empty glass down.
— And reason seven, Ed. The big one. I’m tired of being unhappy. Bone-tired. Every morning I wake up thinking: same day, same life. More cooking, more washing, more tidying. More of your sour face if supper’s late. More silence at the table. More loneliness in my own home.
Edward felt something tighten in his chest. Was it really that bad? He wasn’t a monster—just an ordinary bloke. Worked hard, provided, never drank or strayed…
— Come off it, Maggie. We’ve a good life. Nice home, grown kids, grandkids…
— Good, — she echoed. — That’s the problem, Ed. ‘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 cupboard, pulled out a small suitcase. Edward went cold.
— What’re you doing?
— Leaving. To my sister’s in Brighton. She’s been asking. Says there’s a writers’ group at the community centre. We’ll read poems, tell stories. — She began packing. — Maybe I’m no author, but I’d like to try. God knows I’ve things to say.
— What about me? — he stammered. — The house? The kids?
— You’ll learn to manage. Cooking, ironing. The grandkids will grow without me. And the house… — she glanced around, — won’t crumble.
Edward stood, approached her. For the first time in years, he was lost for words.
— Let’s talk this through. Maybe I can change…
— Change *what*, Ed? — She paused, studying him sadly. — Your nature at sixty-eight? Your habits? Your whole way of being? No, love. Too late.
— But we loved each other once.
— Once. Then you stopped seeing me, and I stopped respecting myself. And what’s left of love? Routine. Duty. Fear of being alone.
Margaret closed the case, faced him. No anger in her eyes—just weariness, and something like relief.
— I’m not abandoning you, Ed. Just leaving. To find *me*. 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 suitcase, moved to the door. — Supper’s in the fridge. Shepherd’s pie, how you like it. Just heat it up.
Edward watched from the doorstep as she got into the cab. Long after it turned the corner, he stood there, the house suddenly vast and hollow behind him.
That evening, heA year later, under the soft glow of a Brighton sunset, Edward handed Margaret a single red rose and whispered, “May I have this dance, just as we did all those years ago?” and she smiled, taking his hand as the waves crashed gently behind them.
