“Mum, have you completely lost the plot?”
The words stung Lydia like a punch to the gut. Painful. She stayed silent, peeling potatoes, her knuckles white.
“Everyone’s already pointing fingers—imagine, a mother carrying on like that! If it were Dad, fine, he’s a bloke, but you? A woman! The heart of the home. Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear rolled down Lydia’s cheek, then another, until they fell freely. Her daughter, Emily, raged on.
Lydia’s husband, James, slumped in his chair, shoulders hunched, bottom lip jutting out. “My dad’s ill, for God’s sake. He needs care. Is this how you repay him, Mum? After all he’s given you? After raising a child together?” His voice cracked. “You’re just gonna swan off now he’s poorly? No chance, love. That’s not how it works.”
“And how *does* it work?” Lydia asked softly.
James gaped. “You’re takin’ the mick, aren’t you? Look at her, Dad—she’s taking the mick!”
“Emily, you talk to me like I’m some wicked witch, not your own mother. Funny how you’ve *suddenly* remembered your father…”
“Mum! Stop playing the victim! I’ve had enough—I’m calling Nan. Let *her* deal with you. This is a bloody disgrace.”
Emily turned to James. “You should’ve seen it, Dad. I was walking home from uni, and there they were—arm in arm, strolling through the park. Bet he was reciting poetry, wasn’t he? His own rubbish verses about love, right, Mum?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. Young and stupid.”
“Not a shred of remorse. Right, I’m calling both nans—let them sort you out. Dad and I are done.”
Lydia straightened her apron, brushed invisible dust off her dress, and stood.
“Alright then, loves. I’m off.”
“Off where, Lyd?” James croaked.
“Leaving you, James.”
“Leaving? But—what about *me*? What do *I* do?”
Emily, phone pressed to her ear, hissed into it, shooting daggers at her mother.
“Em! Emily!” James wailed like a man bereft. “Emily—!”
“What? What, Dad? Your back? Where does it hurt?”
“Ooh, oh— Em… she… your mum… she’s leaving.”
“*Leaving*? Where? Mum—what the hell are you playing at? At your age?”
Lydia smirked, folding clothes neatly into a suitcase. She’d tried to leave before—but then James’s sciatica flared up, poor lamb, how he’d groaned…
“Lyd… think it’s a slipped disc…”
“MRI showed nothing.”
“Ugh, what do those quacks know? They keep it quiet first—squeeze more money outta you. Just like at work, with Dave. Sciatica my arse—next thing, oh, it’s a *prolapse*, some fancy Latin name—”
She’d stayed then. Couldn’t leave the poor sod.
But now…
“How much life d’you have left, Lyd?” Her mate Sarah had said. “You’re like a galley slave. What’s James ever given you?”
*Nothing*, Sarah had thumped the table.
“Spent his youth tomcatting about, didn’t he? Even brought that—what’s-her-name—hairdresser home. Bertha? Bloody Bertha, like the cow on the chocolate bar! Meanwhile, you’re working two jobs, plus overtime, while *he* lounges on the settee.
Oh, James needs a spa break? Off he pops to the seaside. But you? You’re mowing his mum’s lawn, then your mum’s. And you dragging your leg at forty—nah, that’s *normal*, innit?”
“Sarah, James is—”
“What? Made of special stuff? Oh right—*he’s a man*. Sacred creature. Look at other blokes—breaking their backs for their families. But you? You’re the workhorse.”
“Sarah,” Lydia hesitated, “you’ve always… avoided James. Like he wronged you.”
“Fine. I’ll say it.” Lydia braced herself. “I’ve no reason to love that weasel. Still remember his grubby paws all over me. You know I slept like the dead back then. We’d had a few at his birthday bash at the cottage—I crashed in your room. Woke up struggling to breathe—the sod had his stinking hand over my mouth, the other down my top.
I scratched his face to ribbons. He blamed a stray cat. Worst part? *His mum* was in the next bed, watching. Then had the cheek to say *I* led him on. Threatened to tell *you* I’d come onto *him*.
I left quick. Couldn’t risk Mike finding out—he’d’ve flattened James. And I couldn’t lose you. You’d have taken his side.”
Lydia was silent. All these years… The scales had been falling for a while. She’d noticed how other husbands treated their wives—*real* partnerships.
“Just need to check with Rob,” her mates would say, showing off anniversary gifts or holiday snaps. Lydia’s last family photo was at James’s birthday—*years* ago.
She tried recalling a single meaningful gift from him… Ah, yes. A vacuum. A dumpling steamer (*because James loves dumplings*). Perfume—from his mum’s dusty cabinet. Three tulips on Mother’s Day. One rose for her birthday.
How had she sleepwalked through her own life?
“Sarah… why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“Sooner? *You*? You were the martyr—James’s indigestion, Emily’s ice-skating, your mum’s allotment. Tell me honestly—when did you last eat a fresh pickle? Not last year’s leftovers.”
Lydia blinked.
Later, at Sarah’s, over tea:
“Mike, love—fancy a fishing trip?” Sarah had asked.
“Not really, Sare.”
“*Go*. Kids, off to Nan’s. Auntie Lyd and I need a natter.”
And natter they did.
“Emily’s selfish, Sarah. My fault.”
“Oh, *here we go*. How’s *this* your fault?”
“I should’ve had another baby. James and his mum pressured me—said he worked five days, Emily was just starting nursery… So I… went to the clinic. The doctor begged me not to. Later, James blamed *me*.”
Sarah stared. “Why’d you marry him, Lyd? You’re sharp, gorgeous—what possessed you?”
Lydia hesitated. “He was premature. Six months. His nan baked him in an oven mitt.”
“*What*?”
“Old trick—warm the oven, cool it, pop the baby in. Only child, his dad died young…”
“Fascinating. Still no clue why you married the twerp. I was away on placement—came back to *Surprise! You’ve got a James now!*”
Lydia sighed. “I pitied him. All the lads were off on motorbikes, breakdancing, or playing guitar. James? Useless. Big glasses, like an owl.
Mum was strict. He latched onto me—followed me home, whinged constantly. One day Mum saw us talking and said if he’s *that* keen, you’re marrying him.
I was daft, Sarah. Only now I see it. He’s been ‘ill’ his whole life—bad back, indigestion… I loved hiking, adventures—with him, I became a nurse. Back then, everyone was marrying. He seemed… safe. Sad.”
“Pity? For a mangy kitten? And *you*? Oh, love…”
“Mum made me beg. Swore I didn’t love him. She said, *‘You’ll grow to love him. Half the country does.’*”
Sarah shook her head.
Now, Lydia surveyed the room. She *could* leave. Rent a flat, file for divorce. Fight for what she’d earned—every stitch. Emily would side with James. Fine.
No, she wasn’t leaving for another man. Peter was just a friend. She wanted *peace*.
***
Christ, the backlash. Poor James, the betrayed saint. She, the harlot.
“Go back! Beg his forgiveness!” her mum shrieked. Her mother-in-law faked a heart attack. Lydia stepped over her. Neighbours took *her* side—they’d seen her life.
Emily apologised. They rebuilt their bond.
James came bearing four carnations wrapped in newspaper. She didn’t return.
A month post-divorce, he paraded with Bertha, his ‘bad back’ miraculously healedAnd as Lydia sat on her new balcony, sipping tea with Sarah, she realized—it was never too late to start living for herself.
