**Thursday Evening**
My Evelyn stood before the mirror, adjusting a blouse she’d snatched in a sale. “Just popping out to the theatre, Nigel. Matilda and I planned it ages ago.”
Nigel’s voice thundered through our Croydon flat. “The *theatre*? Look at the state of this place! Dishes piled up, my shirts crumpled. Sit down!” He grabbed her wrist, twisting her toward him. A red mark bloomed on her skin.
“But we agreed last night,” Evelyn protested, her voice thin. “I’d done everything. One evening for myself—is that so dreadful?”
“Yourself?” He snorted. “Who puts a roof over your head? Feeds you? I’ve slogged all day and deserve a proper meal, not these sad sandwiches!”
Evelyn wordlessly moved to the kitchen. Her hands trembled as she pulled groceries from the fridge. I watched her eyes dart to the window—a woman laughing with her spaniel in the courtyard below, carefree as spring air.
“Hurry up! I’m starved!” Nigel barked, cranking the telly louder.
Later, over burnt lamb chops, he issued decrees. “Matilda’s lot aren’t welcome tomorrow. Peter’s coming ’round to discuss business. You’ll serve tea quietly when asked.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday,” Evelyn ventured. “The girls and I fancied a cheeky Nando’s—”
“*Girls*? You’re forty-three! House and family—that’s your place. Not gallivanting.”
She pushed peas around her plate, unshed tears glistening. “Why d’you speak to me like this? We used to go to galleries… you brought me roses…”
“*Used* to. You were younger. Prettier. Now?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Frumpy. I’m ashamed to be seen with you.”
Evelyn fled to the bathroom later, studying her reflection. Had she really faded so much? Or was it him, painting her in grey?
“Where’s supper?” Nigel bellowed. “I’m famished!”
That night, something fractured. As he criticised her shepherd’s pie (“Tastes like cardboard! And must you dress like a dowdy aunt?”), Evelyn set down her fork. Her voice, usually a murmur, cut clear. “Enough.”
Nigel stared. “*What*?”
“I won’t be spoken to like dirt.” She rose.
He seized her shoulder. “Who d’you think you are?”
“Let go,” she said, icy calm. “Or I leave. For good.”
He released her, scoffing. “Go where? To Matilda’s? Or batty Aunt Margaret in Basingstoke? You’ll crawl back within the week.”
Evelyn walked out. Packed a holdall while he ranted about mortgages and her piddling salary. “This isn’t a tantrum, Nigel,” she stated, zipping the bag. “It’s my life.” Outside, apple blossoms drifted on a warm breeze as she dialled Matilda. “Tilly? Can I come?”
At Matilda’s cosy Battersea flat, Evelyn wept over tea. “I’m terrified, Tilly. All I know is being his wife.”
“Rubbish,” Matilda huffed. “You’ve forgotten how to be *you*. You’ll remember.”
The weeks were grim. Nigel oscillated between threats (“I’ll freeze the joint account!”) and bouquets sent to her office. She wavered. But each time, she’d recall: “Who else would want you?” And steadied.
She rented a studio in Clapham. Painted it cream, filled it with second-hand books and £3 tulips from the market. Joined a Pilates class and signed up for Spanish evenings at the community centre.
When she visited Aunt Margaret six months later, the old woman beamed. “Look at you—glowing! Like the girl I knew before Nigel dimmed your light.”
It was true. Evelyn thrived. Promoted at work, she now managed client portfolios. Laughter returned, louder and freer.
We bumped into Nigel at Westfield. He’d gone gaunt, his jumper hanging loose. “Evie… you look… wonderful,” he stammered. “Fancy coffee? I’ve… changed. Understood things.”
She met his gaze. “Perhaps you have, Nigel. But I’ve changed too. The woman who endured your cruelty is gone. This Evelyn? She wouldn’t survive it again.”
His plea cracked. “We had years together!”
“Too many spent afraid,” she replied softly. “Goodbye.”
As she walked away, he called out: “Evelyn! *Are* you happy?”
She turned, sunlight catching the new confidence in her smile. “Deliriously.”
And she meant it. That rupture she’d once dreaded? It didn’t end her life. It gave one back. Liberty, I’ve learned, isn’t merely escaping a cage. It’s rediscovering you had wings all along. Breaking sometimes means breaking free. The price of one’s spirit is always too high.
