The quiet woman spoke loudly.
“William Peters! How much longer must I put up with this?” shouted the downstairs neighbour, waving a dripping rag right under the nose of Eleanor Nicholson. “This is the second time this week you’ve flooded my flat!”
“I already apologised!” he snapped back, standing in the doorway in just his vest and boxers. “The radiator leaks, I’ve called a plumber!”
“Apologised? And what about my ceiling? I just put up new wallpaper! Do you even pay attention to anything?”
Eleanor stood behind her husband, fists clenched. The neighbour, Margaret Turner, was right—but William, as always, refused to listen. The radiator had been leaking for a month, and he’d kept putting off the repair.
“Must you screech like a fishwife?” he barked. “I said I’ll fix it!”
“When? When my whole flat’s underwater?” Margaret’s face burned with fury, her grey hair dishevelled.
Eleanor stepped forward and touched his shoulder.
“Will, let me find a good plumber tomorrow. I’ve got a number,” she murmured.
“Leave it! I’ll handle it!” He shrugged her off without turning.
Margaret looked at Eleanor with pity. They’d known each other eight years, since the Nicholsons moved in, but the neighbour had never once heard Eleanor raise her voice. Always quiet, always yielding, always apologising for her husband.
“Alright, Eleanor, I know it’s not your fault. But sort it out!” Margaret turned and marched toward the stairs.
William slammed the door and stomped to the kitchen, where a pot of stew simmered. Eleanor followed, silent as always.
“What’s that face for?” he grumbled, sitting at the table. “Serve the stew.”
Her hands trembled as she ladled it. Drops splashed onto the freshly ironed tablecloth.
“Clumsy cow!” he muttered. “Can’t even serve food properly.”
“Sorry,” she whispered, blotting the stain with a napkin.
Over dinner, he ranted about work—his boss, his colleagues, everyone. Eleanor nodded, murmuring, “Yes, of course,” or “You’re right.” Just like every night for twenty-three years.
Afterwards, he sprawled on the sofa to watch football while she washed dishes. Through the kitchen window, she saw Margaret hanging laundry on her balcony. The neighbour caught her eye and waved. Eleanor timidly waved back.
That night, once William dozed off in front of the telly, she slipped out and knocked on Margaret’s door. The woman answered in a dressing gown, tea in hand.
“Eleanor! Come in, love. Fancy a cuppa?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to see the damage.”
The bathroom ceiling was a sorry sight—a spreading yellow stain, wallpaper peeling at the edges.
“Oh, Margaret, I’m so sorry!” Eleanor gasped. “I’ll call a plumber tomorrow—I’ll pay!”
“It’s not about the money. I’m just tired of it. You know what he’s like—always blaming others, never fixing a thing.”
Eleanor looked down. She couldn’t argue.
“He’s stressed from work,” she said weakly.
“Eleanor, what about you?” Margaret asked suddenly. “In all these years, I’ve never seen you smile. Always so sad.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Any children?”
“No. It… never happened.”
“Did you want them?”
Eleanor hesitated, then nodded. “Very much. But Will said it wasn’t the right time, then that we couldn’t afford it, then that he wasn’t ready. Now it’s too late.”
Margaret set down her cup. “What do you want? Not him—you.”
“I don’t know,” Eleanor admitted. “It’s been so long since I’ve thought about it.”
“You’re a lovely woman. Forty-five isn’t old. Why do you shrink yourself so?”
Eleanor caught her reflection in the hall mirror. Her face wasn’t old—her eyes still bright, her figure slim. But her expression… weary. Dim.
“I’m not shrinking. It’s just how I am. My mother said a good wife obeys.”
“Was your mother happy?”
Eleanor thought. Her mum had always been quiet, fading into her father’s shadow. She’d nodded, never argued. Happy? No.
“I suppose not,” she whispered.
“And now you’re living her life.”
Back upstairs, the flat was silent. William snored on the sofa, the room reeking of whisky. A dirty plate sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table.
She started tidying, then stopped. Looked at him. At the mess. Something inside her twanged like a taut string.
The next morning, William woke hungover and scowling.
“Where’s breakfast?” he grunted.
“Make it yourself,” she said, not looking up from her coffee.
“What?”
“I’m not your maid.”
He gaped. In twenty-three years, she’d never refused.
“You ill? Taken your temperature?”
“I’m fine. Just tired of being your unpaid servant.”
“Lost your mind, have you?” His face reddened. “Who puts food on the table? Clothes on your back?”
“I work in accounting. The flat’s in my mother’s name, remember?”
His temper flared. “So now you’re giving me lip? I don’t need you!”
“You don’t,” she agreed. “But the radiator still needs fixing. And you owe Margaret an apology.”
“Like hell I will!” He stormed out.
Eleanor finished her coffee, then called the plumber Margaret recommended. The man arrived that afternoon, replaced the radiator’s seals.
“How long’s this been leaking?” he asked, packing his tools.
“A month.”
“Should’ve called sooner. Flooded the neighbour, did you?”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“All sorted now.”
That evening, William returned even angrier.
“Plumber come?”
“Yes. It’s fixed.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred quid.”
“Two hundred? I could’ve done it for a tenner!”
“When? Next year?”
He stared. She’d never challenged him before.
“What’s got into you? That cow downstairs poison you against me?”
“Margaret’s a good woman. And she was right.”
“Oh, I see!” He sneered. “Feminist rubbish, is it? What else did she tell you?”
Eleanor stood, faced him. “She asked what I wanted. And I couldn’t answer. Because for twenty-three years, all I’ve wanted was to please you. Nobody ever asked me—not even myself.”
“So what now?” he mocked. “Gonna march for women’s rights?”
“I’m going to live like a person. Say what I think. Refuse what I don’t want.”
“Piss off!” He grabbed his jacket and slammed the door.
Alone in the kitchen, her heart raced, hands shook—but inside, something unfamiliar: lightness, as if a weight had lifted.
The next day, William came home late, drunk.
“Where’s dinner?” he slurred.
“In the fridge.” She didn’t look up from her book.
“Heat it up!”
“No.”
“What d’you mean, no?”
“You’ve got hands. The cooker works. Manage.”
He swayed, loomed over her. “Think I won’t put you in your place?”
She met his gaze. “Will you hit me? I’ll call the police. Then I’ll leave.”
“Who’d want you? You’re past it!”
“Maybe. But I’d rather be alone than your servant.”
He opened his mouth, froze. This wasn’t the wife he knew. He stomped to the kitchen, banging cupboards.
The next morning, he woke on the sofa, groaning. Eleanor was dressed for work.
“Make us a coffee?” he whined.
“Do it yourself.”
“Eleanor, you’re acting strange. I’m your husband!”
She turned at the door. “A husband isn’t an owner. He’s a partner. You’ve treated me like staff for twenty-three years. Enough.”
“But I love you!”
“Do you?” Her smile was sad. “When was the last time you asked how my day was? What I wanted? Did something just to make me happy?”
He had no answer.
“I’m going to work. Think about what I’ve said.”
That evening, she visited Margaret.
“How’s it going?” the neighbour asked, pouring tea.
“Strange. Two days of speaking my mind, and I feel… not guilty, but unsettled.”
“That’s normal. You’ve been silent your whole life. Your soul’s stretching its legs.”
“Did you… stay quiet too?”
“Oh, yes. My husband ordered me about for years. Then he left me for another woman. And you know what? I realised he’d done me a favour. Started living for myself.”
“Weren’t
