The quiet woman spoke up at last.
“William! How much longer must I put up with this? This is the second time this week you’ve flooded my flat!” shouted the downstairs neighbour, waving a damp cloth right under Evelyn’s nose.
“I already apologised! The radiator’s leaking—I’ve called a plumber!” William defended himself, standing in the doorway in just his boxers and a vest.
“Apologised! And what am I supposed to do about my ceiling? I just put up new wallpaper! Do you not care about anything?”
Evelyn stood behind her husband, fists clenched. The neighbour, Margaret, was right, but William, as usual, refused to listen. The radiator had been leaking for a month, and he’d kept putting off repairs.
“Must you screech like a market trader?” William snapped. “I’ll fix it, I said!”
“When? When my entire flat’s underwater?” Margaret’s face was flushed with anger, her grey hair dishevelled.
Evelyn touched her husband’s shoulder.
“Will, I can call a good plumber in the morning. I know a reliable one,” she whispered.
“Leave it! I’ll handle it!” He waved her off without turning.
Margaret looked at Evelyn with pity. The two women had known each other for eight years, ever since the Harrisons moved in, yet Margaret had never once heard Evelyn raise her voice. Always quiet, always obliging, always apologising for her husband.
“Alright, Evelyn, I know it’s not your fault. But sort this out!” Margaret turned and marched upstairs.
William slammed the door and headed to the kitchen, where a pot of stew simmered. Evelyn followed, silent as always.
“What’s that face for?” he grumbled, sitting at the table. “Serve the stew.”
Evelyn picked up the ladle, but her hands trembled. Drops of stew splashed onto the freshly ironed tablecloth.
“Clumsy!” William muttered. “Can’t even pour properly.”
“Sorry,” she whispered, blotting the stain with a napkin.
Over dinner, William ranted about work, complaining about his boss, his colleagues, everyone. Evelyn nodded, occasionally murmuring, “Yes, of course,” or “You’re right.” Just like every night for twenty-three years.
After dinner, William sprawled on the sofa to watch football, while Evelyn washed up. Through the kitchen window, she saw Margaret hanging laundry on her balcony. Their eyes met, and Margaret waved. Evelyn hesitantly waved back.
That night, once William was asleep in front of the telly, Evelyn slipped out to visit Margaret, who answered the door in a dressing gown, teacup in hand.
“Evelyn! Come in, love. Fancy a cuppa?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to see the damage.”
The bathroom ceiling was in a sorry state—yellow stains spreading, wallpaper peeling at the edges.
“Oh, Margaret! I’m so sorry! I’ll get a plumber tomorrow—I’ll pay!”
“It’s not about the money, love. I’m just sick of it. Your husband’s temper… always blaming everyone else, never lifting a finger.”
Evelyn lowered her eyes. Margaret was right, but she couldn’t admit it aloud.
“He’s tired from work,” she murmured.
“Evelyn, what about *you*?” Margaret asked softly. “I’ve known you all these years, and I’ve never seen you smile. You always look so sad.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Any children?”
“No. It… never happened.”
“Did you want them?”
Evelyn hesitated, then nodded.
“I did. Very much. But William 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 William—*you*.”
“I don’t know,” Evelyn admitted. “I’ve spent so long thinking about what he needs…”
“You’re a lovely woman, Evelyn. Forty-five isn’t old! Why do you… shrink yourself like this?”
Evelyn caught her reflection in the hall mirror. Her face wasn’t aged, her eyes still bright, her figure slim. But her expression—weary, dull.
“I’m not shrinking. It’s just… how I am. I’ve never been loud. My mother said a good wife obeys.”
“Was your mother happy?”
Evelyn thought. Her mother—always quiet, always in her father’s shadow. He commanded; she nodded. But happy? She couldn’t recall.
“Probably not,” she whispered.
“There you are. And you’re following her path.”
Back upstairs, the flat was silent. William snored on the sofa, the room reeking of whisky. The kitchen sink held a dirty plate, crumbs littered the table.
She started tidying, then stopped. Looked at her husband, at the mess he’d made in half an hour. Something inside her tightened, like a strained wire.
The next morning, William woke hungover and scowling.
“Where’s breakfast?” he grunted.
“Make it yourself,” Evelyn said, not looking up from her coffee.
“What?”
“You have hands. The cooker works. You’ll manage.”
William gaped. In twenty-three years, she’d never refused to make his breakfast.
“You feeling ill?”
“I’m fine. Just tired of being your unpaid maid.”
“Have you lost the plot?” he spluttered. “Who puts food on the table? Clothes on your back?”
“I work in accounting. This flat’s in my mother’s name, remember?”
William flushed. “So now you’re throwing that in my face? I don’t *need* you!”
“You don’t,” Evelyn agreed. “But the radiator still needs fixing. And you owe Margaret an apology.”
“Like hell!” He stormed out.
Evelyn finished her coffee, then phoned the plumber Margaret recommended. He arrived that afternoon, replaced the washers.
“How long’s this been leaking?” he asked, packing his tools.
“A month.”
“Should’ve called sooner. Neighbours affected?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s sorted now.”
William returned from work 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?”
William stared. She’d never challenged him like this.
“What’s got into you? That nosy cow downstairs filling your head with nonsense?”
“Margaret’s a decent woman. And she was right.”
“Ah, so that’s it!” he sneered. “Feminists poisoning you against me! What else did she tell you?”
Evelyn stood. “She didn’t tell me anything. She asked what *I* wanted. And I couldn’t answer. Because for twenty-three years, I’ve only wanted one thing—for you to be happy. No one ever asked me. I never asked myself.”
“And now what?” he mocked. “Gonna march for women’s rights?”
“I’m going to live like a person. Speak my mind. Say no.”
“Bugger off!” He grabbed his coat and slammed the door.
Alone in the kitchen, Evelyn’s heart pounded, hands shaking—but inside, something unclenched, like a weight lifting.
The next day, William stumbled in late, drunk.
“Where’s dinner?” he slurred.
“In the fridge.”
“Warm it up!”
“No.”
“What d’you mean, *no*?”
“You’ve got hands. Figure it out.”
He loomed over her. “You’ve gone mad. Think I won’t put you in your place?”
Evelyn met his gaze. “How? Hit me? I’ll call the police. Then I’ll leave.”
“Who’d want you? You’re nothing without me!”
“Maybe. But I’d rather be alone than treated like a servant.”
William faltered. This wasn’t the wife he knew. He stomped to the kitchen, slamming cupboards.
The next morning, he groaned awake on the sofa. Evelyn was dressed for work.
“Make us a cuppa?” he whined.
“Make it yourself.”
“Evelyn, what’s got into you? I’m your *husband*!”
She turned. “A husband isn’t an owner. He’s a partner. You’ve treated me like staff for twenty-three years. No more.”
“But I *love* you!”
“Love me?” She smiled sadly. “When did you last ask how my day was? What I wanted? Did something just to make me happy?”
William was silent.
“I’m going to work. Think about what I said.”
That evening, Evelyn visited Margaret.
“How’s it going?” Margaret asked, pouring tea.
“Strange. Two days of speaking my mind, and I feel… not guilty, but unfamiliar.”
“That’s normal. You’ve been silent
