The return was late: Evelyn had already made up her mind.
William glumly twisted spaghetti around his fork. Watching him, Evelyn fought to hide her worry but finally cracked.
“Is it not to your taste, William?”
He merely frowned and continued eating in silence.
“I followed the recipe exactly…”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, avoiding her gaze.
“Then what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
William flung his fork down, exhaled sharply, and began pacing the kitchen.
“I’m sick of it all!” he burst out. “Life’s turned into a slog! Work, home, you in the same old dressing gown, porridge, the child—it’s not living, it’s drudgery!”
Evelyn froze. His words stung worse than a slap. He went on:
“Just look at yourself! You used to be lovely, and now—” He paused, searching for the right phrase. “A housewife—and a worn-out one at that. Look at Tom’s wife—fire on all fronts: raising a child, hitting the gym, making extra money, and still managing to look sharp!”
“They have his mother helping, while you nap all weekend. I’ve no time for anything,” Evelyn said quietly.
“Always an excuse! The truth is, you’ve just latched onto me and let yourself go. I need space. A proper breather. I’m moving out. Alone. Don’t know how long. Maybe forever.”
“What about Oliver?”
“I’ll pay what’s due. Visit too. You won’t be left high and dry.”
He stood. As if snapping out of a trance, Evelyn rushed to block his path.
“And what about my break? Am I not human? Why do only you get to escape all this?”
He stepped close, irritation in his voice:
“You’re the mother. Full stop. Stay with your child.”
With that, he left, the door slamming behind him. Evelyn sat at the table, tears streaming down her face. Her mind reeled—how would she go on? William had been distant, but at least he’d been there. Now even that stability was gone.
He hadn’t even said goodbye to their son. She knew exactly where he’d gone—his old bachelor flat.
The first night, sleep never came. But by morning, exhausted, she resolved: no begging, no humiliation. She’d manage alone.
And she did. To her surprise, life lightened. No more cleaning up after a man, catering to his whims, or scrubbing endless laundry. The money William sent was tight, but enough.
The pain was only in her heart—especially when she saw his social media posts, laughing with some woman, grinning at the camera. Her friend tried to console her: “You’re better off without him.” Then her mother arrived—taking leave just to help. Silent, steady, though her fists clenched at the thought of her son-in-law.
With her mother there, Evelyn revived. She visited the salon, refreshed her wardrobe. Even smiled again. Her mother’s gifts whispered: you deserve joy.
True to form, William never visited Oliver. Photos showed him thriving without them. Evelyn waited, hoping he’d come to his senses, but each day made it clearer: he wasn’t a man, but a coward fleeing responsibility.
Three months later, a knock came at the door. William. With his bags. Swaggering like a victor.
“Hello, love! I’m back. What’s for supper?”
Evelyn barred his way.
“You don’t live here anymore.”
“What? I’m your husband!”
“Not anymore. I’ve filed for divorce. Expect papers. You never saw Oliver, just as you promised. I’ve packed your things—they’re ready.”
William turned livid.
“I’ve every right to see my son!”
“Of course. The courts will arrange visits. I’ll tell them how you forgot him for three months. And I’ll show them your party photos.”
He did see Oliver eventually. The boy watched him without joy, without trust.
William had hoped his wife was just teaching him a lesson. But Evelyn stood firm. Her mother’s support, her love for Oliver, her own reclaimed worth—they made her unshakable.
Now she and Oliver had a new life. And William? He was left with pans to scrub and shirts to iron. So much for his grand respite.
