Put your hat on, its freezing outside. Youll catch your death.
Mary held out the woolly hatnavy blue, pom-pom bobbinga hat she and Victoria had chosen together at Marks & Spencer just a month before.
Youre not my mum! Do you hear me?
Victorias roar ripped through the hallway. She flung the hat to the floor as if it were something poisonous, her eyes burning with primitive anger.
Vicky, I only
And you never will be! Never!
The front door slammed so hard the glass in the frames shuddered. A rush of cold, damp air shivered through the house from the corridor.
Mary stood frozen in the hallway. The hat lay crumpled at her feet, ridiculous and unwanted. Fury and grief prickled in her throat, hot and humiliating. She bit her lip and raised her head, glaring at the ceiling. Dont cry. Not now.
Six months ago, shed dreamed of something different. Warm dinners around the table. Late-night, honest chats. Maybe even city breaks out to Somerset. Simon had spoken of his daughter so fondly: clever, gifted, just a touch withdrawn after her mother passed away. She needs time, he used to say. Shell come round. Time passed. Victoria stayed frozen.
From the first day Mary crossed this threshold as a wife, not a guest, the girl had bunkered down. Every attempt to reach her met the same frigid barrier. Offer to help with homework? Ill do it myself. Invite her on a walk? Im busy. Compliment her haircut? A long, cold stare, full of silent loathing.
I have a mum, Victoria declared on their second morning under the same roof. They sat at the breakfast table. Simon gulped his tea, running late for work.
I had one and always will. Youre nothing here.
Simon choked on his toast, mumbling something to smooth things over. Mary forced a smileher lips barely movedthen left it.
It only got worse.
Victoria no longer shouted when her father was there. She grew subtler. Shed brush past Mary in the hallway as if she were invisible. Grunt short replies, eyes glued to her phone. Would walk out of a room the second Mary entered.
Dad used to be different, Victoria muttered over dinner one night. Before you, he was normal. We actually talked. Now
The rest was lost as she stared down at her plate. Simon turned pale. Mary laid down her forkfood stuck in her throat like cement.
Simon ricocheted between them, frantic and exhausted. In the evenings, hed come to Marysor rather, theirbedroom, though Mary never called it hers. Hed plead.
Shes a child. Shes grieving. Give her time.
Then off hed go to Victorias roompleading for understanding.
Marys good. Shes trying. At least try to accept her.
Mary heard these murmured talks through the wall. Simons voice: weary and battered. Victorias, sharper, cruel.
He was being pulled apart. You could see itin the deepening crease between his brows, the startle in his eyes every time Mary and Victoria shared a room, the dark half-circles settling beneath them.
But he never chose a side. Or couldnt.
Mary knelt to pick up the hat. She dusted it off, hung it by the door, and wandered into the lounge, halting in the doorway just as she always did
Photos. Dozens of them, everywhere: on shelves, on the walls, lining the sill. A soft-smiling, fair-haired woman. The same woman, clutching a laughing little Victoria. With Simonfresh-faced, joyous, unrecognisable now. Wedding shots. Beach holidays. Christmas snapshots. Elizabeth. The first wife. The late wife.
Her belongings lingered in the cupboards. Dresses and jumpers, neatly folded and lavender-scented to keep moths at bay. Her cosmetics stood untouched in the bathroom. Her fluffy pink slippers waited by the back dooras if Elizabeth had just nipped out to Sainsburys for a pint of milk and would be back any minute.
Mum cooked this better, Victoria would bite out at Sunday lunch.
Mum never did things like that.
Mum wouldnt have liked it.
Each comparison was a blow to the chest. Mary would smile, nod, swallow down the slight along with each mouthful. And at night, lying sleepless in that alien bed, the question gnawed: how do you compete with a ghost? With the immaculate memory of a woman, more perfect with every year?
Simon, Mary realised long ago, still loved Elizabeth. The way he gazed at her photos, the heartache sharp in his eyes. The way he listened to Victorias stories about her motherhis face closing over, withdrawn and unreachable.
To Simon, what was Marya way to move on, an answer to loneliness, or just convenient? Someone to keep the house running, the dinners hot, the socks washed?
At night, while Simon drifted offalways fast, always easyshed lie awake, blankly watching the ceiling. Another familys ceiling, in another woman’s house. She knew it with cold clarity: this marriage was starting to crack. Simon married again without burying the past. Victoria would never accept her.
And Mary herselfshed made the gravest mistake of her life.
That truth crystallized nearly every morning between three and four, as Mary stared into the dark, listening to Simons steady breathing. He slept, turning to the wall within minutes. She stayed up, alone with the ceiling, the shadows from the streetlights, and Elizabeths picture on the dresser. Hed never moved it.
Enough.
The decision arrived quietly, icy and certain: you cant win this fight. You cant vanquish memory. You cant take the place of a woman who would never be anything less than perfect in their eyes.
Mary sat up in bed. Simon didnt stir.
Three days later, she filed for divorce. Alone. No lawyer, no warning. She walked into the registry office, passport and certificate in hand, filled out the form with a steady pen, and signed her name. The clerk gave her a look of practised sympathyshe must see dozens like Mary every day.
Mary
Simon found the paperwork that evening. He stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, the letter trembling in his hand, face pale with disbelief.
Whats all this mean?
Its all there, Mary said, scrubbing the plate in her hands. Ive filed for divorce.
But why? We havent evenits not something we talked about
What is there to discuss, Simon?
She flicked off the tap, dried her hands, and faced him at last.
Im tired of living in a shrine. Tired of being second best. Tired of the way you look at her photos. Tired of being nothing to your daughter.
Shes just a kid, Mary. She doesnt understand
She understands perfectly well. And so do you. Only youre frightened to admit it.
Simon stepped forward, gently taking her by the shoulders, as though she might break if squeezed too tight.
Please, Mary. We can talk. Ill fix this. Ill speak to Vicky, take down the photos, we can start again
You still love her.
Not a questionjust fact. Mary met her husbands eyes and read the answer before his lips could move.
Youre still in love with Elizabeth. What am I to you? A stand-in? Just company? Someone to cook your meals and wash your shirts?
Thats not fair
Then say you dont love her. Say youve forgotten her. Go on.
He said nothing.
Simon released her shoulders and stepped backhis face grey, shrivelled, years older in a moment.
Mary nodded. She hadnt expected any other answer.
Victoria sat in her room; the door left ajardeliberately or not, impossible to tell. As Mary passed, the girl lifted her head from her phone and smiled, thin and sly, as if shed finally scored a victory.
She had.
The next hours passed in a blur of ritual. The wardrobe. Hangers. The suitcase. The dress Simon bought for their anniversarythree months ago, it felt like centuries. The perfume hed chosen in John Lewis, sniffing testers and wincing. That unfinished book theyd begun together but never finished.
Mary packed her things carefully, smoothing each crease. Dont think. Dont remember. Just pack.
The evening dragged on, endless and empty. Mary perched on the bed, her suitcases at her feet. Two suitcasesthe sum total of her efforts at building a family.
By eight oclock, she was gone.
Shed booked a cab earlier. Dragged her own cases downstairslift humming, not a soul about, no doors squeaking in the building. She left the keys on the sideboard in the hall.
The driver hefted her bags into the boot, and off they went. Mary didnt look back.
The London streets were deserted and unfamiliar. The streetlights were already glowing, a few lone figures dashing for the Tube. Somewhere behind her, that haunted house stood: Simon with his undying love, Victoria with her fierce, loyal ache for her mother.
Mary gazed out the taxi window and breathed. For the first time in half a yearshe breathed easy.
Loneliness was frightening. But the thought of living forever in another womans shadow was worse.
She was beginning again. Alone, yes. No husband, no family, no delusions. But, at last, free of eternal comparison to an ideal that no longer existed.
