Teresa always woke up before her alarm, as if she had an internal clock. She’d get up, wash her face, and make breakfast. By the time her husband, David, walked into the kitchen—clean-shaven and smelling of aftershave—the table was set with scrambled or soft-boiled eggs, sliced baguette, cheese, and ham, alongside a strong cup of coffee. Teresa herself settled for just coffee and a few bites of cheese.
They’d been married thirty years. By now, they knew each other so well that words were hardly necessary, especially in the mornings. “See you tonight,” “I’ll be late,” “Thanks…” A glance, a step, even silence—they could read each other’s moods effortlessly. What was there left to say?
“Thanks,” David muttered, finishing his coffee before standing up.
When they were newlyweds, he’d always kiss her cheek before leaving for work. Now, he just thanked her and walked out. David was an engineer at a railway factory, leaving early to beat the traffic across town.
Teresa cleared the table, washed the dishes, and got ready herself. She taught at a university just two bus stops from their home in Manchester, always walking there, rain or shine. Tall and lean, she wore trouser suits—usually grey pinstripes—with pastel blouses underneath. In summer, she swapped them for dresses.
Her once-dark hair had turned grey, and she left it natural, twisted into a thin braid and pinned up like a snail. No makeup, no jewellery except her wedding ring.
Teaching meant talking all day, so at home, she preferred silence. David didn’t mind; he liked the quiet. To everyone else, they seemed the perfect couple—no fighting, no drama.
David was two years older but still handsome. Teresa had long grown used to women eyeing him. She’d been jealous once, but age brought perspective. “Where’s he going to go? No one’ll feed him like I do,” she’d tell herself. And she *did* cook divinely.
Their daughter had married an army officer and moved away after university.
Students were a little afraid of Teresa. She rarely smiled, always composed, but never cruel. If a student admitted they didn’t know an answer but had studied, she’d help—even nudge them toward a passing grade. But cheaters were thrown out without mercy. Some tried pitiful pleas for sympathy, but she smelled lies a mile off and never forgave them.
She didn’t gossip with colleagues or make friends in the faculty.
One day in the canteen, she overheard two first-years chatting behind her.
“God, the chemistry lecturer’s such a spinster. If not for the wedding ring, I’d think she’d never been married,” one said.
“She *has* a husband, actually. Quite fit, too. And a daughter,” the other replied.
“What does *he* see in her, then? How d’you know?”
“We live in the same neighbourhood. She’s alright, honestly.”
“*Alright*? Dresses like a bloke. Doubt she’s even got breasts.”
Teresa finished her meal, stood, and stared at them.
“Sorry,” they squeaked, flushing.
*Spinster. Frump. So that’s what they think.* In the staff room, she studied herself in the mirror. *Christ. What *does* David see in me?* The bell rang, and she headed to class.
At home, she started dinner—beef stew in clay pots, timed for his return. Everything was ready. She glanced out the window. David always parked below it. But the spot was empty. Then the front door clicked open.
Teresa turned sharply. “No car? Broke down?”
“No, parked it elsewhere.”
She didn’t ask why. Back in the kitchen, she reached for the oven gloves. David followed, sitting at the table.
“Tess, sit down.”
She set the gloves aside and clasped her hands. She knew. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. They’d been distant for years, but now he was a stranger—stiff, detached.
“Right. I’m in love with someone else. I’m leaving.” He wiped sweat from his brow.
Teresa’s fingers locked together painfully.
“Sorry. I’ll pack.” He stood and left.
She stayed seated. *Stop him. Say something.* But she didn’t move. The wardrobe creaked; hangers clinked. Drawers slid open—documents, probably. A zipper closed. Silence. Then suitcase wheels thudded over carpet, clicked on tiles.
He took forever with his coat and shoes. *He’ll come back. Say he’s changed his mind.* But the door shut. The lock snapped.
She sat blankly before burying her face in her hands and crying.
*That’s why he didn’t park below the window.* To hide from neighbours. Or maybe *she* was in the car? Teresa splashed water on her face. *The stew…*
Her first thought was to bin it, pots and all. Then she remembered the elderly couple down the hall and knocked with the foil-wrapped dishes.
A young woman answered. “Hello—oh, you’re after the Smiths? They sold up. Their son took them in. We just moved in yesterday—I’m Sarah, my husband’s Jack. Smells amazing!”
“Welcome gift,” Teresa said. Her face refused to smile. She handed over the pots and left.
That night, she oscillated between tears and pacing, arguing with David in her head. *Why now? Why not when we were younger? What do I do?* *Didn’t you always know? I fell in love…*
Morning came, early as ever. Coffee, then her walk to work. That evening, she didn’t cook. Just stared at the telly.
A knock startled her. *David?* He had a key. *Ignore it?* But the lights were on. Reluctantly, she answered.
Sarah stood there, beaming, holding a plate of pie.
“Sorry, you fed us yesterday. That stew was *incredible*—never tasted anything like it. Jack said to get the recipe. Thought I’d return the favour. First pie I’ve ever made.”
“Come in,” Teresa said. “We’ll try it.”
They sat in the kitchen, the kettle boiling.
“You alone? Husband working late?” Sarah asked.
Teresa shrugged.
“Jack and I only married two months ago. I’m thirty-six—first time! Last-chance saloon, eh? Lived with Mum till now, so I can’t cook to save my life. Jack’s divorced,” Sarah chattered.
She noticed Teresa’s sharp glance.
“You think I stole him? God, no. His wife left *him* three years ago—ran off with someone else, took their daughter. Jack adored her. Couldn’t stand the flat alone, sold it, gave her half. Lived in rentals after. When we met, he was a mess. Drinking. Looked like death. Felt sorry for him. Mum said not to marry him, but… he’s kind. Quit the booze. Hands of gold—if you need anything fixed, just ask.”
“Pie’s too sweet,” Teresa said.
“Yeah, I know. Teach me to cook? I’m a hairdresser—could do your hair. A short cut’d suit you. Your face—”
“Sorry—Sarah, was it? I don’t dye my hair. Definitely not cutting it.”
“But I’m *good*. Trust me.”
“No.” Sharper than she’d meant.
“Right. Sorry.”
Sarah left. Teresa eyed the mirror. *Maybe? Change it up after all these years?*
Days later, she stopped Sarah in the courtyard. “I’ll take that haircut.”
“Oh, you *won’t* regret it! I’ll make you look like Helen Mirren!”
“Who?”
“Never mind. When?”
“Weekend?”
“Perfect! Don’t buy dye—I’ll bring everything.”
Sarah bounded off. Teresa watched, skeptical.
That Saturday, she baked a pie—her first proper meal in days. The doorbell rang as she slid it into the oven.
Sarah bustled in, lugging a case. “Ready?” She halted at the hallway mirror. “This’ll do. Chair?”
“Sarah, I’m not sure—”
“You forgot? Haircut and colour!”
“Oh. Right.” She *had* forgotten.
“Smells amazing!” Sarah chattered endlessly, but Teresa didn’t mind.
“Pie’s baking,” she said.
“Great! I’ll dye it while that cooks, then tea, then the cut.”
Teresa brought a chair. Sarah draped her, mixed dye, then—before Teresa could protest—loosened the braid and snipped it off.
“Trust me. Thin, grey hair—you won’t miss it. Promise.”
Teresa gave in, avoiding the mirror. Later, they drank tea with pie, Teresa turbaned in a towel like a duchess while Sarah raved about theMonths later, as Teresa packed away David’s old jumper—finally ready to let go—she caught herself humming, realizing the hollow space in her chest had quietly filled with something new.
