Shut Up!” He Snarled, Hurling the Suitcase to the Floor. “I’m Leaving You and This Dump You Call a Life.

“Shut it,” the husband snapped, tossing his suitcase onto the floor. “I’m leaving you and this dump you call a life.”

“A dump?” Emily turned slowly from the stove, where she was frying potatoes for dinner.

“This dump fed your mother for twenty years while she shuffled between doctors. Forgotten already?”

“Whats Mum got to do with it? Dont you dare bring her into this!”

“Everything, Tom. While you were chasing your big deals in London, I was here looking after your bedridden mother. Changing her nappies, if you must know.”

Tom stood in the doorway of their two-bedroom terraced house, dressed in a sharp new suit, his suitcase at his feet. Emily hadnt seen him look this good in yearstrim, tanned, smelling of expensive cologne. A far cry from the factory days when hed come home reeking of machine oil.

She remembered how theyd met. A dance at the local social clubhim, a young mechanic; her, from accounts. Hed spun her around to the sound of a cheesy love song, whispering nonsense in her ear. Then came the modest weddingthirty guests, a buffet of prawn cocktails, and cheap sparkling wine. His mother had cried with joy, hugging Emily: “Thank you, love, for taming my Tommy.”

Tamed him, had she? Twenty-two years married. Raised a daughter, Sophie, now in med school, scraping by on her scholarship and Emilys extra tutoring shifts. Tom hadnt given them a penny in three yearspouring everything into his latest “business venture.” What business? Emily still wasnt sure. A garage one month, a delivery service the next. All of it went bust.

“You just dont get it,” Tom lit a cigarette right there in the hallway. “Daves offered me a job in London. Runs a chain of car washeswants me to manage one. Even sorted a flat to start.”

“Going alone?” Emily wiped her hands on her apron. They trembled, but her voice stayed steady.

“Not alone.” Tom looked away. “With Jessica. She… she understands me. Believes in me.”

Jessica. Emily had known about her for months. Seen the texts on his phone while he was in the shower. “Babe,” “sweetheart,” “miss you.” Twenty-eight years old, this “babe.” Worked at the car dealership where Tom had been eyeing a caron finance, mind you, which Emily was still paying off from her teachers salary.

“What about Sophie?” Emily asked. “Your daughter. She graduates next year.”

“Shell understand when shes older. I cant live like this anymore, Em. Im forty-five. Still young enough to change things.”

Emily moved to the window. Outside, their neighbour Margaret was hanging laundry. She spotted Emily, gave a little wave. Margaret knew everythingabout Jessica, about Tom barely coming home these past six months. Shed brought over pies, saying, “Hang in there, love.”

“Remember,” Emily said quietly, “when Sophie was five? Pneumonia. Doctors didnt know if shed pull through. You worked doubles for weeks to pay for her meds. I barely left her bedside. You said, Were family, Em. Well get through this.”

“That was years ago.”

“Fifteen years. Or when your mum had her stroke? Who took her to every hospital appointment? Who stayed up nights turning her so she wouldnt get bedsores? Me, Tom. You were always too busy. What business? You were just chasing the next scheme.”

Tom stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill. Emily wincednewly replaced last month. Shed saved for it herself.

“You never forget a thing, do you?” he snapped. “All the bad stuff. What about the good? That holiday I took you on?”

“Ten years ago. A week in Brighton.”

“Nothings ever enough for you!”

Emily turned to face him. Tears pricked her eyes, but she wouldnt let them fall. Not for him.

“You know what, Tom? Go. Run off with Jessica. But heres the thingI looked after your mum till the end. Two years she lived here. Two years of spoon-feeding, bathing, pills. Where were you? Working? On what, Tom? You havent held a proper job in five years.”

“I tried! For this family!”

“For the family?” Emily scoffed. “Sophies pulling night shifts as a care assistant to afford textbooks because Dads playing entrepreneur. Im working doubles at school plus tutoring. Who were you trying for?”

Tom gripped his suitcase handle, silent.

“Know the funniest part?” Emily continued. “Your mum told me before she died, Forgive him, love. Hes weak. Always was. Thank you for putting up with him. I didnt get it then. I do now.”

“Dont!” Tom exploded. “Dont you call me weak! Im suffocating here! In this house, this town, with you! Youll bury me with your bloody righteousness!”

“My righteousness?” Emily laugheddry, bitter. “Ive spent years biting my tongue. When you came home drunk. When money vanished from savings for your latest project. When you reeked of someone elses perfume. I thought youd grow out of it. For the family.”

She opened the sideboard, pulled out a folder. Tom stiffened.

“Whats that?”

“Divorce papers. Prepared them a month ago. Waited to see if youd leave first. Or if I would. But you beat me to itwell done. Sign them.”

Tom gaped at the documents.

“You… you knew?”

“Im not stupid, Tom. I gave you a chance. Gave myself onemaybe I was wrong. I wasnt.”

“The house” he started.

“Mine. Left to me by my mum. Youre on the deeds, but youve no claim. Try court if you likebut funny thing, youve no tax records for three years. Fancy paying child support?”

“Shes a grown”

“Full-time student. Eligible till she graduates. Section 3 of the Family Law Act, if youre curious.”

Tom snatched the pen, scrawled his signature, flung the folder onto the console table.

“Happy now? Twenty-two years down the drain?”

Emily studied him. Grey at the temples, lines by his eyes. Once, hed been her world. Now? A stranger.

“Not down the drain, Tom. Weve got Sophie. Bright, kind, hardworking. Takes after me,” she smiled sadly. “And thank youfor the good years. You just lost your way. Or maybe you were always like this, and I refused to see it.”

Tom hoisted his suitcase. Lingered in the doorway.

“Youll regret this. Alone at your age.”

“I wont be alone. Ive got Sophie. My job. Friends. Know what else? Im signing up for dance lessons. Always wanted to learn the tango. You said Id look ridiculouswell see.”

The door slammed. Emily stood in the silence, then returned to the kitchen. The potatoes were burnt. She dumped the pan in the sink, opened the windowair it out.

Her phone rang. Sophie.

“Mum? You okay? Margaret called, said Dad left with a suitcase.”

“Im fine, love. Eating dinner?”

“Mum… Are you crying?”

“No,” Emily wasnt. “Chopping onions. Making salad.”

“Im coming over. Right after my shift.”

“Dont, Soph. Youve exams tomorrow.”

“Mum, stop it. Im on my way. And Mum… I love you. Youre the strongest person I know.”

Emily hung up. From the fridge, she pulled a bottle of winea Teachers Day gift, saved for a special occasion. Poured half a glass, raised it to the window where sunset gilded the rooftops.

“To a new life,” she murmured.

Below, a taxi door thudded shut. Tom loaded his suitcase while a young blonde waved from the passenger seat. Jessica. Emily had seen her at the dealershipnothing special. Just young.

Margaret called up from the garden:

“Em! Bringing you a pie! Cheese and onion, your favourite!”

Emily smiledproperly, for the first time in months. The divorce papers lay on the table beside Toms abandoned keys. She picked them up, weighed them in her palm.

Tomorrow, shed change the locks. Sign up for dance class. Maybe finally get that bob haircut.

Tonight, shed drink wine with Margaret, eat pie, and not think ahead. Because ahead was life. Her life. No looking back at the man whod walked away.

Her phone rang again. Unknown number.

“Mrs. Carter? Med school administration. Your daughters been awarded the Deans Scholarship. Congratulations! Sophies a credit to us all!”

This time, Emily did cry. But they were good tears.