Shut up!” the husband roared, slamming the suitcase on the floor. “I’m leaving you and this cesspool you call a life.

**Friday, 10th May**

“Shut it,” the husband barked, slamming his suitcase down. “Im leaving you and this bloody swamp you call a life.”

“A swamp?” Margaret turned slowly from the stove, where shed been frying potatoes for dinner.

“That swamp fed your mother for twenty years while she traipsed to doctors. Forgotten that?”

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

“Because while you were off chasing your big deals in London, I was here looking after your bedridden mother. Changing her diapers, for Gods sake.”

Victor stood in the doorway of their two-bed council flat, sharp in a new suit, suitcase at his feet. He looked better than he had in yearstrim, sun-kissed, reeking of expensive cologne. Nothing like the grease-stained factory worker shed married.

She remembered the dance at the union clubhim, a young mechanic; her, from accounts. Hed spun her to *Careless Whisper*, whispering daft things in her ear. A modest wedding followedthirty guests, prawn cocktail, and cheap bubbly. His mum had wept into Margarets shoulder then. *”Thank you, love, for taming my Vic.”*

Tamed him? Twenty-two years. Theyd raised a daughter, Emily, now in med school, scraping by on grants and Margarets extra tutoring shifts. Victor hadnt given them a penny in three yearspoured everything into his *business ventures*. What business? She never figured it out. A garage one month, haulage the next. All went belly-up.

“You just dont get it,” Victor snapped, lighting a fag right in the hallway. “Daves offered me a job up in Londonmanaging his car wash chain. Hes sorting a flat.”

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

“Not alone.” He wouldnt meet her eye. “With Sophie. She… believes in me.”

Sophie. Margaret had known about her for months. Seen the texts when he was in the shower*kitten, sweetheart, miss you*. Twenty-eight, a showroom receptionist where Victor had been eyeing up a caron finance, which Margaret was still paying off from her teaching salary.

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

“Shell understand. I cant live like this, Marg. Im forty-five. Still young enough to change things.”

She walked to the window. Mrs. Thompson from downstairs was hanging washing, spotted Margaret, and waved. She knew everythingSophie, Victors nights away, the lot. Brought pies sometimes. *”Chin up, love.”*

“Remember,” Margaret said softly, “when Emily was five? Pneumonia. Doctors gave up. You worked double shifts for the meds. I sat by her bed. You said, *Were family, Marg. Well get through this.*”

“That was years ago.”

“Fifteen. Or when your mum had her stroke? Who took her to appointments? Who turned her every two hours so she wouldnt get bedsores? Me, Vic. And you? Always busy*work, deals*. What deals? You were already chasing pipe dreams.”

Victor stubbed his fag out on the windowsill. Margaret wincednewly replaced, saved for months.

“You always remember the worst,” he sneered. “What about the good? That holiday to Brighton?”

“Ten years ago. A week.”

“Nothings ever enough!”

Margaret faced him. Tears burned, but she wouldnt let them fall. Not for him.

“Know what, Vic? Piss off. Run to your Sophie. But heres the thingI nursed your mum till the end. Two years spoon-feeding, washing, medicating. Where were you? *Earning?* Where, Vic? Youve barely worked properly in five years. Just chasing get-rich-quick schemes.”

“I tried! For this family!”

“For us? Emilys pulling night shifts as a HCA for textbooks because Dads playing entrepreneur. Im teaching double classes *and* tutoring. Who exactly were you trying for?”

Victor gripped his suitcase handle, silent.

“Funniest bit?” Margaret laughed, harsh. “Your mum told me before she died*Forgive him, love. Hes weak. Always was. Thanks for putting up with him.* I didnt get it then. I do now.”

“Dont you dare!” Victor exploded. “Call me weak? Im suffocating here! In this flat, this town, with *you*! Youll bury me with your bloody martyrdom!”

“Martyrdom?” She laughed again, bitter. “Ive spent years biting my tongue. When you came home pissed. When the savings vanished for your *projects*. When you stank of another womans perfume. I thought youd grow out of it. *Family*, right?”

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

“Whats that?”

“Divorce papers. Drafted last month. Waited to see if youd grow a spine or I would. You did firstcongrats. Sign them.”

He gaped.

“You… knew?”

“Im not stupid, Vic. Gave you every chance. Gave *myself* onemaybe I was wrong. I wasnt.”

“The flat”

“Mine. Mum left it to me. Youre on the lease but own sod-all. Try courtgood luck proving income when youve been unemployed three years. Fancy paying Emilys maintenance? Shes still in full-time educationSection 15 of the Children Act, if youre curious.”

Victor snatched the pen, scrawled his name, hurled the folder onto the sideboard.

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

Margaret studied himgrey at his temples, lines by his eyes. Once, shed loved that face. Now it was a strangers.

“Not wasted. Weve got Emilyclever, kind, hardworking. Takes after me.” She smiled sadly. “And thanks. There *were* good years. You just lost your way. Or maybe you were always this selfish, and I refused to see it.”

Victor hoisted his suitcase, hesitated at the door.

“Youll regret this. Youll be lonely.”

“Wont. Ive got Emily. My job. Friends. Know what? Im signing up for dance lessonsalways wanted to learn the tango. You said Id two left feet. Well see.”

The door slammed. Silence. Margaret dumped the burnt potatoes, opened the windowair it out.

Her phone rang. Emily.

“Mum? You alright? Mrs. T calledsaid Dad left with a suitcase.”

“Fine, love. Dinner later?”

“Mum… Are you crying?”

“No.” Truth. “Chopping onions. Making salad.”

“Im coming over. Right after shift.”

“Dont, Em. Youve exams.”

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

Margaret hung up, fetched the winea Teachers Day gift, saved for a special occasion. Poured half a glass, raised it to the sunset.

“To a new life,” she murmured.

A car door thudded below. Victor loaded his case while a young blonde waved from a taxiSophie. Margaret had seen her at the dealership. Nothing special. Just younger.

Mrs. Thompson shouted up, *”Marg! Bringing pie! Cheese and onion, your favourite!”*

Margaret smiledproperly, for the first time in months. The divorce papers lay on the table beside Victors keys. She weighed them in her palm.

Tomorrow, shed change the locks. Sign up for dancing. Maybe finally get that bob cut.

Tonight, shed drink wine with Mrs. T, eat pie, and not think ahead. Because ahead was *her* life. No looking back at the man who chose to walk away.

The phone rang againunknown number.

“Margaret? Med School Deans office. Emilys been nominated for the Chancellors Scholarship! Shes a credit to you!”

This time, Margaret cried. But they were good tears.

**Lesson:** Some men leave. Some loves fade. But the strength you find when standing alone? That stays. And the ones who truly matter? They never walk away.