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

“Shut up,” the husband snapped, throwing his suitcase to the floor. “I’m leaving you and this backwater you call a life.”

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

“This backwater fed your mother for twenty years while she was in and out of hospitals. Forgotten already?”

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

“Shes got everything to do with it, Victor. While you were chasing your big deals in London, I was here looking after your bedridden mother. Changing her diapers, in case youve forgotten.”

Victor stood in the doorway of their two-bed council flat, dressed in a sharp new suit, his suitcase at his feet. Margaret hadnt seen him look this polished 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 factory social clubhim, a young mechanic; her, from the accounts office. Hed spun her around to some cheesy love song, whispering nonsense in her ear. Then came the modest wedding, thirty guests, vol-au-vents, and cheap sparkling wine. His mother had wept with joy, hugging Margaret tight. “Thank you, love, for taming my Victor.”

Tamed him, had she? Twenty-two years theyd shared. Raised their daughter, Emily, now studying medicine on scholarships and Margarets side jobs. Victor hadnt given them a penny in three yearsall his money went into his latest “business venture.” What business? She still wasnt sure. First a garage, then a delivery service. All of it failed.

“You just dont understand,” Victor muttered, lighting a cigarette right there in the hallway. “Daves offered me a job in London. Runs a chain of car washeswants me to manage one. Hell even sort a flat to start.”

“Going alone?” Margaret wiped her hands on her apron. Her fingers trembled, but her voice stayed steady.

“Not alone.” Victor avoided her eyes. “With Claire. She… gets me. Believes in me.”

Claire. Margaret had known about her for months. Shed seen the texts on his phone while he was in the shower”Sweetheart,” “Missing you.” Twenty-eight years old, this “sweetheart.” A saleswoman at the dealership where Victor had been eyeing a caron finance, no less, which Margaret was still paying off from her teachers salary.

“And what about Emily?” she asked. “Your daughter. She graduates next year.”

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

She walked to the window. Outside, their neighbour Brenda was hanging laundry. Spotting Margaret, she gave a sympathetic wave. Brenda knew everythingabout Claire, about Victor barely coming home the last six months. Shed brought pies over, murmuring, “Stay strong, love.”

“Remember,” Margaret said softly, “when Emily was five? Pneumonia, doctors didnt know if shed pull through. You worked double shifts for the medicine. I sat by her bed day and night. You said, Were family, Margaret. Well get through this.”

“That was years ago.”

“Fifteen. Or when your mother had her stroke? Who took her to appointments? Who stayed up nights turning her to stop bedsores? Me, Victor. You were always too busy. Busy with what? Chasing your next big idea?”

Victor stubbed his cigarette on the windowsill. Margaret wincednewly replaced last month, saved up for penny by penny.

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

“Ten years ago. A week in Bournemouth.”

“Nothings ever enough for you!”

Margaret turned to face him. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. He didnt deserve that satisfaction.

“You know what, Victor? Go. Go to your Claire. But heres something you should knowI cared for your mother till the end. Two years, feeding her, washing her, giving her meds. Where were you? Working? On what? Youve barely held a job these last five years.”

“I tried! For this family!”

“For us? Emilys working night shifts as a care assistant to afford textbooks because her fathers playing businessman. Im teaching double classes and tutoring evenings. Who were you trying for?”

Victor gripped his suitcase handle, silent.

“And the funniest part?” Margaret continued. “Your mothers last words to me: Forgive him, love. Hes weak. Always was. Thank you for enduring. I didnt get it then. I do now.”

“Dont!” Victor exploded. “Dont you dare call me weak! Im suffocating here! In this flat, this town, with you! Your perfection will be the death of me!”

“My perfection?” Margaret laughed thendry, bitter. “Ive spent years biting my tongue. When you came home drunk. When money vanished from our savingsanother investment. When you smelled of another womans perfume. I thought youd grow out of it. For the family.”

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

“Whats that?”

“Divorce papers. Prepared a month ago. Waited to see if youd come to your senses first. But you beat me to itcongrats. Sign them.”

Victor stared, stunned. “You… knew?”

“Im not stupid. Just gave you a chance. Gave myself one toomaybe I was wrong. I wasnt.”

“The flat…” he started.

“Mine. Left to me by my mother. Youre on the lease, but youve no claim. Try court if you likebut youve no income records for three years. Fancy paying Emilys maintenance? Shes a full-time studentstill eligible.”

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

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

Margaret studied himthe grey at his temples, the lines around his eyes. Once, hed been her whole world. Now, a stranger.

“Not down the drain. Weve got Emilyclever, kind, hardworking. Takes after me,” she said with a sad smile. “And thank you. There were good years. You just lost your way. Or maybe you were always this man, and I refused to see it.”

Victor lifted his suitcase, hesitated in the doorway.

“Youll regret this. Youll be alone.”

“I wont. Ive Emily. My job. Friends. Know what? Ill finally take those dance lessonsalways wanted to learn the waltz. You said I had two left feet. Well see.”

The door slammed. Silence. Margaret exhaled, walked back to the kitchen. The potatoes were burnt. She dumped the pan in the sink, opened the windowair the place out.

Her phone rang. Emily.

“Mum, you alright? Brenda calledsaid Dad left with a suitcase.”

“Im fine, love. Eating dinner?”

“Mum… Are you crying?”

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

“Im coming over. Right after my shift.”

“Dont, Em. Youve exams tomorrow.”

“Dont be daft. Already on my way. And Mum… I love you. Youre the strongest person I know.”

Margaret 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 sunset gilding the rooftops.

“To new beginnings,” she murmured.

Below, a taxi door thudded shut. Victor loaded his case while a young blonde waved from the passenger seatClaire. Margaret had seen her at the dealership once or twice. Nothing remarkable. Just young.

Brendas voice carried up from the garden. “Margaret! Brought you a pie! Cheese and onion, your favourite!”

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

Tomorrow, shed change the locks. Sign up for dance classes. Maybe even get that bob haircut shed fancied.

Tonight, shed share wine and pie with Brenda. Not dwell on what lay ahead. Because ahead? That was her life. Hers alone. No looking back at the man whod walked away.

The phone rang againunknown number.

“Margaret Stevens? Medical faculty here. Emilys been awarded the Chancellors Scholarship. Congratulations! Shes one of our brightest!”

This time, Margaret let the tears fall. But they were happy ones.