“You’re moving to my parents’ village to look after them,” my husband commanded.

Anthony Bennett had somehow materialised in front of her at the office door, as though he had been standing there all day, waiting for her. Imogen Bennett stepped out onto the pavement, adjusting the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. The evening was warm, the colour of weak tea, and she had been thinking of lemon tea and silence. Instead, she got a husband with a stone face.

“Hello,” she said. “What brings you here? You don’t usually meet me.”

“Listen here,” Anthony said, without any greeting. “Tomorrow you hand in your notice. You resign. And you go to my parents’ village. You’ll look after them.”

“Look after who?” Imogen tilted her head, as if she hadn’t quite heard.

“My parents. They’re getting on, if you know what I mean. Someone needs to be in the house. It’s decided.”

She was quiet for a moment, studying him as though a news ticker had started crawling across his forehead. Decided. Not “shall we talk about it”, not “I’m asking you”. Decided. Like a stamp on a form.

“Interesting,” she said slowly. “And nobody thought to ask me?”

“What’s to ask?” Anthony shrugged. “You’re the wife. It’s family business. You don’t ask about that. You just do it.”

“Family,” she repeated, with mild curiosity. “So my family is now a suitcase and a train timetable.”

“Don’t be clever.” He winced, as if she’d offered him something sour. “You’re always juggling words. I said it like a human being. You’ll go, and that’s that.”

Imogen shifted her bag to a more comfortable position. Inside, something was boiling, but on the surface she kept a steady, almost tender tone. Patience is an expensive thing, and she didn’t want to spend it on the pavement.

“Tony,” she said softly, “let’s not do this in the street. Come home, and we’ll talk quietly. We’ll have some tea. Have you eaten?”

“I don’t have time for tea.” He was already glancing at his phone, at his watch, somewhere past her. “I’ve got things to do. I’ve told you the important part, and you’ve heard it. I’ll be back this evening.”

“And the details?” She gave a small smile. “The address, for example. I’ve never actually been to your parents’ house.”

“Later, later.” He waved a hand and walked away without turning round, as though the matter were closed for good.

Imogen stayed where she was, watching him go. It wasn’t anger, even. It was more like surprise. How could a man who had lived under the same roof with her for years have decided that her life was a thing you could simply lift from one shelf and put on another?

“Well, well,” she said aloud to herself. “You’ll go, and that’s that.”

She sighed and went into the shop. Bread, cheese, something for tea. Her head wanted simple, ordinary actions, the kind where you choose the loaf yourself.

It was in the vegetable aisle that she ran into Poppy. They sat back to back in the same office, and they knew more about each other than either of them would have liked.

“Oh, look who’s here!” Poppy was pushing a trolley piled high, as if she were preparing for a siege. “Imogen, save me. I’m about to lie down right here, between the courgettes.”

“What’s happened?”

“What’s happened?” Poppy snorted. “Home happened. The washing machine’s been leaking for three days, the child brought home a runny nose from nursery, and my husband is sitting there wondering why dinner doesn’t cook itself. I’m like a hamster on a wheel, only the wheel is square.”

“I’m sorry,” Imogen smiled. “I’ve got news too. Fresh, straight from the oven.”

“Go on.”

“Anthony met me outside the office. He ordered me to resign and go to the country. To care for his parents.”

Poppy stopped the trolley so abruptly that a tin of peas nearly jumped out.

“Hold on. Ordered? As in, he actually ordered you?”

“Actually ordered.” “You’ll go, and that’s that.”

“And what did you say to him?”

“I said nothing,” Imogen shrugged. “I stood there and admired how a man can erase my life in a single sentence.”

“Right, stop,” Poppy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t his parents have anyone else? Are there other children?”

“Yes. He has a sister. Violet.”

“A sister.” Poppy stretched the word out, with the face of someone discovering a secret of the universe. “So his parents have a real daughter. But the daughter-in-law is the one who has to care for them. Have I got that right?”

“Absolutely right.”

“Imogen, he’s hung a stranger’s problem round your neck like a carrier bag!” Poppy spread her hands. “They’re not even your parents. They’re his. And his sister’s. But you’re the one who has to carry it. How convenient.”

“Convenient,” Imogen agreed. “I was just thinking how lovely it is when love for your parents stops exactly at the edge of your own comfort.”

“Oh, you do have a way with words.” Poppy laughed. “Listen, are you actually going to go?”

“Do I look like a suitcase without a handle?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are,” said Imogen, dropping a bag of lemons into her basket. “The only place I’m going is for tea. And then I’ll come back.”

At home it was quiet and pleasant, until the phone rang. On the screen was her sister-in-law’s name. Imogen looked at it for a second, then answered anyway — curiosity got the better of her.

“Imogen, darling!” Violet’s voice poured honey, enough to make your teeth ache. “Oh, I’m so glad! Tony has told me everything! You’re a treasure, pure gold!”

“Hello, Violet. And in what way am I gold?”

“Well, of course! You’re going to Mum and Dad, you’ll help them! I can finally breathe, you have no idea. I’ve got the children, my job, the house, I’m being torn to pieces.”

“Wait,” Imogen cut in gently. “Did Anthony tell you I was already going?”

“Of course he did! He said it was all settled, you’re handing in your notice tomorrow and packing. Imogen, you’re so responsible, unlike some people.”

“Violet,” she almost smiled, “I’m sorry to spoil your lovely evening. But I’m not going.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“What… what do you mean, you’re not going?” Violet’s voice had gone dry. “Anthony said…”

“My husband says a lot of things. Last year he said he’d put up a shelf. There is still no shelf. So there you are.”

“Imogen, honestly!” Violet began to gabble. “They’re his parents! They need help! Who else is going to do it?”

“Exactly,” Imogen said thoughtfully. “Who? For example, their own daughter. Didn’t that occur to you?”

“Me?! I have a family! I have children! I have the whole house on my shoulders!”

“And I, apparently, have no family, no home, and no life. I’m very convenient, Violet. A gift, really.”

“You’re twisting everything!”

“I’m just listening and repeating,” Imogen replied calmly. “Anyway, I won’t keep you. Give your parents a kiss from me. In spirit.”

She put the phone down and let out a breath. Then the key turned in the lock — Anthony had come home. He went into the kitchen, dropped onto a chair, pulled over the plate she had left for herself.

“Is there anything to eat?” he muttered, already picking at it with a fork.

“It’s yours already, as you can see.”

He ate greedily, quickly, dropping crumbs, not looking at her. Then he pushed the plate away, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and, to her astonishment, got up and went into the bedroom. Imogen heard the wardrobe doors creak.

“Tony?” She looked into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he said busily, pulling out her jumpers and dropping them into an open suitcase on the bed. “You’ve got to pack. I’m a good husband, I’m packing for you. Appreciate it.”

“Appreciate,” Imogen echoed, leaning against the doorframe. “I never said I was going.”

“What’s to say?” He didn’t turn round, just kept packing the jumpers. “It’s settled. I’ve already told everyone. I told Mum. I told Violet. It’s too late to back out now. You’d be letting people down.”

“People,” she repeated quietly. “But letting me down, that’s all right.”

“Don’t start,” he said, finally turning to face her, holding her favourite scarf. “You always make a drama out of everything. What’s the big deal? You go and live there, you look after them. It’s not hard, and people need help.”

“You know,” Imogen said, folding her arms and looking at the growing pile of things in the suitcase, “the more you pack, the more interesting this becomes.”

“There, you see.” He brightened, taking it the wrong way. “She’s interested already. I told you — you’ll come round.”

The doorbell rang. At the door stood Simon, Anthony’s friend — a calm man with a heavy, attentive gaze. He stepped inside, saw the open suitcase, and frowned.

“Off somewhere?” he asked. “On holiday, are we?”

“Not exactly,” Anthony said, coming into the hall and clapping his friend on the shoulder. “Imogen’s going up to my parents’. To the village. To care for them.”

Simon turned to Imogen. She stood there calmly, with a faint smile.

“Is that true?” he asked her.

“It’s Anthony’s plan,” Imogen said. “In this plan, I’m just the suitcase. I haven’t agreed. Not in words, not with a nod, not with a blink.”

Simon slowly turned back to his friend. “Anthony. Let’s step aside.”

They went into the kitchen. Imogen didn’t hide; she stayed near, curious.

“What are you doing?” Simon said in a low voice. “They’re your parents. And your sister’s. Why should your wife carry the whole thing?”

“Who else?” Anthony spread his hands. “Violet’s busy, she’s got kids. I work. Imogen’s the only free person.”

“Free?” Simon shook his head. “She’s not free. She’s your scapegoat. I’m telling you as someone who’s been holding a family together since childhood: this is not how you do it. I raised my brother and sister. I know what care is. Care isn’t ordered. Care is taken on yourself.”

“Oh, here we go,” Anthony winced. “Saint Simon. Your life was your own, and mine is mine. I say she goes, so she goes.”

“They’re your parents, Anthony,” Simon said firmly. “Your blood. If you want to help them, sit down and help them yourself. Or share it with your sister. Don’t push it onto someone who came in from outside.”

“She’s my wife!” Anthony raised his voice. “A wife isn’t outside! She’s family! Where you get a thing, that’s where it should pull its weight!”

“Where you get a thing,” Imogen said thoughtfully from the hallway. “Tony, I’m not a horse. I don’t pull. And I’m not a vacuum cleaner, standing in the corner until someone needs me.”

“Quiet!” he snapped. “We’ll sort this out without you.”

Simon looked at him. “You’re a fool, Anthony,” he said simply. “And you don’t get better.” He nodded to Imogen and left.

When the door closed, Imogen went into the bedroom and called her sister-in-law. She had become genuinely curious to get to the bottom of it all.

“Violet, hello again. I have a question. Since everyone is so concerned about your parents, tell me: what are you ready to do for them?”

“Me?” Violet’s voice went guarded again. “I’ll send money. Regularly. That’s also care, and not a small one.”

“Wonderful,” Imogen brightened. “And how much?”

“Thirty pounds,” Violet said proudly. “Every month. That’s not something just anyone could do.”

Imogen couldn’t help it — she laughed, brightly and sincerely.

“Thirty pounds,” she repeated through the laughter. “Violet, are you serious? Thirty pounds a month for me to drop everything and move into a strange house. What generosity. Truly royal.”

“What’s so funny?!” Violet bristled. “Money doesn’t grow on trees!”

“Exactly,” Imogen said, catching her breath. “And neither do my years. Thank you, Violet. You’ve been a great help. Now I know exactly what your care is worth. Thirty pounds.”

She hung up. Anthony was standing in the doorway, beaming with self-satisfaction.

“There, look,” he said, pointing at the suitcase. “It all fit. Big suitcase, very handy. I’m a clever man.”

“You’re a clever man,” Imogen agreed.

And then she went to the storage cupboard, pulled out two large holdalls, and began efficiently filling them with the things that were left.

“Why so much?” Anthony looked puzzled. “You moving out for good, or what?”

“What did you think?” she said without turning round. “If I’m going, I’m going in style.”

And his heart warmed: she had agreed. His wife had agreed. He knew it — firmness always wins. He watched her stuff the bags and mentally patted himself on the head.

In the morning Anthony woke up in an excellent mood. He stretched, walked around the flat like the master of the house, and kept glancing at the bags by the door.

“Don’t forget,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Mother’s already waiting for you. She’s made you up a bed, a separate one. Went to all that trouble. Call her, thank her, why don’t you.”

“I will,” Imogen said, and dialled her mother-in-law.

“Hello,” she said evenly. “This is Imogen. Thank you for the bed. Very thoughtful of you.”

“Oh, love,” the old woman was pleased. “I’ve already tidied the room and made space. Come, come. The help is so needed. Floors, the garden, all sorts of things about the house.”

“I understand,” Imogen said. “Thank you again for the bed.”

“So when should we expect you?”

“Thank you for the bed,” Imogen repeated with a smile, and said goodbye.

The mother-in-law was satisfied — she had been thanked, so the girl must be coming. Anthony, who had heard the conversation, was glowing.

“See how well it all works,” he said. “Everyone’s happy. I told you so.”

“Everyone,” Imogen agreed. “A regular little festival.”

She called a taxi. Anthony, in a generous mood, carried the suitcase and bags downstairs himself. He groaned, but he carried them, with the expression of a man doing a good deed. He loaded everything into the boot, then slammed it shut.

“Right,” he said, brushing off his hands. “Godspeed. Ring when you get there.”

Imogen got into the car, waved at him, and drove off. Anthony stood by the entrance, watching the taxi disappear, proud of himself beyond reason.

And only when the car turned the corner did something knock into him. The address. He hadn’t given her the address. Imogen had never been to his parents’ house — his mother had always come to them.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, grabbing his phone.

He called Imogen. Long rings. Again. Rings. She hung up. He quickly typed a text with the address, adding: “Don’t get lost. Ring when you arrive.” Sent. He stood for a bit longer, telling himself: she’ll read it, she’ll get there, it’s all fine. She went. She got into the taxi herself. Herself.

The day passed in business. By evening Anthony had almost forgotten his anxiety — he was sure everything was going according to plan. Then the phone rang. It was his mother.

“Tony,” her voice was confused. “Where’s Imogen? Nobody came. I waited all day. The bed is made, I started a pie. She’s not here.”

“What do you mean, not there?” Anthony went cold. “She left this morning. In a taxi. I loaded the bags myself.”

“There’s no one here, son. No taxi, no Imogen. Maybe she got lost?”

“I’ll sort it,” he snapped, and hung up.

He phoned his wife. Once. Twice. Five times. Rings, and then the phone switched off. Messages wouldn’t go through. He stood in the middle of the room, and slowly, heavily, it sank in: Imogen had never gone. All her things, the suitcase, the bags — they had gone somewhere unknown, only not to his mother.

“Ah, you…” he breathed. Inside him rose a dark, stifling anger. “She tricked me. She tricked me all round.”

He paced the flat, redialling again and again, leaving voicemails in which he first demanded she come back, then shouted into the empty air. There was no answer. He slept badly.

In the morning he went to her office. He waited. Imogen came out — calm, rested, as if none of yesterday’s drama had ever happened.

“Where were you?!” He lunged at her on the steps. “Where are the things?! Mother waited all day! What have you done?!”

“Good morning, Anthony,” Imogen said serenely. “I didn’t go anywhere. And, to be honest, I never intended to. Not from the start.”

“What do you mean, not intended?!” He was gasping. “You got in the taxi! You packed your things!”

“You packed my things,” she corrected him. “With a great deal of enthusiasm, I might add. And the taxi took me and my bags somewhere else. Somewhere I am not treated like furniture.”

“You… you’re mocking me!” He was spitting words, his face mottled. “I said it to you like a human being! And you—”

“A human being asks, Anthony,” she said. “He doesn’t say ‘you’ll go, and that’s that.’” She adjusted her bag. “By the way, don’t forget. The rent on the flat is due on Friday. I don’t live there anymore, so that’s entirely your responsibility now. Logical, isn’t it?”

“You’ll come home, and today you’ll go to Mother!” he shouted, not hearing her. “I said you’ll go! Stop playing games!”

Imogen looked at him without a trace of a smile. Her voice went flat and cold.

“Anthony. Listen carefully. If you ever give me an order again — right here, in front of these steps — I will open my phone and file for divorce. Online. In three taps. Do you want to test that?”

He fell silent. He opened his mouth — and found nothing to say.

“I’m not threatening,” she added calmly. “I’m just stating the terms. The way you like to. Decided.”

And she walked away — with a light step, without looking back. She didn’t say when she would return. Or whether she would.

Anthony stood there. The anger drained out of him, and in its place came a sticky, unpleasant fear. He suddenly understood that she really had gone — with a suitcase, with bags that he himself had packed, with his own hands. As if he had been putting her out. As if he had been throwing her away. And he had loved her. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t believed, that she could be so firm, so calm, and simply leave him.

The phone rang. Violet.

“Anthony, what about Mum and Dad?!” his sister rattled. “When is Imogen finally going to arrive?”

“Never,” he snapped. “She’s not going. If you want someone to go, get in the car and go to Mother yourself.”

“How dare you speak to me in that tone?!”

“And you can put your thirty pounds somewhere deep in your purse,” he said, and heard the call die. Violet had hung up.

He sat down on the kerb by the office steps. He didn’t go anywhere. He decided to wait for the evening. Wait for Imogen. And talk to her. Without “decided”. Without “you’ll go”. Just talk. If she still wanted to listen.

He sat there and thought that the firmness he had been so proud of was nothing but ordinary stubbornness. And that he had taken the person beside him for a thing that could be moved from place to place. And the thing had got up and left. On its own two feet. With his suitcase.

THE ENDAnd as he sat there, a light drizzle began to fall, and he realised, in the way one does in dreams, that the suitcase he had packed was not hers at all, but his own.