The suitcase stood in the hallway that morning.
“Claire…” John began.
“Don’t,” she cut him off. “You made your choice. Now I’m making mine.”
The door slammed. John was alone.
He sat at the kitchen table, poking at his cold shepherds pie with a fork. Half past six. Claire was already an hour and a half late.
The telly in the corner murmured about another political scandal, but John wasnt listening. His gaze wandered over familiar detailsthe yellow curtains with poppies Claire had hung five years ago, his slippers by the fridge, her knitted cardigan draped over the chair.
Everything in its place. Except for her.
The front door clicked. Finally.
“John, Im so sorry!” Her voice was weary. “Dad took illwe had to call an ambulance.”
John grimaced. Those old people again.
Claire stumbled into the kitchenhair dishevelled, eyes red from crying.
“What happened?” he asked, not looking up from his plate.
“His blood pressure spiked. The doctor said he needs constant monitoring…” She slumped into the chair opposite. “Mum was beside herselfdidnt know what to do.”
“They dont have a phone? Cant call an ambulance themselves?”
Claire flinched as if hed struck her.
“John, theyre in their seventies. They were terrified. And theyre my family.”
“And what am I? Not your family?” He set the fork down and glared at her. “I come homeno one here, dinners gone cold.”
“Im sorry,” she whispered, reaching for the stove. “Ill heat it up.”
But irritation simmered inside him. She used to meet him at the doorhand him his slippers, ask about his day. Now it was always her parents.
Claire moved silently around the kitchen, shoulders slumped, hands trembling as she shifted pans.
John watched the back of her head, remembering how she used to turn to him with a smile. When had that been? A month ago? Two?
“Look,” he said, softening his tone, “maybe they really do need a carer. Their pensions arent bad.”
Claire froze, ladle in hand.
“Not bad? John, Dad gets £400 a month, Mum gets £300. Half of that goes on medicine and bills.”
“£300?” His brows rose. “She worked her whole life.”
“As a teacher. At a village school.” She turned to face him. “John, you knew that.”
He didnt. Hed never paid much attention to his in-laws finances.
His own parents had died a decade ago, leaving behind a one-bed flat hed sold straight away. Claires? He only saw them at Christmas.
“Then hire someone part-time,” he suggested. “For cleaning, cooking.”
“With what money?” Her voice sharpened. “Did you hear me? £700 between them!”
John shrugged. Hed never tallied other peoples expenses. He and Claire had enoughhis engineering salary, her private English tutoring. They lived comfortably, no excess, but no hardship either.
Outside, the sky darkened. Claire set a reheated plate before him and sat down. She didnt eatjust propped her chin on her hand, staring at the table.
“Claire,” he murmured. “I dont mind helping. But you cant abandon our family.”
“Which family?” Her eyes lifted to his. “Are we even still a family?”
The question hung in the air.
John chewed slowly, thinking. A family? Suppose they were. No childrenClaire couldnt have them, and adoption had never felt right. Just the two of them, quiet and steady.
“Of course we are,” he finally said.
The weeks that followed were thick with tension.
Claire was at her parents every other daydoctors visits, errands, cleaning. John came home to an empty flat.
Dishes in the sink, bed unmade, yesterdays leftovers in the fridge.
“I cant do this anymore,” he said one evening. “The house is falling apart.”
“What exactly is falling apart?” Claire sighed, clutching a bag of laundry. “Forgotten how to cook? Wash up?”
“Its not about that.”
“Then what?”
He had no answer. It wasnt the chores. It was the shifthed been the sole focus of her attention. Now that focus had moved.
“Theyre not children,” he tried. “They managed without you before.”
“Mum fell in the bath yesterday. Lay there two hours before I got there.” She flung the laundry down. “What, should I have left them?”
“Hire a carer!”
“With what money?” she shouted. “With what?”
They stood in the kitchen, yelling for the first time in fifteen years of marriage.
Claire cried, smearing tears across her cheeks. John felt something inside him twist.
“John, do you even hear yourself?” Her voice shook with anger. “Theyre my parents. My father. My mother!”
“And what am I?” he exploded. “A lodger? A flatmate?”
“Youre my husband! But they”
“But they matter more!” he cut in. “I get it! Fifteen years of normal life, and now you remember filial duty!”
Claire recoiled as if struck.
“How can you say that? Theyre old, theyre ill”
“And Im what, thirty?” he barked. “Im tired too! I want to come home to a wife, not an empty house!”
“So I should abandon them? Let them die alone?”
“I didnt say die! But they can manage! Theyve got moneyhire help!”
“What money?” she cried. “Do you know what carers cost? £20 an hour! Minimum!”
John faltered. Hed never priced it.
“Maybe… not every day,” he mumbled. “An hour a day”
“An hour?” Claire laughed, hysterical. “John, listen to yourself! Clean, cook, wash, laundryin an hour? Impossible!”
“I cant take this!” He slammed a fist on the table. “Watching you leave me! Every day! Every bloody day, youre there, not here!”
The words spilled out, and he knewthis was it. Not the chores, not the cold dinners. Fear. Fear of losing her. Fear of being alone.
Claire stared at him, wide-eyed.
“So its not about money,” she said quietly. “Youre jealous of my own parents.”
“Im not!” he snappedthough he knew she was right. “I just… want my wife back, not a full-time carer!”
“And if your parents were alive?” she asked. “Would you abandon them?”
John opened his mouth. Shut it.
His parents… If theyd lived this long, maybe he wouldve helped. Maybe.
But it wasnt the same.
“My parents are gone,” he began.
“Mine arent!” she cut in.
“Then heres how it is,” he said lowly. “No more visits. If you want to help financially£50 a month max. Thats enough for a carer twice.”
“What?”
“No more visits. No more than £50. Thats final.”
Claire stood in the middle of the kitchensmall, dishevelled, tear-streaked. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“Final,” she repeated slowly. “Youre forbidding me. A forty-year-old woman. Forbidding me to help my dying parents.”
“Claire”
“£50 a month,” she continued, voice hollow. “Two carer visits. One hour each. Two hours of help a month. The rest of the timewhat? They sit in filth? Starve?”
She fell silent. Wiped her tears. Stared at him a long moment. Then turned and walked out.
That morning, the suitcase stood in the hallway.
“Claire” John started.
“Dont,” she said. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. John was alone.
The first few days were almost pleasant. No nagging about socks left out. Football on late, eating straight from the pan. Freedom.
But by weeks end, it was clearthis wouldnt do. John found a cleaner through an ad.
Margaret, mid-forties, came twice a weekscrubbed, laundered, cooked meals for days. Cost him £400 a month.
“Wheres the wife?” she asked once.
“Split up,” John said shortly.
Margaret clucked sympathetically and went back to scouring the sink.
News of Claire came in fragments. A neighbour spotted her at the GPs with an elderly manher father, likely. A colleague mentioned seeing her at the theatre with some academic type.
Then Claire filed for divorce.
The news of her remarriage came from the same neighbour, delivered with barely concealed glee.
“That ex of yours got married again. Some doctor. Widower, kids and all.”
John nodded, shut the door. Sat on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
So shed found a new family. With children. Wonder how she managed that?
The years slipped by. Margaret came like clockwork. John worked, watched telly, met friends occasionally. Life settled.
Until his sixtieth birthday. Work grew harderhis back seized, his blood pressure spiked. John retired.
He filed the paperwork, got his pension. It was less than expected£600 a month. With utilities at £200, little remained.
First to go was the cleaner.
Alone at sixty, he relearned laundry, cooking. His hands fumbled, his back ached from mopping. What Claire had done effortlessly now took half his day.
After six months, he knewsomething had to change. So he made the call.
“Hello?” Her voice was unfamiliar.
“Claire. Its John.”
Silence.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
The words wouldnt come. He fidgeted with the receiver.
“I… was wrong. Im sorry.”
“And?”
“I want to fix this.”
Claire laughed.
“Fix it? John, its been ten years. Ten!”
“I know, but”
“Everything has a price,” she cut in. “Understanding shouldve come sooner.”
The line went dead. John slowly hung up.
That evening, he sat at the same kitchen table. The yellow curtains had faded. Claires cardigan was long gone. Only his slippers by the fridgeworn, aged.
Outside, streetlights flickered on. Neighbours windows glowedfamilies inside, someone waiting for someone.
And he was alone.
