Determined to surprise her husband, Margaret returned from visiting her mother three hours earlyonly to step inside the flat and break into tears.
Gazing through the train window, she thought of her mum. Shed spent three days nursing her, ladling soup and doling out medicine. The fever had only broken the night before.
“You should stay another day,” her mother had insisted that morning.
“Peters all alone at home, Mum. Probably starving by now.”
Now, swaying in the train carriage, she regretted not listening. But Peter had called every evening, asking after her mother, grumbling about the empty fridge. His voice had sounded oddweary, somehow.
“Miss you,” hed murmured last night before bed.
Margaret had smiled then. Thirty-two years together, and he still missed her. A good man, shed always thought.
The train rattled on. Across from her, a woman cracked sunflower seeds and thumbed through a paperback thriller. On the cover, a glamorous woman clung to a suited man. Margaret caught her reflection in the windowwrinkles, grey roots creeping in. When had she grown so old?
“Off to see your husband?” the woman asked.
“Home, actually.”
“Im off to meet my lover,” the woman chuckled. “Husband thinks Im at my sisters.”
Margaret flushed and turned away. How could anyone speak so brazenly?
Her phone buzzed.
“Hows your mum? When are you back?” Peter had texted.
She checked the time. Four more hours. She meant to reply truthfully but changed her mind. A surprise, then. Shed cook dinner, watch his face light up.
“Tomorrow morning. Miss you too,” she sent back.
A heart appeared instantly.
Fields and villages flickered past. Margaret sipped tea from the thermos her mother had packed, along with sandwiches. “Youre too thin,” Mum had fretted. “Bet that Peter doesnt notice what you eat.”
“Im fifty-seven, Mum.”
“And? Youll always be my girl.”
Chewing the ham sandwich, Margaret thought of her mothers empty housethe same one shed grown up in. Dad had passed five years ago. Mum refused to move in with them. “Youve your own life,” she always said.
But Margaret loved caring for people. First her parents, then Peter, then the children. Shed taught at a primary school until James was born, then stayed home. Then came Emily. Somehow, decades slipped by in a haze of laundry and packed lunches.
“Why work?” Peter had said. “I earn enough. Keep the house tidy.”
So she had. For thirty years. Ironed his shirts, darned his socks, raised their children. Now James worked up in Manchester, with his own family. Emily had married, given her a grandson. She was a grandmother herself.
And what now?
The train slowed. Margaret gathered her things, nodded farewell to the woman. The platform was crowded. The bus home took half an hour.
She imagined Peters face when she walked in. He thought shed return tomorrow. Shed stop by the shops, buy good meat, fresh potatoes. Set the table nicely.
The cashier smiled as she rang up the groceries. “Special occasion?”
“Oh, just supper for my husband.”
The bags were heavy. She barely made it to the lift, fumbling for her keys. Finally, the door swung open.
“Peter? Its me!” she called. “Im back!”
Silence. Asleep, perhaps. Nearly ten already.
She set the bags down, shrugged off her coat. The lights were onodd. Peter never slept with them blazing.
Hanging her coat, she froze.
A pair of black patent heels sat by the door.
“Peter?” she whispered.
Her pulse quickened. Emilys, perhaps? But why wouldnt she call?
A womans laugh trickled from the kitchen. Not Emilys.
Margaret pressed against the wall. Her legs threatened to buckle.
“Youre hilarious, Peter,” the voice purred.
“Margaret wont be back till tomorrow. No rush,” Peter replied.
Margaret shut her eyes. The air thickened.
She crept to the kitchen doorajar. Peered in.
Peter sat at the table, hair mussed, grinning. Opposite him, a blonde womanthirty, maybewore Margarets dressing gown. Coffee cups, cake crumbs between them. Peter held her hand.
“Claire, youre amazing,” he murmured.
Claire?
“And your wife? You said you love her.”
“I do. But thisthis is different. You make me feel young.”
Margaret gripped the doorframe. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of trust.
“Peter,” she breathed.
They whirled. Peter paled. The woman leapt up, clutching the gown.
“Margaret? Youyou said tomorrow”
“Who is she?”
“Claire. From flat fifty-two.”
“Claire?” Margaret stared at the woman in her robe. “In my dressing gown?”
Claire edged toward the door. “I should go”
“No!” Margaret blocked her path. “Explain this!”
“We were just talking,” Claire mumbled. “Peter fixed my tap.”
“A tap? In my robe?”
“Margaret, calm down,” Peter cut in. “Nothing happened. Claire needed help, I went over. We had coffee”
“For four hours?”
Peters jaw worked. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Im not stupid, Peter. Thirty-two yearsI know when youre lying.”
“Nothing happened! Shes lonely, we talked”
“About life? And what am I, furniture?”
Margaret struck the table. “I gave up everything! For you! For the kids! And youyou chase after some girl!”
Peter swallowed. “Six months,” he admitted.
Margaret sank to the floor. Six months of kisses goodnight, of whispered “I love yous.”
“Get out,” she rasped.
“Margaret”
“Out!”
She shoved past him, yanked on her coat.
“Dont go! Well talk tomorrow”
“Tomorrow?” She laughed, sharp and broken. “Ill need a clear head for the rest of my life!”
Peter stood therebalding, paunchy, pathetic in his underwear.
“Go to your Claire,” Margaret spat. “Talk about life.”
The door slammed. She took the stairs, afraid hed follow.
Outside, the cold bit deep. Where to go? Too late for Emilyshed wake the baby. The last train to her mothers had gone.
She called her oldest friend, Helen.
“Margaret? Whats wrong?”
“Can I come over?”
Helen met her at the door, rumpled with sleep. Tea steamed between them as Margaret recounted it all.
“Bastard,” Helen said simply. “Theyre all bastards.”
“I dont know what to do.”
“Divorce him.”
“Butthirty-two years”
“Exactly. He thinks youll tolerate anything.”
Dawn found her sleepless on Helens sofa, replaying their marriage. When had he drifted away? Two years ago, perhaps. Shed chalked it up to a midlife crisis.
Turns out, hed just fallen in love.
At noon, Emily rang. “Mum? Dads franticwhere are you?”
“At Helens. Tell him Im thinking.”
“About what?”
“Later, love.”
Peter called all day. She ignored it. By evening, he appeared at Helens door.
“Margaret? Talk to me.”
She crossed her arms. “Talk.”
“Its over with Claire. I swear.”
“Until the next one.”
“There wont be! Margaret, I”
“Peter,” she interrupted softly. “Im fifty-seven. Maybe its time I lived for myself.”
“How?”
“Work. Travel. Figure out what I wantnot just what you want.”
“Were family”
“Family respects each other. You didnt.”
His shoulders slumped. “Fine. But Ill fight for you.”
She shut the door. Helen squeezed her hand.
“Brave girl.”
“Terrified.”
“Good. Means youre honest.”
Rain tapped the window. A new life, at fifty-seven. Strangebut perhaps not so bad.
Tomorrow, shed hunt for jobs. Visit her mother, talk properly.
And Peter? Maybe hed change. Or maybe shed find she didnt need him.
For now, the rain sang against the glass. Margaret smiledthe first real smile in days.
