**Diary Entry 15th of October, 2023**
Id planned a surprise for my husband. Came home three hours early from visiting Mumonly to find myself in tears the moment I stepped through the door.
Margaret had stared out the train window, thinking about her mother. Shed spent three days nursing her, ladling soup, doling out pills. The fever had only broken the day before.
“You should stay another night,” Mum had said that morning.
“Peters home alone, Mum. Bet hes starving by now.”
Now, swaying in the carriage, she wished shed listened. Peter had called every evening, asking after Mum, complaining about the empty fridge. His voice had sounded oddtired, maybe.
“Miss you,” hed murmured last night before bed.
Margaret had smiled then. Thirty-two years married, and he still missed her. Good man, her Peter.
The train rattled on. A woman opposite cracked sunflower seeds, nose buried in a crime novel. The cover showed a glamorous girl embracing a suited man. Margaret glanced at her reflectionwrinkles, grey roots showing. When had she aged so much?
“Meeting your husband?” the woman asked.
“Yes. Just going home.”
“Im off to see my lover,” the woman chuckled. “Husband thinks Im at my sisters.”
Margaret flushed and looked away. How could people speak so lightly of such things?
Her phone buzzed.
“Hows it going? When are you back?” Peter had texted.
She checked the time. Four hours till home. She nearly replied honestly, then changed her mind. Let it be a surprise. Shed cook dinner. Hed be pleased.
“Tomorrow morning. Miss you too,” she sent.
Peter hearted it instantly.
Fields and cottages blurred past. Margaret sipped tea from her thermosMum had packed sandwiches, fussing as always.
“Youve got thin, love. Bet that Peter of yours doesnt feed you proper.”
“Mum, Im fifty-seven.”
“Dont care. Youre still my girl.”
Chewing her ham sandwich, Margaret thought of Mum alone in that little house where shed grown up. Dad had passed five years back. Mum refused to move in with them.
“Youve your own life,” she always said. “Dont need me underfoot.”
Wouldnt be underfoot. Margaret loved caring for peopleparents, then Peter, then the kids. Taught primary school till James was born, then stayed home. Then Emily came. Somehow, decades slipped by as a homemaker.
“Why work?” Peter had said. “I earn enough. Keep the house nice.”
So she had. Thirty years of cooking, cleaning, raising kids. Ironing Peters shirts, darning his socks.
Now James worked up in Leeds, had his own family. Emily was married with a baby. She was a grandmother herself.
And what now?
The train slowed. Margaret gathered her things, nodded goodbye to the seed-cracking woman. The platform was noisy, crowded. The bus home took half an hour.
She imagined Peters faceexpecting her tomorrow, not tonight. Maybe shed stop at the shops. Get a nice joint of beef, some new potatoes. Make a proper dinner, set the table proper.
The checkout girl smiled as she packed the groceries. “Special occasion?”
“Oh, just a treat for my husband.”
The bags were heavy. She barely made it to the lift, fumbling for her keys at the door. Finally, it swung open.
“Peter? Its me!” she called. “Im back!”
Silence. Asleep, likelynearly ten.
She set the bags down, hung her coat. Lights were on. OddPeter never slept with lights on.
Heading to the wardrobe, she froze. Shoes by the door. Womens. Black heels, polished.
“Peter?” she whispered.
Her pulse quickened. Maybe Emilys? But why wouldnt she say she was visiting?
From the kitchena womans laugh.
Margarets breath caught. Not Emily. Wrong voice.
“Peter, youre ridiculous,” the voice giggled.
“Margaret wont be back till tomorrow. Weve time,” Peter replied.
Margaret pressed against the wall, legs trembling. Who was this? What were they
“What if she comes early?” the woman asked.
“She wont. Always sticks to her word.”
They laughed. Margaret shut her eyes. The kitchen door was ajar. She peered in.
Peter sat at the table, hair mussed, grinning. Opposite hima blonde, thirtyish. Wearing Margarets dressing gown. Coffee cups, cake, chocolates between them. He was holding her hand.
“Jen, youre amazing,” he murmured.
Jen? Who the hell was Jen?
“But your wifeyou said you love her,” the woman simpered.
“I do. But this you make me feel young again.”
Margaret gripped the doorframe. Thirty-two years. Thirty-two years of trust, of care, and he
“Peter,” she choked out.
They whipped around. Peter went white. The blonde jumped up, clutching the gown.
“Margaret? You saidtomorrow”
“Who is this?” Margaret pointed.
“Jen. From flat fifty-two. Neighbour.”
“Neighbour?” Margaret stared at the woman in her gown. “Neighbours wear your wifes things now?”
“I should go,” Jen scrambled.
“Stop!” Margaret barked. “Explain this!”
Jen froze, guilty but not enough.
“We were just talking,” she said. “Peter fixed my tap.”
“Your tap?” Margaret laughed, shrill. “In my gown?”
“Margaret, calm down,” Peter stood. “Jen needed help, I went over. She offered coffee. We talked”
“Talked? Holding hands? In my bloody gown?”
“Id done laundry,” Jen muttered. “Peter lent me this so I wouldnt catch cold.”
“My gown! In my house! At my table! While I nursed my mother!”
Peter stepped closer. “Dont shout. Neighboursll hear.”
“Neighbours?” Margaret recoiled. “Thats what worries you?”
“Nothing happened!” He grabbed her shoulders. “I swear!”
She searched his eyespanic, fear. And lies. After thirty-two years, she knew his face.
“Let go,” she whispered.
“Margaret”
“Let GO!”
He did. His hands shook.
“Im leaving,” Jen mumbled, edging past.
“Stop!” Margaret snapped. “Take that off first!”
“Margaret, please” Peter blocked her.
“Embarrassed now?” She shoved him. “Not embarrassed drinking coffee in my kitchen, were you?”
Jen stripped off the gown, tossed it on a chairjeans and jumper underneath.
“Sorry,” she muttered, bolting.
The front door slammed.
Margaret sank onto a chair, face in hands. No tears. Just a hollow void where her heart had been.
“Lets talk properly,” Peter pleaded.
“Talk.”
“Jen asked for help. Tap was leaking. I fixed it, she made coffee.”
“At two in the morning?”
“Nine! It was nine!”
“Its nearly midnight! Four-hour coffee, was it?”
Peter sweated, silent.
“Im not stupid, Peter. Thirty-two years. I know when youre lying.”
“We just talked! Shes lonely!”
“And Im what? Furniture?”
“Thats not”
“I gave up everything! My career, my life! For you! For the kids! And youd rather chat up some tart than your own wife!”
“Margaret, please”
She stormed round the kitchen. “Your shirts! Your meals! Your grandchild! And youre off with neighbours!”
“Just one”
“One? How many others?”
“None!”
“Liar!” She got in his face. “All those late nights! Work trips! Conferences!”
“That was work!”
“Like tonight was work?”
Peter hung his head.
“I love you. Youre everything to me.”
“Everything? Like a prized armchair?”
“Dont say that”
“How should I say it?” Tears came now. “I gave you my life! And you throw it away for some blonde?”
“Its over with Jen. I swear.”
She studied himrumpled, desperate. Probably sincere. Right now.
“Peter,” she said quietly. “Im fifty-seven. Maybe its time I lived for me.”
“How?”
“Work. Travel. Figure out what I want. Not just what you want.”
“But were family”
“Family respects each other. Not one living for themselves, the other just existing.”
Peter begged. Promised change.
In the end, she took her coat. “I need space. If you realise you want menot just a housekeepercome talk. If not” She shrugged.
He left, vowing to fight for her.
Her friend Helen hugged her later. “You did right.”
“Im terrified.”
“Terrifieds better than trapped.”
Margaret sat by the window. Rain tapped the glass. A new life at fifty-seven. Strange. Maybe not bad.
Tomorrow, shed job-hunt. Visit Mum. Talk properly.
Maybe Peter would change. Maybe shed find she didnt need him.
One thing was certainshed never again live solely for others.
The rain kept drumming. Margaret smiledproperlyfor the first time in days.
**Lesson learned:** Trust is built over decades, shattered in moments. But sometimes, the cracks show you where youve outgrown the life you settled for.
