I gave you the best years of my life, and you traded me for a younger woman, I said to Edward, handing him my divorce papers.
You understand what youve done? Youve torn everything apart! Marions voice cracked, tears rattling on the brink of being held back. Our family, our life, everything we built over twentyfive years!
Edward stood by the window, his back to her, silent. His broad shoulders, once Marions rock, now seemed foreign and tense. He didnt even turn. That silence cut deeper than any shout.
Say something! she begged, stepping closer. Look into my eyes and tell me its a lie. That the woman Andrew saw you with is just a colleague, a misunderstanding
He finally turned, his face weary, the corners of his eyes lined with deep creases. There was no remorse, no regretonly a dull, detached fatigue.
Marion, I wont lie, he said softly. Its true.
The room seemed to thicken, the air heavy enough to make breathing difficult. Marion recoiled as if struck. She clung to a desperate hope that this was a terrible mistake.
But why? she whispered, the words echoing in the oppressive quiet of the lounge. Why, Edward? What did I do wrong?
You didnt do anything wrong, he ran a hand through his hair. Youre a perfect wife, a perfect mother. Its not you. Its me.
Its not youthe most overused line, Marion sneered, bitterly. I gave you the best years, Edward! I gave up my career so you could build yours. I created a home, raised our Lucy, waited for you after every business trip. And you you simply swapped me for someone younger.
Its Emma, he added, as if the name mattered.
I dont care what shes called! Marion exploded. Shes twentyfive? Thirty? She could be my daughter! What can she give me that I havent?
Youngness, Edward replied, steady. Lightness. The feeling that theres still a whole life ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us our life has become routine: dinner at seven, a TV show at nine, a vacation once a year at the same hotel. Predictable, safe, and dull.
Marion stared at him, not recognizing the man shed marriedthe man whod once painted walls in a tiny flat and celebrated Lucys first steps. This was a cold stranger, delivering harsh truths with unnerving calm.
So our life is just routine to you? she asked, feeling the world crumble inside her. My love, my care is that just tedium?
He said nothing, and his silence answered.
She walked to the sideboard, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. Her hands trembled, the letters jagged. She wrote only a few words, then handed him the page.
Whats this? he asked, frowning.
Divorce petition. Ill sign it tomorrow. Leave.
Marion, lets not be hasty
Leave, Edward, she said, her voice ringing like steel. Pack your things and go to your lightness. I dont want to see you again.
He gave her a long, heavy look, nodded, and left the room. Half an hour later she heard him rummaging in the bedroom, the click of a suitcase lock. He gave no farewell, the front door shut quietly, cutting their past cleanly away.
Marion sat alone in the living room, sinking into the armchair he once loved. Silence pressed on her ears. For twentyfive years the house had buzzed with Lucys laughter, Edwards footsteps, the hum of the television, kitchen chatter. Now it was vast, empty, echoing like a crypt. She didnt cry; the tears had run dry at the beginning. Inside lay a barren desert, cold and lifeless.
In the morning a persistent phone rang. It was Lucy, their daughter, who had been living separately with her husband for two years.
Hi Mum! Dad and I havent forgotten were supposed to have dinner with you today. Ive baked your favourite apple crumble.
Marion closed her eyes. How could she tell her? How to explain that the family no longer existed?
Lucy, we wont be coming, she said hoarsely, sounding like a stranger.
Is everything okay? Are you ill? Lucy asked, worried.
Were were getting a divorce, love.
Silence lingered on the line, then Lucy asked softly, He left?
Yes.
Im coming over now.
An hour later Lucy sat across from Marion at the kitchen table, gripping her hand tightly, eyes full of compassion.
I knew something was off, Mum. Hes been distant, glued to his phone, endless meetings in the evenings. I just didnt want to believe it. How are you coping?
I feel like Ive been ripped out of my life, with no clue what to do next, Marion admitted. Its empty, Lucy.
Ill talk to him, Lucy said firmly. Ill tell him how he treated you.
No, that wont change anything, Marion shook her head. Hes made his choice. He wants lightness.
They sat in silence for a long while. Then Lucy stood, opened the fridge, and began pulling out groceries.
Were not going to sit around feeling sorry. Ill cook something tasty now, and tomorrow well go shopping for a new dress and book you a salon appointment. A fresh haircut.
Why? Marion asked, indifferent.
Because life doesnt end, Mum, Lucy replied resolutely. It just begins again.
The next few days passed in a haze. Marion mechanically followed Lucys suggestions: shopping, a salon chair, a light makeup. In the mirror she saw a neatly dressed fiftyyearold woman with a fashionable cut and tired eyes. The new dress fit perfectly, but brought no joy. It felt like a masquerade, trying to paint over a void with bright colours.
Edward called once to arrange a time to collect his remaining belongings. The conversation was brief and businesslike, no hint of remorse. He arrived on a weekday while Marion was home, quietly packing books, CDs, winter coats. He lingered by a shelf of family photographs, took a picture of the three of themyoung, happy, Lucy in his armsstanding by the sea. He examined it, then carefully returned it to its place.
Ill leave it, he said softly. Its part of your memory too.
Marion said nothing. As he left, she noticed his old scarf on the hallway tablethe one she had knitted for him ten years ago. Whether he left it intentionally or forgot, she picked it up, inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of tobacco. For the first time in days she wept, bitterly, like a child bruised by a thorny shawl.
Loneliness settled heavily. Evenings, once filled with his presence, now rang with deafening silence. She tried to distract herself: the television felt shallow, books blurred. She wandered the empty flat, passing his armchair, his mug, the dent in his side of the bed that never quite smoothed out.
While sorting the wardrobe she discovered a box of old fashion sketches. Before marriage shed studied fashion design, even won an award for her final project. Then Edward came, the wedding, Lucys birth, and her husbands career took precedence. Her designs gathered dust.
She sat on the floor, leafing through faded sheetsdelicate silhouettes, bold colour combos, daring cuts. One sketch was the dress shed worn on their first date, a gown Edward had once called her a fairy. The memory pierced her chest. The sketches seemed drawn by another womanconfident, hopeful, full of dreams. Where had that girl gone? When had she vanished into the role of wife and mother?
One afternoon her longtime friend Sophie called after months of silence.
Marion, love, how are you? Sophie asked.
Managing, Marion replied curtly.
Fancy a coffee? You cant spend all your time alone.
Marion hesitated but agreed.
They met in a cosy café in the city centre. Sophie, a bubbly estate agent, dove straight in.
So, tell me everything. Or at least the gist. Middleage crisis, greying beardstandard fare. Hes found a younger doll and thinks hes a macho.
Dont say that, Sophie. Shes probably nice, Marion protested.
Saw what? Good or bad, it doesnt matter! He betrayed you after twentyfive years. Men, right?
Sophie ordered two cappuccinos and a plate of scones.
Eat, she urged. You need some positivity. What about the flat?
Its minemy parents gave it to me. He has no claim.
And what will you live on? Child support isnt coming, youre not disabled.
Ill find work, Marion said uncertainly. Im not helpless.
What? At fifty, with no recent experience? A shop assistant? A concierge? Wake up, Marion! Youre used to a certain standard of living.
Sophies words were harsh but true. Marion hadnt imagined how to survive. Her savings wouldnt stretch forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Sophie asked suddenly. Your dresses were brilliant! Everyone envied you. You have talent!
That was ages ago, Marion shrugged. Who cares now? Designers are everywhere.
Give it a try, not for money, just for yourself. Do something that lights you up, otherwise that emptiness will eat you.
The conversation sparked something. That evening Marion pulled out the sketches again, this time with fresh eyes. She retrieved an old sewing machine, a bolt of fabric shed once bought for curtains, and began stitching. The needle moved rhythmically, pulling her out of bitter thoughts and into creation.
She made a simple summer dress, pouring herself into the fabric. When she finished, she tried it on. The dress was airy, the colour of a clear sky, and it fit her like a second skin. She turned before the mirror, and for the first time in weeks a faint smile touched her lips.
A few days later, as she was leaving a shop, she collided with Edward, arminarm with a young, laughing womanEmmaher lighthaired, shortskirted figure. They looked more like father and daughter than lovers. Edward stared at Marion, at her new dress, at her confident posture, and something like surpriseor perhaps admirationflashed in his eyes.
Marion he began. You look well.
Thank you, she replied evenly, not giving Emma a glance. And youstay healthy.
He nodded and walked on, his gaze lingering a moment longer. Marion felt a gentle ache, not a sharp sting. She realized she no longer felt crushed by grief; there was only a soft melancholy for the past and a prick of wounded pride. He saw her not as a broken woman, but as poised and beautiful. That was a small, yet profound victory.
Inspired, she sewed another dress, then a skirt, a blouse. Lucy saw the creations and gasped.
Mum, these are amazing! You could sell these!
Who would want them? Marion blushed.
Everyone! Lucy declared. You have a style, a signature. Lets set up a socialmedia page. Ill photograph the pieces, write a blurb.
Marion hesitated, but Lucys determination won. She opened an account called Marions Dresses, photographed the garments against historic doors in the city centre, and posted the first few designs.
At first nothing happened. Then a woman in her forties messaged, thrilled by a dress and requesting another in a different colour. Marion took measurements, chose fabric, and sewed through the night, fearing she might disappoint her first client. When the dress arrived, the customer was ecstatic and left a glowing review. Word spread, and more orders followed.
Her hobby blossomed into a proper business. She turned a spare room into a studio, bought a professional sewing machine, an overlock, mannequins. She studied online tutorials, read about new fabrics, and spent almost no time on sorrow. Her clientele were mostly women of her age, tired of bland highstreet clothing, yearning for elegant pieces that flattered them. Marion understood them like no one else. She wasnt just making clothes; she was gifting confidence.
One evening, as she finished an order, there was a knock. Edward stood on the doorstep, thinner, looking lost.
May I come in? he asked softly.
She stepped aside. He entered, eyes taking in the showroomlike living room: dresses hanging, sketches scattered, fabric swatches.
Wow, he murmured. Lucy told me you were sewing, but I didnt expect it to be this serious.
What did you think Id do? Sit by the window and weep? Marion replied with a hint of irony.
I dont know what I thought, he said, sitting heavily. Things with Emma didnt work out.
Surprise, surprise, Marion said, unable to hide a smile.
Dont mock me, he muttered, rubbing his forehead. Shes a nice girl, but were from different worlds. She loves clubs, social media, a language I dont speak. Ive learned that lightness isnt always happiness; sometimes its just emptiness. I miss our evenings, your soups, the way you laughed at silly comedies. Ive ruined it all. Ive been an idiot.
Tears welled in his eyes.
I want to come back, if youll let me.
Marion stared at the man she had loved almost her whole life, the one who had broken her heart and now stood at her door, bruised and pleading. Part of her, the part that remembered twentyfive years of joy, wanted to embrace him, to forgive and forget. Another part, forged by solitude and newfound strength, whispered a firm no.
Edward, she began slowly, choosing her words. When you left, I thought my life was over. I was just your wife, a shadow. When you disappeared, I almost vanished too. Then I found myself againthe woman I had buried beneath chores and expectations. I remembered I am not merely Mrs. Brown; I am Marion, with my own wishes, talents, dreams.
She walked to the window he had once stood by, the very one from that fateful night.
I dont hold a grudge. In fact, Im grateful. You forced me to awaken. But I cant take you back. Not because I havent forgiven you, but because I am no longer the woman you left. This flat is no longer the home you left. Its my home, my life, and theres no room for you in it.
She turned back to him. He sat, head bowed, silent.
Goodbye, Edward, she said softly.
He rose without looking at her and left, the door closing behind him. This time Marion felt no pain, no hollow; only a gentle sadness and a profound sense of freedom. She walked to her workbench, switched on the lamp, lifted a bolt of fabric and a sketchbook. Ahead lay a new collection, fresh ideas, a life she was building herselfand she liked it.
The lesson she learned: when you let go of the past and rediscover who you truly are, you gain the power to create a future brighter than any promise of youth ever could.
