She didnt argue. She simply walked away.
A damp, grey autumn morning stretched over London. Margaret Whitaker jolted awake to the shrill buzz of her alarm clock, then crawled out from beneath the covers with a sigh. She threw a cotton robe over her shoulders, padded to the bedroom window and yanked the curtains aside. The drab scene outsidelight rain ticking on bare branches, a sky the colour of bruised stonemirrored the weight in her chest.
Today marked the thirtieth anniversary of her marriage to Edward Clarke. Yet she expected no grand gestures; in recent years he had let such dates slip like sand through his fingers. When he did remember, it was only because she nudged him with a gentle hint.
She brewed a pot of tea, settled at the kitchen table, and the memory of their first anniversary slipped in. Five years after the wedding, Edward had burst through the door clutching an impossibly large bouquet of roses and tickets to the West End. After the play theyd dined at a little bistro where he raised a glass and toasted love and loyalty. In that moment she had believed their happiness would stretch forever.
A low, rhythmic snore rolled from the bedroom. Edward could sleep until noon. Lately he returned home after midnight, smelling of tobacco and cheap whisky. When she asked where hed been, his answers were vague: Stuck with the lads, important meeting, youll never understand.
Margaret exhaled, then turned to make breakfast, deciding on pancakesperhaps the scent would jog his memory of a date that mattered. In their youth he always claimed her pancakes were the best in the world.
Around ten, a bleary Edward shuffled into the kitchen, bypassed any greeting, and headed straight for the fridge.
Good morning, Margaret murmured softly. Ive made pancakes.
Ive no time to fuss over pancakes, he muttered, pouring himself a glass of kefir. Vasili called, needs a hand with the car.
A lump rose in her throat. Deep down she still clung to a sliver of hope for a miracle.
Do you even know what day it is? she asked cautiously.
Edward froze for a heartbeat, then shrugged. Its Tuesday, I think. Why?
Nothing, she whispered, turning toward the window, hiding the tears that began to gather.
He gulped the kefir, flung the empty glass into the sink, and disappeared into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he emerged, coat in hand.
Im off to Vasilis. Dont wait for me at dinner, he said as he left.
Edward, today marks thirty years since we said I do, Margaret blurted.
He halted in the doorway, a scowl forming. And now what? Throw a parade? Margaret, how many more dates must I endure? Want flowers? Ill buy them, its no trouble.
It isnt the flowers. I thought it mattered to you too, she answered quietly.
Ive a mountain of work, no time for sentiment, he snapped, slamming the door.
Alone, Margaret cleared the cooling pancakes from the table and poured herself another cup of tea. Memories of brighter days swirled like mist in her mind.
After lunch she slipped on a coat and walked into the park, the rain having ceased, a shy sun poking through the clouds. She inhaled the crisp air, pondering the life shed lived.
When she first met Edward, he was a cheerful, attentive lad who drove the city buses and dreamed of opening his own garage. They married after just six months of courtship, and soon a daughter, Emily, arrived. They were poor but closeknit; Edward always carved out time for his family, even after long shifts.
Eventually his garage opened, money began to flow, they bought a flat in Camden and a modest car. Emily grew, finished school, and moved to Bristol on her own.
But with each passing year the gap between them widened. First the late evenings, then the outright disappearances. Margaret endured it all, never raising her voice, believing the storm would pass. It didnt.
Lost in thought, she wandered into a tiny café shed never noticed before. A melancholy settled over her, and she ordered a hot chocolate.
Inside, the warmth wrapped her like a blanket. She took a seat by the window, watching the other patrons. At the next table an elderly couple nibbled pastries, speaking in low tones. The man gently brushed crumbs from his partners lips; she returned the gesture with a grateful smile. The tenderness of that simple act made Margarets heart tighten.
Why did everything fall apart with Edward? she wondered, stirring the chocolate. When did we stop seeing each other?
Evening found her back at the flat, the silence heavy. She turned on the television to fill the void and began preparing dinner, the habit of feeding a husband who no longer seemed to taste it still clinging to her.
At nine, a knock sounded. The neighbour, George Bennet, stood on the landing with a bottle of red wine.
Margaret, sorry for the intrusion, he said, smiling. I remembered you mentioned your wedding anniversary is early November.
She blinked, surprised. They were merely polite neighbours, exchanging a few words in the lift now and then. She could not recall mentioning the date to him.
Thank you, George, she replied, taking the bottle. I didnt expect
No bother, he said, apologetically. I know Edward travels a lot, thought Id drop a note. Happy anniversary.
When he left, Margaret stood with the bottle, a strangers remembrance of her milestone stark against her husbands silence.
Near midnight Edward stumbled home, reeking of alcohol, a bright lipstick stain on his shirt.
Where have you been? Margaret asked softly.
Now Ive got to report? he snapped. We were out with mates, celebrating stuff.
Whats that on your shirt?
What shirt? he glanced down, waving it off. Just a splash, nothing.
The Vasili girls daughter is twentyseven, and she only wears deep burgundy. This is bright scarlet.
Youre tired of my jealousy, Edward growled. Maybe she has a new shade, I dont know. And whats this interrogation?
Margaret didnt argue. She slipped into the bedroom, locked the door, and lay down, sleep evading her. The thought that their marriage had become a hollow performance haunted her.
The next morning, while Edward dozed on the sofa, Margaret called Emily.
Hey, love. Hows everything? Hows little Tom?
All good, Mum, Emily replied. Toms crawling everywhere. Dad didnt call yesterdayforgot about the anniversary?
Exactly, Margaret sighed. Listen, I need to talk. Remember you asked me to come help with the baby?
Of course! Are you serious? Emily beamed. Come over, wed love you! Tom would love his granny.
Ill come, Margaret said firmly. But not just for a week. I want to stay longer, maybe even move in.
Mum, is something wrong? Emily asked, concerned.
Nothing major, Margaret answered. Just tired. Ill be there in three days.
The conversation left Margaret with an unexpected lightness. The decision that had lingered for years finally took shape. She no longer wanted to live with a man who neither respected nor valued her.
Edward awoke around lunch, head throbbing. Margaret placed a tablet and a glass of water beside him.
Whats with the gloom? he asked, wincing. Still sulking about yesterday? Sorry, I missed the date. Who hasnt slipped up?
Im going to Emilys, Margaret said calmly. Ill help with the baby.
When? he asked, indifferent.
The day after tomorrow.
For how long?
I dont know. Possibly forever.
Edward, about to swallow the tablet, stared at her, mouth agape.
What do you meanforever?
In the literal sense, Margaret replied, meeting his eyes. Im leaving you, Edward.
What? Because of the anniversary? he tried to grin. I could buy you a bouquet right now if thats what you want.
Its not about flowers, she shook her head. Its that weve become strangers. You live your life, I live mine. Yet we pretend were a family.
Margaret, whats happening? Weve been together thirty years!
Thats why Im leaving now, she said, a sad smile playing on her lips. I wont let us waste another thirty years hurting each other.
Whos hurting you? he shouted. Roof over our heads? Ive got that. Money? I bring that in. What else?
She watched the angry, bewildered man and thought of how far he had driftedmaybe not changed, just stopped pretending.
I need a lot, Edward, she whispered. Attention, care, respect. I need to feel loved, not just a housekeeper who washes shirts stained with other peoples lipstick.
Youre being dramatic again! Edward erupted. There was nothing!
Whether there was or not doesnt matter, Margaret replied, weary. What matters is that were strangers now. You act as if I dont exist, and I cant live like that any longer.
Wait, he said, hair ruffling. Are you serious about leaving? What about the flat? Our things?
I dont need much. Ill take only whats mine. Let the flat stay with you. My peace of mind matters more.
So where will you go? To my daughters place? Does she need a motherinlaw?
Emily invited me. Ill help with the baby, maybe find work there. The city is big, opportunities everywhere.
And me? Who will cook, wash, tidy?
Margarets smile turned wistful. That was the answer.
Youre a grown man, Edward. Youll manage. Or youll find someone younger, prettier, who will tolerate your habits.
The next two days Edward seemed to doubt the seriousness of her plans, alternating between feigned ignorance and clumsy compliments, promising change.
Lets forget all this, he pleaded one evening as she packed. Ill try, I swear. Well go to the theatre, dine out. How about a holiday by the sea next summer?
But Margaret had already decided. She packed the essentials into a suitcase, leaving the rest for later.
A taxi arrived at dawn. Edward lingered in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot.
Maybe youll stay? he asked as she reached for the handle. Think about it. Thirty years isnt a joke.
Goodbye, Edward, she said softly, brushing his shoulder. Take care of yourself.
She didnt argue or linger. She simply left.
On the way to the station, the taxi windows framed familiar streets of Camden, and for the first time in years she felt a strange lightness, a freedom that was not frightening but inviting. Ahead lay the unknown, and she welcomed it.
At the station Emily waited with little Tom, who instantly reached for his grandmother. She lifted him, tears spillingnot of sorrow, but of relief.
Mum, are you crying? Emily asked, alarmed. Did something happen? Did you and dad fight?
No, love, Margaret said, kissing the child’s chubby cheek. We didnt fight. I just realised sometimes you have to know when to walk away.
Six months later, Margaret found work in a nursery, rented a modest flat near Emily, and felt happier than she had in years.
Edward called a few times, begging her to return. His voice held no true remorse, only a selfish desire to keep things as they were.
One evening, on her way home from work, Margaret passed an older couple strolling arminarm under a street lampthe very pair she had watched in the cafe on her anniversary day. They talked softly, their steps unhurried. As they passed, the woman smiled at Margaret, and she returned the smile.
True love looks like that, she thought. Even after many years, you can still see someone with tenderness, not irritation.
Back home, she brewed a cup of tea, settled into an armchair, and opened a book. Outside, a gentle spring rain fell, but inside her heart was warm and calm. She felt no regret for the path she had taken. Sometimes you must simply close one door to open another, and walk into a new life untethered by arguments or fights.
