Ethel, my dear, do you have any pity left for him? Lydia Whitaker wailed, her voice cracking like a thin teacup. Hell vanish without you, you know. Completely vanish.
I stayed silent. Outside, down the alley, boys chased a ragged football. A small girl in a pink jacket lunged at them, trying to snatch the ball back. They laughed, shoving her away, but she kept pressing forward. It was likely her ball, pilfered by the boys who now claimed it as theirs.
The sight gnawed at mea bitter blend of childhood stubbornness and reckless persistence. I remembered how Id once clawed at Simon, his laughter echoing over my attempts to reach him. At times hed rage, at times hed lie, and more often his actions had pushed me further away. Id spent three years trying to rescue, to mend, to save him, all while ignoring my own needs. My thoughts were fixed on what awaited me that nightwhere would he be, what would he say?
The voice of your former motherinlaw snapped me out of my reverie. Ethel, can you hear me? she urged, desperate. Please, talk to himone last time! He always listened to you. You could have swayed him.
I turned. Lydia was perched on the edge of the sofa, a handbag shielding her knees.
Mrs. Whitaker, I sighed, the weight of three years of cohabiting with Simon pressing down. I lived with him for three years. I tended to him, coaxed him, wept for him. He made promises, broke them, and started over. You know all of that.
I know, love, she whispered, eyes glistening. But now hes at rock bottom, understand? He was sacked two weeks ago. The flat is a messhe doesnt even wash dishes or change his sheets. I pop in once a week, tidy up, cook a stew, and all he cares about is a bottle and his cronies. All he ever asks is, Mum, can you lend me some money?
I nodded, my own eyes wet with the same damp redness. Lydia fell silent, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Through the window, the pinkjacketed girl finally wrested the ball from the boys and bolted away, clutching it to her chest, her face alight with triumph. She had reclaimed what was hers.
If you go back, maybe hell change, Lydia promised, her voice trembling. I know hell. Hed do anything for you. He loves you, doesnt he?
Loved, I corrected. When he was sober. He loved me fiercely. When he was drunk he cursed, threw plates, and remember that night I ran to you in my nightgown, barefoot? Hed hidden the keys, left me standing in the hallway, berating me for his drunken state after Id already called every friend and the hospital. Im not made of steel. I broke, you see? When your feelings are trampled day after day, they evaporate.
Lydia turned away, a heavy sigh escaping her. We sat in a strained silence; her fingers twitched, nervously fiddling with the cracked strap of her bag.
He didnt want to, she finally said. He didnt understand what he was doing.
What else could she say? I understoodshe was a mother losing a son, powerless to halt his descent.
Yes, I agreed. He didnt understand. I saw it every night he arrived at three a.m., roaring. I found his stash in the toilet cistern, in the cupboard, behind the radiator. He pilfered cash from my purse without asking. His drunken mates would ring, begging me to bring Simon home. I saw it all. Thats why I left.
But hes family! Lydia snapped, rising so abruptly her handbag slipped from her lap, spilling crumpled papers, an old lace handkerchief, and a bottle of tablets onto the floor. We both knelt, gathering the pathetic remnants.
I swore, I said. But the sorrow was too great, Mrs. Whitaker. The joy? It vanished completely.
She seized my wrist with cold, tight fingers.
Ethel, he wont survive without you! The doctors say his liver is failing. One more year like this, and
No, I replied politely. I dont want that. I swear I dont. But I wont kill myself either. If I return, Ill die before him, or Ill become his perpetual caretaker, watching, cleaning, sniffing out every problem till my own breath runs out. And what about children? Do you think they should grow up in such a house? I want normal, healthy kids.
She whispered, tears breaking free. You loved him, didnt you?
Yes, I said, in a past life thats over. I learned love isnt a martyrdom, not a rescue mission. Love is when both thrive. We never did, Mrs. Whitaker. I never did.
She dabbed her face with the handkerchief, exhaled sharply, and tucked it back into her bag.
So you wont help, she murmured, halfquestion, halfstatement.
I wont, I affirmed. Because I simply cant. Theres no strength left in me.
Lydia slipped on her coat, struggling with a button that refused to catch the loop. At the doorway she paused, voice low:
He asked about you yesterday, when he was sober. Its rare these days. He said, Hows Ethel? I told him, Shes fine, love. He nodded, said, Good to hear. Let her have a good life; she deserves it.
A wave of melancholy washed over me. I felt the ache for the Simon I once lovedcheerful, tender, caringuntil the bottle lodged itself permanently between us.
Tell him I truly wish him recovery, I said. But without me. Let him save himself. I cant live for him any longer.
Lydia nodded and left. I heard her footsteps fade down the stairwell, the door closing with a soft click. I walked to the window, watching her shuffling away, hunched and helpless, and my heart ached for her too.
Then the memory resurfaced: the last night we shared, his voice screaming that Id ruined his life, that Id driven him to drink, that I didnt understand or value him because I was selfish. Id left with a single suitcase, thinking, How lucky we are not to have children.
Now I live alone in a small flat in Manchester, work weekdays, and in the evenings I read, watch dramas, or hit the gym. Weekends are spent with friends. My life is ordinary, calm, free of catastrophes. I refuse to return to that inferno, to lie awake fearing Simon might have relapsed, lying somewhere unconscious.
I will not go back.
Because I chose myself, my right to be happy, or at least peaceful. That isnt selfish; its common sense.
Simon chose the bottle years before I ever entered his world. I simply didnt see the warning signs, blinded by love. His choice, his responsibility, his life. Not mine.
