“You can go back to your village,” said her husband when she lost her job.
“Emily, why so quiet? The soup’s getting cold.” William tapped his spoon against the edge of his plate, eyeing his wife with irritation.
Emily slowly lifted her head, setting her phone aside. She’d spent the day calling contacts, searching for workany workbut the answer was always the same. No vacancies. Recession. Cutbacks.
“Sorry, I was miles away.” She picked up her spoon and tasted the stewmade especially for William, with beef and barley, just how he liked it. Now it all felt pointless.
“What’s on your mind then?” He sipped the hot broth, glancing at her. “Still about the job?”
“What else would it be?” She sighed, pushing the bowl away. “Lorraine says theyre letting people go in her department too. And Sarah from accounts has been out of work for three months.”
“Oh, dont be dramatic!” William waved a hand. “Youll find something. Theres no rush.”
“William, I’m forty-three. Whos going to hire me at this age? They all want younger peopledegrees, computer skills. What do I have? A lifetime behind a shop counter.”
“And whats wrong with that? Honest work.” He finished his stew, reaching for the bread. “Speaking of, this is stale. When did you buy it?”
Emily stayed silent. Shed bought the bread two days ago, cutting costs wherever she could. Since the supermarket let her go, the household budget had shrunk. Williams wages from the building site werent much, and even those were often late.
“Maybe visit your sister?” he suggested suddenly. “Spend a week or two away, clear your head. Ill manage here.”
Her sister, Lucy, lived in London, worked as some high-flying manager. They barely spoke, just the odd birthday call.
“Why would I go there? Shes got her own life, her own family. And we havent got the money for train fares.”
“Well find the money.” William stood, walking to the window. “Listenwhy not go stay with your mum? Back in the village. At least theres homegrown potatoes, fresh milk. You wont go hungry.”
Emily froze, spoon mid-air. Her mother lived in Little Brook, sixty miles away. The last time shed visited was three years ago, for her uncles funeral. The village was dying, barely any young people leftjust pensioners.
“Are you serious? The village?” She stared at him. “What about you?”
“What about me? Ive got work here. I cant just drop everything and follow you. Im the only one bringing in money now.”
“For now,” she muttered.
“Oh, dont start!” He turned sharply. “Im not saying forever. Stay a month or two, maybe something will turn up here. Whats the point sitting around?”
“Sitting around?” She stood, clearing the table. “Who cleans this house? Who does the washing, the cooking? Who stood in that clinic queue for hours when your back went?”
“Well, that’s just how it is.” He shrugged. “I didnt mean it like that. Its just” He hesitated, rubbing his neck. “You can go back to your village if you want. Its peaceful there. No daily stress over jobs.”
The words hit her like a slap. *Go back to your village.* As if this city hadnt been her home for twenty years. As if she were just passing through.
“My village?” she repeated slowly. “And this houseis it not mine? Have I been a guest here for twenty years?”
“Emily, come on!” William flinched at her tone. “I didnt mean it like that. Its just”
“Just what? Uncomfortable for you, is it? A wife without a job, not contributing. Better pack her off somewhere out of sight.”
“Dont be ridiculous!” He dropped onto the sofa, flicking on the TV. “Im tired after work, and youre picking fights.”
She washed the dishes in silence, drying her hands on the towel. His words echoed. *You can go back.* And the way hed said itdismissive, almost relieved.
That night, William fell asleep in front of the telly while Emily lay awake. She remembered how theyd mether at twenty-three, fresh from the countryside, renting a bedsit, working in a corner shop. William had been the stock boy, handsome, attentive. Six months of flowers, cinema dates. After the wedding, they rented a flat, then got a mortgage. She moved to a big supermarket, worked her way up to department manager.
And now? He wanted her gone, like unwanted clutter.
“Mum? Why are you calling so late?” Her daughter Charlottes sleepy voice crackled through the phone.
“Sorry, love, lost track of time. How are you?”
“Fine. Whats wrong? You sound odd.”
Charlotte lived in the next town over, worked at a bank, recently married. They spoke once a week, if that.
“Nothings wrong. Just missed you. Hows Matthew?”
“Hes good. Mum, seriouslyare you okay? Your voice is off.”
She almost told herabout the job, Williams wordsbut stopped herself. Why upset her? She had her own life.
“Everythings fine, sweetheart. Get some sleep.”
“Mum, why dont you visit? Its been ages.”
“Maybe. Sleep well.”
At breakfast, William was unusually sweetbrought her coffee in bed, kissed her cheek.
“Sorry if I upset you last night. I only want whats best.”
“I know,” she said flatly.
“ListenI talked to the lads on site. Steve says his missus works in an office, they need a bookkeeper. Maybe thats something?”
“Im not a bookkeeper.”
“You could learn. Take a course. All it takes is effort.”
“Courses cost money. A lot of money.”
“Well figure it out.” He waved a hand. “If you want it, youll make it work.”
She *did* want it. Had the energy too. But every morning, scrolling through job ads, she felt more obsolete. *”Sales assistant wanted, under 30.” “Must have Excel experience.” “No applicants over 40.”*
“Hi, Claire,” she called her old shop colleague. “Hows things? Any news?”
“Emily!” Claire sounded surprised. “Thought youd forgotten us. Found anything yet?”
“Not yet. What about you?”
“Same. Two more got laid off last week. Janet from produce and Sue from bakery. They reckon more cuts are coming.”
“And the manager?”
“Acting like everythings fine, but we all know the place is done. New owner wants to gut it.”
Emily hung up and sat by the window. Kids played outside, young mums chatted on benches. Life carried onshe just wasnt part of it anymore.
“Im going to Mums,” she told William at dinner.
“How long?” He didnt look up from his plate.
“Dont know. A week. Maybe longer.”
“Fine. Have a break. Ill sort the house, finish that shed repair.”
“The shed?” She raised an eyebrow. “Youve been finishing that for six months.”
“Well, now Ill have time. Be quicker without you fussing over how I do it.”
She said nothing. *Without you fussing*. Another barb lodged in her heart.
Packing was quickjeans, jumpers, a warm coat. William walked her to the bus stop, kissed her goodbye.
“Call me,” he said. “Soon as you arrive.”
“I will.”
“And say hi to your mum. Tell her Ill visit soon.”
She nodded, though she knew he wouldnt. He hated the village”nothing to do, just fields and midges.”
The bus to Little Brook took two hours. Emily watched the countryside blur pastfields, hedgerows, the occasional hamlet. The further from the city, the lighter she felt. Maybe he was right. Maybe she *did* need to escape.
“Emily, love!” Her mother hugged her tight on the doorstep. “What a surprise! Why didnt you call? Id have made stew, baked a pie”
“Spur of the moment, Mum. Missed you.”
Her mother studied her. Margaret Hayes had always been sharpknew when something was wrong.
“Wheres William? Too busy to come?”
“Hes got work. Said hell visit later.”
“Right.” Margaret nodded, asking no more.
The house was just as she rememberedfloral wallpaper, creaky floorboards, the old stove in the corner. Yet smaller, somehow. And the smellhay, fresh milk, woodsmoke.
“You know where everything is,” her mother said. “Settle in. Ill sort dinnergot a chicken I can do.”
“Mum, dont fuss. Im not hungry.”
“Not hungry? Youre all skin and bone. Doesnt William feed you?”
“He does. Just tired, thats all.”
Margaret stroked her daughters hair. “Talk when youre ready.”
The first few days, she did nothing but restslept late, helped in the garden, visited neighbours. Many were gone now, cottages shuttered and empty. The village was fading.
“Remember Betty Carter?” her mum asked over tea. “You went to school with her girl.”
“Vaguely. What about her?”
“Moved to the city ten years back. To her sons. He put her in a home. Can you believe it? His own mother!”
“Why?”
“Said he didnt have time. Wife works, he works, kids. An old woman just got in the way.”
Emily shivered. Like someone walking over her grave.
“And her house? The garden?”
“Sold the lot. Needed money, apparently. Some loan.”
“And she agreed?”
“What choice did she have, love? Too much for one woman. Shes seventy-six.”
That evening, Emily walked through the village, met Mrs. Thompsonher old primary teacher, now bent with age.
“Emily, dear!” The old woman beamed. “All grown up! I still picture you reciting rhymes at assembly. *’Whats in the cupboard? Sugary and sweet…’*”
“I remember.” Emily smiled. “You havent changed.”
“Oh, go on! Im ancient. Nearly eighty. Still on my own, still managing.”
“No family?”
“In the city. Sons in London, daughters in Manchester. Visit once a year, if that.”
“No calls?”
“Birthdays, Christmas. Ask if Im still breathing.” Mrs. Thompson chuckled sadly. “They want me to move, but I cant. My whole lifes here.”
Walking home, Emily thought of Mrs. Thompson, Betty Carter, her own mum. Once vibrant, needed. Raised families, worked, dreamed. Now? Left behind with memories.
“Mum,” she asked at dinner, “ever thought of moving to town?”
“Thought about it. Winters are hard here. But where would I go? Your place? What if William minds? Small flat, my clutter…”
“Mum, its not his say. Youre my mother. Youre always welcome.”
“I know, love. But best not to test it. I cope fine.”
“And if you get ill? If something happens?”
“Well, it happens. Im not the first, wont be the last.”
Emily wanted to argue but stayed quiet. Williams words haunted her*go back to your village*. She realised *she* was afraidafraid one day, her own child might say the same.
On day four, William called.
“Hows it going? Hows your mum?”
“Fine. Managing.”
“When are you back?”
“Dont know. Might stay awhile.”
“What? Seriously? What about the house? What about *me*?”
“Youll cope. You said youd get more done without me.”
“Em, I didnt mean”
“What *did* you mean?”
Silence.
“Fine, stay a bit. Just not too long. I miss you.”
“Miss me,” she repeated after he hung up.
“Was that William?” her mum asked.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“Says he misses me.”
“Do *you* miss *him*?”
Emily thought. Strangely, she didnt. For the first time in years, she felt calm. No dinners to plan, no laundry piling up, no listening to William moan about work, the boss, life.
“Not sure, Mum. Not yet.”
“I see,” Margaret murmured.
“Mum did you and Dad argue?”
“Course. But we made up. He never made me feel small, never said I was in the way. Respected me.”
“What if he had?”
“Dont know. Never happened.”
That night, Emily visited Mrs. Thompson. The old woman sat knitting on her step.
“Ive been thinking,” Mrs. Thompson said, “about children. Know what I realised? We raised them to take, not give.”
“How?”
“We gave them everythingour best, our last. They grew up expecting it. *Mum will manage. Mum will sacrifice.* And when we cant? Were in the way.”
“So we shouldve been selfish?”
“Maybe. Maybe theyd value us more.”
Walking home, Emily turned it over. Shed given everythingto parents, husband, child. And in return? When she became inconvenient, she was politely sidelined.
“Mum,” she said at breakfast, “what if I stayed?”
“Stayed how?”
“Here. With you. Help out.”
“And William?”
“Let him manage. He said he could.”
Margaret was quiet a long time. “Do you *want* to stay? Or is it just hurt talking?”
“Dont know, Mum. But here Im not in anyones way.”
“Love, the village isnt running away. Its hard here. Lonely. Think carefully.”
“I am. Every day.”
Two days later, William arrived. She saw him at the gate, hesitating. Went out to meet him.
“Hi,” he said awkwardly. “You okay?”
“Fine. Why are you here?”
“To bring you home. Time to come back.”
“Whose time?”
“Em, enough! Had your break. Theres stuff to do.”
“*Your* stuff?”
“*Our* stuff! Were a *family*!”
“Family?” She laughed coldly. “When you told me to come here, was *family* on your mind?”
“I didnt *kick* you out! I suggested a rest!”
“*Go back to your village*thats suggesting a rest?”
He faltered. Knew how it sounded.
“Poor wording. But I didnt mean to hurt you.”
“What *did* you mean?”
“I meant I didnt want you suffering. Stressing over jobs.”
“And now?”
“Now I want you home. Its not the same without you.”
“And if I dont find work? Will you *suggest* I leave again?”
“I wont.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She studied himand knew she didnt believe him. Something had broken. Maybe for good.
“William, if *you* lost your job, would I tell *you* to leave?”
“Thats different.”
“Why?”
“Because Im the man. The provider.”
“And what am I?”
“Youre my wife. My support.”
“Support,” she echoed. “Useful when needed. A burden when not.”
“Dont twist my words!” he snapped.
“Then why send me away?”
He had no answer. He wasnt even sure himselfjust thought itd be easier. Fewer sad eyes, fewer job talks.
“Fine, I messed up. Sorry. Come home?”
“No.”
“What?”
“Im not ready.”
“Ever?”
“Dont know. I like it here. Mum needs help. Youll manage. You said so.”
“Emily, I *apologised*! What more do you want?”
“Nothing. I just need to think. About us. About me. About whats next.”
He stayed the night, left the next morninghurt, confused. This wasnt the Emily he knew. The one who always yielded.
“Love,” her mother said as the bus disappeared, “think again. Maybe he *has* learned.”
“Maybe. But Im not ready. I need time, Mum. Need to remember who I am without him.”
“And work? Will you look here?”
“Yes. The school in town needs a cleaner. Pays rubbish, but its something. And Ill help in the garden.”
“Course you will.”
Emily hugged her, resting her head on her shoulder. For the first time in years, she felt *home*. Truly home.
