**Diary Entry 12th March**
*”Youve always been a burden,”* the husband said in front of the doctors.
*”Margaret Elizabeth, leave those IVs beits been three hours! Go home, you can finish in the morning.”* Dr. Harrison, head of the medical ward, stood in the doorway, watching the elderly nurse methodically sorting through vials. *”Your Arthur must be waiting.”*
*”My Arthur stopped waiting thirty years ago, and hes still kicking,”* Margaret chuckled, though her hands never pausedchecking, sorting, arranging. *”Dont worry, Dr. Harrison, Ill be done soon. Just want everything ready for morning rounds.”*
He shook his head but didnt argue. After forty years at St. Bartholomews, Margaret had earned the right to work at her own pace. Her precision was legendary.
*”Oh, by the way,”* he added, turning to leave, *”the patient in Bed Seven asked for you. Abigail Williams. Said you promised her some drops?”*
*”Oh, goodnessyes!”* Margaret clapped a hand to her forehead. *”Poor thing cant sleep. I meant to bring her Dr. Whitmores prescription.”*
*”See to it, then go home,”* he said sternly. *”Else Arthur will ring me tomorrow, complaining Im working you to the bone.”*
Margaret laughed. *”He wont. Never learned how to use the phone properly. Says hes too old for newfangled nonsense.”*
Once alone, she finished the IVs and headed to Bed Seven. There, by the window, lay a thin woman in her fifties, her russet hair streaked with premature grey. Despite her illness, her eyes held quiet dignityand something sadder, tucked deep inside.
*”Abigail, love, you wanted me? So sorry, I lost track of time.”* Margaret perched on the edge of the bed. *”How are you feeling?”*
*”Better, thank you,”* Abigail murmured. *”The breathlessness has eased. But at night I cant sleep. The thoughts wont stop.”*
*”Thats your nerves,”* Margaret nodded. *”Your bodys healing. Herethe drops Dr. Whitmore prescribed. Twenty in half a glass of water before bed.”*
*”Thank you,”* Abigail said softly, taking the bottle. *”Youre always so kind. Ive not met many like you.”*
Something in her tone made Margaret study her closer. *”Is everything all right? Not just your health. Does anyone visit?”*
*”My daughter does,”* Abigail replied. *”Shes kind. Busy, thoughlives up in Manchester. My husband”* She hesitated. *”Hes occupied. Work keeps him.”*
Margaret frowned but held her tongue. Years on the ward had taught her to hear the words patients *didnt* say.
*”Tell you what,”* she decided suddenly, *”let me brush your hair. Its lovely, but tangledyoure still too weak to manage. Heaven knows theres little comfort in hospitals.”*
Without waiting, she fetched a comb from the bedside drawer. Abigail stiffened at first, then sighed as the rhythmic strokes eased the knots.
*”Mum used to do this,”* Abigail whispered. *”Said it was the best cure for sadness. I did the same for my girl when she was small. But my husband”* She trailed off.
*”What about him?”* Margaret prompted gently.
*”He calls it vanity,”* Abigail said after a pause. *”Says long hairs impracticalwith my bad back, I ought to cut it short. But I kept it my one small rebellion.”*
*”Good,”* Margaret muttered, weaving the strands into a loose braid. *”Men dont understand. Hairs a womans strength.”*
A silence settled. Then Abigail asked, *”Tell me about you. Your family?”*
Margaret smiled. *”Just me and my Arthur. Our sons in Canadavideo calls with the grandkids every few years. Forty-five years together, can you imagine?”*
*”Forty-five”* Abigail echoed. *”Victor and I wouldve made thirty-two this year. If I last.”*
*”Dont say that!”* Margaret scolded. *”Youre healing splendidly. Youll bounce great-grandbabies yet.”*
*”Victor doesnt want grandchildren,”* Abigail murmured. *”Says Im trouble enough already.”*
Margarets hands stilled. Something in Abigails voice made her chest tighten.
*”Abigail does he always speak to you like that?”*
A long silence. Then: *”Not always. When we were young, he was different. Brought me flowers, said sweet things. Then I fell ill. My spinetrapped nerve, constant pain. Had to quit my job. And Victor he changed. Snapped at me for complaining, for the medicines, for not keeping house like before.”*
Margaret squeezed her shoulder.
*”I told myself it was stresshis job, our debts. But it got worse. Now Im just”* She swallowed. *”A burden. His word.”*
*”Thats vile,”* Margaret hissed. *”Why stay?”*
*”Where would I go?”* Abigails laugh was brittle. *”No one hires women with bad backs. My pensions pittance. My daughters just starting outI wont weigh her down.”*
Margaret finished the braid and faced her. *”Abigail, love, this isnt living. A husband should stand by you in sickness, not scorn you. Thirty-two yearsdoes he truly blame you for being ill?”*
*”He says I caused it,”* Abigail whispered. *”Poor diet, no exercise, slouching at my desk. And the costs I skip medicines to save. But this surgeryhe was furious at the bills.”*
*”Wait,”* Margaret frowned. *”The NHS covered the operation.”*
*”Yes, but the scans, the brace, rehab Weve a mortgage, car payments”*
*”His car, I assume?”* Margaret arched a brow.
*”Of course,”* Abigail said drily. *”Hes the breadwinner.”*
Margaret bit back a retort as a young nurse hurried in.
*”Margaret, your Arthurs on the phone!”*
*”Arthur? On the *phone*?”* Margaret blinked. *”Must be urgent. Abigail, dont forget the drops.”*
At the nurses station, a well-dressed manpolished shoes, Rolex gleamingwas demanding answers from Dr. Whitmore.
*”How long before shes home? I cant take weeks off to nursemaid her.”*
*”Recovery takes time,”* Dr. Whitmore said evenly. *”Shell need help bathing, moving”*
*”A carer costs money,”* the man cut in. *”Our daughters abroad. Cant you hurry it along?”*
Margaret grabbed the receiver. *”Arthur? Whats wrong?”*
*”The boilers acting up, love. Gas chap says the landlord must be here. Whenre you home?”*
*”Soon,”* she promised, hanging up just as the manVictor, surelysnapped:
*”Tell her to *try harder*. Shes always lacked motivation.”*
Dr. Whitmore stiffened. *”Your wife had spinal surgery, Mr. Williams. Shes doing excellently.”*
*”Take me to her. Ill make myself clear.”*
Margaret followed, uneasy. In the ward, Abigail paled at the sight of him.
*”Victor? You came?”*
*”Spoke to your doctor,”* he said coldly. *”Seems youll be lazing here awhile.”*
*”Im following orders”*
*”Not well enough.”* His lip curled. *”Do you know what this costs me? The time off, the prescriptions you demand”*
*”I dont *demand*”*
*”You *always* do,”* he overrode her. *”First the depression after Emily was born, then the migraines, now this. Our whole marriage, Ive carried your dead weight.”*
Margaret stepped forward. *”Sir, this is a hospital. Speak to your wife respectfully, or leave.”*
Victor turned, sneering. *”And who are you?”*
*”Senior Nurse Margaret Elizabeth. And Ill *not* have patients abused in my ward.”*
*”Ill talk to my wife as I damn well”*
*”Mr. Williams,”* Dr. Whitmore interrupted, *”youll return when calmer.”*
Victor glared, then jabbed a finger at Abigail. *”No carer when youre home. Manage alone.”* The door slammed behind him.
Silence. Then Abigail whispered, *”Hes not usually works been hard.”*
*”Thats no excuse,”* Margaret said firmly.
Dr. Whitmore crouched by the bed. *”There are shelters, Abigail. Legal aid for financial abuse”*
*”Abuse?”* She shook her head. *”Hes never hit me. Just words. Thirty-two years of them.”*
Margaret took her hand. *”Listen, pet. My Arthur was a right cocky lad when we met. Thought the sun shone out his arse. Then I got pneumoniabad. He stayed up nights, made soup, changed compresses. *Thats* a real man: one who stands by you when youre weak.”*
*”Youre lucky,”* Abigail murmured.
*”Not luck,”* Margaret corrected. *”Choice. And youve chosen too long to bear this. Think on that.”*
That evening, over tea, Arthur listened, scowling. *”Bloody bastard. How do such men live with themselves?”*
Margaret squeezed his gnarled hand. *”Seeing them makes me grateful for you.”*
Arthur reddened. *”Ah, well. Im nowt special.”*
*”You are,”* she said softly.
Meanwhile, in Bed Seven, Abigail lay awake, the drops forgotten. For the first time in decades, a fragile hope flickeredthat perhaps, just perhaps, it wasnt too late to choose differently.
**Lesson learned today:** A marriage is measured not in years, but in how you weather the storms together. Choose wiselyand never let anyone make you feel like a burden.
