25April2024
Its been a long while since Ive put pen to paper, but the memory of Mabel still haunts me, and I feel I must set it down.
When I first met her, the air in the little flat on Hackford Road felt as stale as an old library. She told me three years of us had been nothing but dull routine, a sort of endless boredom, and then, without a hint of remorse, she announced shed fallen for someone else Victor.
Victor stared at her, his face paling as if a taut string had snapped inside him. Three years of shared hopes, plans, endless talks of a future together all shattered in two short sentences.
Bored? she repeated, trying to grasp the word. It wasnt boring for you all that time, and now it suddenly is?
Victor barely glanced at her, his hands still folding shirts into his bag. Whats it to you, Mabel? It just happened. These things happen. Were not the first, nor will we be the last.
She wanted to shout, to argue, but her throat closed over her words. She could only watch him methodically pack away the remnants of their life together.
After Victor left, the flat seemed to swallow her whole. The walls pressed in, the air grew thick. She sank onto the sofa and wept, though the tears brought no relief. Nights found her reaching for the empty side of the bed; days saw her going through the motions at work, detached from everything.
The neighbours on the other side of the wall laughed, cursed, and blared the television. Their voices seeped through the thin plaster, reminding Mabel that life was still being lived somewhere else full, vibrant, real. She was left with only memories and a hollow flat.
All she craved was simple: love, a home where someone waited, a place where she could drop the mask of strength and just be. She dreamed of a hearth that would accept her, tired and bewildered as she was, yearning for a bit of ordinary human warmth.
A year after the breakup, she crossed paths with Oliver.
It happened at the café opposite her office. She darted in for a quick lunch, and at a window seat sat a man whose face was etched with fatigue, his eyes dimly lit. Their gazes met for a heartbeat, and Mabel saw in him the same emptiness that had settled inside her.
Oliver was thirtyeight, freshly divorced, childless, living in a twobedroom flat that looked as if its landlord had abandoned it years ago dusty bookshelves, a sagging sofa, grimy windows. He didnt look cruel, just drained, like a lemon left out too long.
Divorced three years ago, he said on their third date, stirring his tea absentmindedly. Since then Ive been doing whatever gets me through. Workhome, homework. You get used to being alone. It even becomes comfortable no one nagging, no expectations.
Mabel listened, recognising her own pain, now crusted over with indifference.
Gradually she slipped into his world, first cautiously, then deeper. At first they simply met for movies, park walks, coffee. Oliver was a man of few words, and after Victors endless chatter, Mabel welcomed the silence. In his quiet there was a charm; there was no need to fill every pause with idle chatter.
One day I noticed how empty your flat feels, she remarked, looking around his place.
Got used to it, Oliver shrugged. Why change anything?
But Mabel saw something else: a man whod forgotten how to care for himself, who lived rather than truly existed.
Six months later she moved in with Oliver. At first she brought only the essentials, but soon the flat began to transform. She rearranged the furniture to let more light in, bought fresh bedding to replace the threadbare set, swapped cracked crockery for new, placed potted plants on the windowsill, hung light curtains that let the sun stream in. The smell of homecooked meals and fresh laundry filled the rooms; the flat warmed up and seemed to breathe.
Why are you doing all this? Oliver asked one afternoon as she hung the newlywashed drapes.
I want you to enjoy coming home, she replied simply. He fell quiet.
Unaware of the change, Oliver grew to rely on her care. He liked returning to a clean, fragrant flat, to a table set with dinner, to a bed made up fresh. Mabel wove a cocoon of comfort around him, a place where he could relax without a thought.
For two years she tended to Oliver cooking his favourite dishes, noting whether he liked things sweeter or spicier, ensuring the coffee at dawn smelled inviting, the throw on the sofa stayed soft. She surrounded him with love, asking nothing in return.
She held back any talk of the future, fearing to unsettle the fragile balance theyd found. Each time the question What next? rose in her mind, she stopped herself, thinking it was too early. Let him settle, she told herself.
Eventually she could not hold it in. The rain pattered against the windows, the kitchen was warm, and Oliver sipped tea from a new cup shed bought that week.
Oliver, when are we going to marry?
He lifted his eyes from the cup, shook his head.
Marry? Im not looking to get married again. Im not that foolish.
Mabel froze. The kitchen turned cold, the cups, curtains, and flowers on the sill felt like props on a stage. All the warmth shed built evaporated in an instant.
What why then? she stammered. Why did I do all this? Two years, Oliver! Two years Ive wrapped you in love and care. I thought we were building a future together!
Oliver set the cup down.
You never asked for this. You started it yourself. I was fine as I was.
She stared, bewildered. The man shed poured herself into, turned a bare flat into a home, simply didnt understand or didnt want to.
Fine? You were fine living in dust and clutter? With halfcooked meals? Sleeping on threadbare sheets?
Yeah, not perfect, but it works, he said as if commenting on the weather. I appreciate everything you do, truly. But I never promised marriage. After the divorce I swore off it. A stamp in the passport doesnt change anything.
It does, Mabel whispered. To me it means were a family, that we have a future, that Im not just a convenient woman.
Oliver tried to argue, Youve got it all wrong.
Mabel rose, gathered her things in silence, and walked to the bedroom. Oliver watched, saying nothing, not pleading for her to stay.
You know theres nowhere for you to go, right? Its late, its raining.
Ill figure something out, she replied curtly, zipping her suitcase.
She passed him, paused at the hallway, cast one last look at the flat. There was no longer a place for her love there.
The door closed behind her with a soft click. She trudged down the rainslicked streets, the sky a grey blanket, her chest hollow. One thought looped over and over: I only wanted him to be happy
She checked into a modest hotel, perched on the edge of the bed, finally allowing herself to break down. She sobbed until her throat went raw, until exhaustion claimed her.
When the ache finally ebbed, clarity returned. Her mistake wasnt loving; it was giving everything without ever receiving a step forward. Shed built a family where her effort was taken for granted, gifted warmth to someone who never asked for it. Shed wanted to be needed, but became merely convenient. Shed poured her soul into a man who treated it as a free extra in his orderly life.
Now I understand: love cannot be bought with chores, cleaning, or cooking. You cannot win reciprocity with a spotless kitchen alone.
If another man ever enters my life, I will not rush to change his blankets or replace his crockery. I will watch his actions, his intentions, whether he meets me halfway. If he does, then together well create a home where no one has to earn their right to be there.
A lesson learned too late, but one I will carry forward.
