I gave you the finest years of my life, and you traded me for a younger woman, I told Edward, sliding the divorce papers across the kitchen table.
The weight of what youve done youve smashed everything! Marjorie’s voice cracked, trembling with tears she struggled to hold back. Our family, our lifetwentyfive years of building together!
Edward stood by the window, his back to her, silent. The broad shoulders that once felt like a steadfast shield now seemed foreign, tense. He didnt even turn. That silence wounded deeper than any shout could have.
Please, say something! she pleaded, stepping closer. Look me in the eyes and tell me its a lie. That the woman Andrew saw with you was just a colleague, a misunderstanding
Slowly he turned. Fatigue etched his face; the corners of the eyes Margaret had loved bore deep lines. There was no remorse, no regretonly a hollow, detached weariness.
Margaret, I wont lie, he said quietly. Its the truth.
The room grew heavy, the air thickened, and it became hard to breathe. Margaret recoiled as if struck. She clung to a desperate hope that this might be a terrible mistake.
But why? she whispered, her words echoing loudly in the deafening quiet of the sitting room. Why, Edward? What have I done wrong?
Youve done nothing wrong, he brushed a hand through his hair. Youre a perfect wife, a perfect mother. The fault isnt yours. Its mine.
The fault isnt yours linehow often Ive heard it, Margaret bitterly laughed. The most wornout phrase in the world. I gave you the best years, Edward! I gave up my career so yours could flourish. I kept the home warm, raised our Emily, waited for you after every posting. And you you simply traded me for a younger girl.
Her name is Sophie, he added, as if that mattered.
Names mean nothing to me! Margaret exploded. How old is she? Twentyfive? Thirty? She could be my daughter! What can she give you that I never could?
Younger, he replied softly but firmly. Lighter. The feeling that theres still a world ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us our life turned into routine: dinner at seven, a programme at nine, a holiday once a year in the same hotel. Predictable, reliable, and inevitably dull.
Margaret stared at him, not recognizing the man who had once painted the walls of their tiny first flat with her, who had cheered at Emilys first steps. This was a stranger, cold, delivering cruel truths with unsettling calm.
So our life is just routine to you? she asked, feeling everything inside her crumble. My love, my care just monotony?
He said nothing, and that was his answer.
She walked to the sideboard, took a piece of paper and a pen. Her hands trembled, the letters jagged. She wrote only a few words, then handed the sheet to him.
Whats this? he asked, frowning.
Divorce petition. Ill sign it tomorrow. Leave.
Margaret, lets not be hasty
Leave, Edward, she said, her voice ringing like steel. Gather your things and go to whatever lightness you seek. I will not see you again.
He met her gaze for a long, heavy moment, then nodded and left the room. Half an hour later the sound of him rummaging in the bedroom, the click of a suitcase lock, reached her ears. He said no goodbye, only the soft slam of the front door, cutting the past cleanly away.
Margaret was left alone in the sitting room. She sank into the armchair he had once loved, the silence pressing against her ears. For twentyfive years the house had thrummed with life: Emilys laughter, Edwards footsteps, the hum of the telly, kitchen chatter. Now it was a cavernous, echoing tomb. She did not weep; the tears had dried long ago. Inside lay only a barren desert, cold and lifeless.
The next morning the phone rang insistently. It was Emily, her daughter, who had been living separately with her husband for two years.
Mum, hello! Did you and Dad remember were due for dinner tonight? Ive baked your favourite apple crumble.
Margaret closed her eyes. How could she explain that the family no longer existed?
Emily, we wont be coming, her voice was hoarse, foreign.
Whats wrong? Are you ill? Emily asked, worried.
Were were divorcing, love.
Silence stretched over the line, then Emily whispered, Has he left?
Yes.
Im coming over now.
Soon Emily was seated opposite her in the kitchen, clasping Margarets hand with a look of deep empathy.
I suspected something, she said. Hes been distant latelyalways on the phone, endless meetings in the evenings. I just didnt want to believe it. How are you holding up?
I dont know, Margaret confessed. It feels as if Ive been ripped from my own life, with no guidance on what comes next. Its empty, Emily.
Ill talk to him, Emily declared. Ill tell him everything. How could he do this to you?
No, that wont change anything, Margaret shook her head. Hes made his choice. He wants lightness.
They sat in heavy silence. Eventually Emily rose, opened the fridge, and began pulling out ingredients.
We wont sit and sulk. Ill make something delicious now, and tomorrow well go shopping for a new dress for you. Ill book you in at a salon, give you a fresh cut.
Why? Margaret asked, indifferent.
Because life doesnt end, Mum, Emily said firmly. It just starts again.
The days that followed drifted like a fog. Margaret mechanically followed Emilys suggestions: shopping trips, a salon chair, a light makeup. In the mirror she saw a neatly dressed, fiftyyearold woman with a fashionable haircut, but the eyes were dull, the smile forced. The new dress fit perfectly yet brought no joy; it felt like a masquerade, a splash of colour over a hollow void.
Edward called once to arrange the pickup of his remaining belongings. The conversation was brief, businesslike, devoid of any reminiscence or regret. He arrived on a weekday while Margaret was home, silently gathering his books, records, winter coats. He lingered at the shelf holding family photographs, lifted a picture of the three of themyoung, happy, Emily in his armsstanding by the sea. He examined it, then placed it back.
Ill leave this, he murmured. Its part of your memory too.
Margaret said nothing. As he left, she noticed his old scarf on the hall table, the one she had knitted for him ten years ago. Whether forgotten or left on purpose, she took it, inhaled the familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with wool and a hint of tobacco, and for the first time in days she broke down, sobbing bitterly into the rough fabric.
Loneliness pressed down on her evenings like an oppressive weight. Once filled with his presence, the nights were now deafeningly silent. She tried to distract herself: the television seemed trivial, books blurred before her eyes. She wandered the empty flat, encountering ghosts of the pastthe armchair, his mug on the kitchen counter, the dent in the mattress that never quite smoothed out.
While sorting a wardrobe, she uncovered a box of old sketches. Before marriage she had studied fashion design, her graduation project even winning a modest award. Then Edward, the wedding, Emilys birth, and her own ambitions had been pushed aside. The sketchbooks lay dustcovered.
She sat on the floor, leafing through yellowed pagesdelicate silhouettes, bold colour pairings, avantgarde cuts. One sketch was of the dress she had worn on their first date; Edward had once called her a fairy. The memory stung. The drawings seemed to belong to another womanconfident, hopeful, brimming with dreams. Where had she gone? When had she disappeared into the roles of wife, mother, and caretaker?
One afternoon her old friend Susan, whom she hadnt seen for months, phoned.
Margaret, love, I heard from Emily. How are you holding up?
Im coping, Margaret replied curtly.
Fancy a coffee? We cant spend all our time alone.
At first Margaret hesitated, then agreed. They met in a small, cosy café in the town centre. Susan, a lively estate agent, dove straight in.
So, spill.
Nothing much to spill. Its the classic midlife crisis, grey hair, and a younger flinghes turned into a bit of a lout, thinks hes a Casanova.
Dont be so harsh, Susan. He might be a good man, Margaret tried.
Good man? He betrayed twentyfive years of your life. Men! Susan exclaimed, slamming her coffee cup down. He left you for a girl who lives for the club scene and Instagram. He thinks lightness equals happiness, but its just emptiness. Im sorry, love.
Susans words were brutal but true. Margaret truly had no clear idea how to survive financially. Her savings would not last forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Susan asked suddenly. You had such talent! Why not try it again, just for yourself? Not to sell, but because it made you happy.
It was ages ago, Margaret brushed off. Who cares now? There are countless designers.
Give it a go! Susan urged. Make something for yourself. If it sparks joy, thats enough.
The conversation stirred something within Margaret. That evening she retrieved her old sketches again, looking at them with fresh eyes. She fetched a dusty sewing machinea birthday gift from her motherswept away the cobwebs, and found a piece of fabric she had once bought for curtains but never used. Her hands remembered the rhythm; the needle slipped through the cloth, pulling her out of bitter thoughts into a world of creation.
She sewed for several days, losing track of time. The result was a simple summer dress, airy as a June sky, in a soft blue that seemed to lift her spirits. When she slipped it on and faced the mirror, she saw a woman of poise, youngerlooking, slender. A faint smile unfurled on her lipssomething she hadnt felt in years.
One afternoon, as she left a shop, she collided with Edward walking arminarm with a laughing young womanSophie, petite, blond, in a short denim skirt. They looked more like father and daughter than lovers. Edwards eyes fell on Margaret, then on her new dress, and a flicker of surpriseor perhaps admirationcrossed his face.
Margaret he started. You look well.
Thank you, she replied evenly, not granting his companion a glance. And you, stay well.
He nodded and continued on his way, his gaze lingering for a moment before he disappeared. In that instant Margaret realized the sharp sting of his hurt had softened; only a gentle melancholy remained, tinged with a pride in her own resilience.
Emily, seeing her mothers creations, was overjoyed.
Mum, this is brilliant! Youre a real designer now!
Who would want these? Margaret asked, blushing.
Everyone! Emily declared. Lets set up a socialmedia page; Ill photograph your work, write a lovely story.
After some hesitation, Margaret agreed. She opened an account simply called Margarets Dresses, photographed her pieces against the historic doors of the town centre, and posted.
At first there was silence. Then a woman of a similar age messaged, thrilled with a dress and asking for a different colour. Margaret measured, chose fabric, and sewed through the night, anxious not to disappoint her first client. The customers praise arrived, and word of mouth spread. Orders came one after another.
Her modest hobby blossomed into a small business. She converted a spare room into a workshop, bought a professional sewing machine, an overlock, and mannequins. She learned through online tutorials, read about new fabrics, and rarely let sorrow intrude. Her clientele were mostly women of her generation, tired of generic highstreet clothing, yearning for elegance that flattered and concealed. Margaret understood them like no other; she wasnt just making garments, she was restoring confidence.
One evening, as she finished a commission, a knock sounded at the door. Edward stood there, thinner, looking lost.
May I come in? he asked softly.
She stepped aside. He entered, eyes taking in the transformed sitting room, now a makeshift showroom: dresses on hangers, sketches scattered on the sofa.
Blimey, he muttered. Emily mentioned you were sewing. I never imagined itd be this serious.
And what did you think? That Id sit by the window weeping? Margaret replied with a light jab.
I I dont know what I thought, he admitted, sinking into a chair. Things with Sophie didnt work out.
Typical, Margaret said, unable to hide a chuckle.
Dont be cruel, he said, rubbing his forehead. Shes a nice girl, but were from different worlds. Shes into clubs, socialslanguages I dont speak. Ive learned that lightness can be just emptiness. I miss our evenings, your stews, the way you laughed at silly comedies. Im a fool.
His eyes glistened with unshed tears.
I want to come back, if youll have me.
Margaret remained silent, staring at the man she had loved almost all her life, the one who had shattered her heart yet now stood at her threshold, humbled and pleading. Part of her, the part that remembered twentyfive years of happiness, wanted to rush to him, to forgive and forget. Another partnewer, forged in pain and solitudefirmly said no.
You know, Edward, she began slowly, choosing her words. When you left, I thought my life was over. I was merely your wife, a shadow. When you vanished, I almost vanished too. But then I found myself again, the girl I had buried beneath chores and obligations. I am not Mrs. Edward any more; I am Margaretmy own person, with wishes, talents, dreams.
She walked to the window he had once stood by that fateful night.
I bear you no ill will. In fact, Im grateful; you forced me to wake up. But I cannot take you back. Not because I havent forgiven you, but because I am no longer the woman you left. This house is now my home, my life, and there is no room for you.
She turned to him; he sat, head bowed, silent.
Goodbye, Edward, she said quietly.
He rose, did not look at her, and walked to the door. It shut behind him, but this time Margaret felt no pain, no voidonly a gentle wistfulness and an overwhelming sense of freedom. She went to her workbench, switched on the lamp, lifted fabric and pencil. Ahead lay a new collection, fresh ideas, a life she would build herself. And for the first time in many years, she truly liked the life she was shaping.
