She never argued. She simply left.
The autumn morning was damp and grey. Margaret Whitaker was jolted awake by the harsh ring of her alarm and, with a sigh, pulled herself out from under the covers. Throwing a robe over her shoulders, she shuffled to the window and pulled back the curtain. The sullen scene outside a light drizzle, skeletal trees, a low overcast sky matched her mood.
That day marked the thirtieth anniversary of her marriage to Michael Harper. She had not expected any grand gestures. In recent years Michael had long since forgotten such milestones, and if he did remember, it was only after she hinted at it with the delicacy of a whisper.
She brewed a pot of tea, sat at the kitchen table, and the memory of their first anniversary drifted in. Five years after the wedding, Michael had arrived home bearing a massive bouquet of roses and tickets to the West End. After the performance they had dined out, and he had raised a heartfelt toast to love and fidelity. At the time it had seemed that their happiness would endure forever.
A loud snore rumbled from the bedroom. Michael could sleep until noon. Lately he would return home past midnight, reeking of tobacco and spirit. When she asked where he had been, his answers were vague: stayed out with the lads, important meeting, youll never understand.
Margaret sighed and set about making breakfast. She decided on pancakes, hoping the scent would jog his memory of the special day. In their youth he had always claimed hers were the best in the world.
Around ten, Michael shuffled into the kitchen, halfasleep, and headed straight for the fridge without a greeting.
Good morning, Margaret said softly. Ive made pancakes.
Ive no time to fuss with your pancakes, he muttered, pouring himself a glass of buttermilk. Gary called, wants me to look at his car.
A lump rose in her throat. Deep down she still clung to a hope for a miracle.
Do you know what day it is? she asked cautiously.
Michael froze for a heartbeat, then shrugged. Its Tuesday, I think. What of it?
Nothing, she replied, turning toward the window to hide the tears gathering there.
He gulped the buttermilk, slammed the empty glass into the sink, and disappeared into the bathroom. Twenty minutes later he emerged, ready to leave.
Im off to Garys. Dont expect me home for dinner, he said as he walked out.
Mike, today marks thirty years since we wed, Margaret blurted.
He stopped in the doorway, scowling. And now what? Throw a parade? Margaret, how many more dates do you need? Do you want flowers? Ill buy some if you insist.
It isnt about the flowers, she whispered. I just thought it mattered to you too.
Ive got plenty to do, love. No time for sentiment, he snapped, slamming the door.
Left alone in the empty flat, Margaret cleared the cold pancakes from the table and poured herself another cup of tea. Memories of happier days swirled in her mind, now distant as a fading photograph.
After lunch she decided to walk. The rain had stopped and a shy autumn sun peeked through. She strolled through the park, breathing the fresh air and pondering her life.
When she first met Michael, he had been a cheerful, attentive lad who drove the city bus and dreamed of opening his own garage. They married quickly after six months of courtship and welcomed a daughter, Mabel. Money was scarce, but they got along. Michael always found a moment for the family, even after exhausting shifts.
Gradually fortunes turned. Michael realised his garage dream, and soon they owned a modest house and a car. Mabel grew up, took a teaching job, and moved to another town.
But the marriage grew colder with each year. First it was late nights at work, then disappearing evenings. Margaret endured silently, never raising a fight, believing the rough patch would pass. Time slipped by unchanged.
Lost in thought, she wandered into a small café shed never noticed before. A heavy heart led her to order a hot chocolate.
Inside, warmth and comfort welcomed her. Settling at a window seat, she watched other patrons. At the next table an elderly couple nibbled pastries and whispered to each other. The man gently brushed crumbs from the womans lips, and she returned his smile with a tender gratitude. The simple act struck Margarets heart anew.
Why did things go wrong with Michael? she mused, stirring her drink. When did we stop seeing each other?
Evening found her back home. Silence filled the flat. She turned on the television, a habitual shield against loneliness, and began preparing dinner. The old habit of feeding a husband who no longer valued it lingered.
Just before nine, a knock sounded. On the landing stood their neighbour, Peter Johnson, holding a bottle of red wine.
Margaret, sorry to drop by so late, he said with a smile. I remembered you mentioned your wedding anniversary is early November.
She was taken aback. Peter was a friendly, occasionalchat neighbour, never more than a nod in the hallway. She could not recall ever mentioning the date to him.
Thank you, Peter, she replied, accepting the bottle, a faint flush of surprise on her cheeks. I didnt expect
I didnt want to be a nuisance, he said apologetically. I know Michael is often away, so I thought Id wish you well. Ill leave you to it. Happy anniversary.
When Peter left, Margaret stood holding the bottle, feeling the sting of a strangers remembrance while her own husband hadnt bothered to call.
Near midnight Michael stumbled in, reeking of alcohol, a bright kissmark on his shirt.
Where have you been? Margaret asked quietly.
Now I have to account for everything? Michael snapped. We were out with the lads, celebrating all sorts of things.
Whats that mark on your shirt?
Mark? Oh, that, he shrugged, glancing at the stain. Garys daughter leaned on me when we said hello. Shes still a child.
Garys daughter is twentyseven, Margaret replied evenly. She only wears deep burgundy lipstick. This is bright scarlet.
Enough of your jealousy, Michael barked. Maybe shes using a new shade, who knows? And whats with the interrogation?
Margaret said no more. She slipped into the bedroom, locked the door, and lay down. Sleep eluded her as thoughts of their marriage, now a hollow façade, swirled. They lived like neighbours, cordial but distant.
The next morning, while Michael napped on the sofa, Margaret called Mabel.
Hi, love. How are you? Hows little Danny?
Everythings fine, Mum, Mabel answered. Dannys crawling everywhere. Dad didnt call; he forgot about the anniversary?
Just as you thought, Margaret said sadly. I need to talk. Remember you asked me to come help with the baby?
Of course! Are you coming? Mabel beamed. Itll be lovely to have you, and Danny will love his granny.
Ill come, Margaret said firmly. But not just for a week as you suggested. I think Ill stay longer, maybe move in permanently.
Mum, is something wrong? Mabel asked, worry in her voice.
Nothing serious, Margaret replied. Just very tired. Well talk later. Ill be there in three days.
The conversation left Margaret with a lightness she hadnt felt in years. The decision that had lingered for decades finally took shape. She no longer wanted to remain with a man who gave her no respect.
Michael awoke around lunchtime, his head throbbing. Margaret placed a tablet and a glass of water beside him without a word.
Whats got you so sour? he asked, wincing. Still sulking about yesterday? Sorry, I forgot the date. Who hasnt slipped up?
Im heading to Mabels, Margaret said calmly. I want to help with the baby.
When? he asked, indifferent.
Day after tomorrow.
For how long?
Im not sure. Possibly forever.
Michael, about to swallow the tablet, stared at her in stunned silence.
What do you mean, forever? he asked.
In plain English, Margaret said, meeting his eyes. Im leaving you, Michael.
Whats this sudden outburst? Because of an anniversary? I could buy you a dozen roses right now if thats what you want.
Its not about roses, she shook her head. Weve become strangers. You live your life, I live mine, but we keep pretending to be a family.
Margaret, what are you talking about? Thirty years together!
Thats exactly why Im leaving now, she replied, a sad smile touching her lips. I wont let us waste another thirty years hating each other.
Whos hurting you? Michael retorted. We have a roof over our heads. I bring home money. What else do you need?
She watched the angry, bewildered man and thought how much he had changedor perhaps simply stopped pretending.
I need more, Michael, she said softly. I need attention, care, respect. I need to feel loved and valued, not merely a housekeeper who washes shirts stained with someone elses lipstick.
Youre being dramatic again! Michael exploded. I swear nothing happened!
Whether it did or not doesnt matter, Margaret answered wearily. What matters is that were strangers now. You act as if Im invisible, and I cant go on like this.
Wait, he said, running a hand through his hair. Youre really going? What about the flat? Our things?
I dont need much. Ill take only whats mine. Let the house stay with you. My peace of mind matters more.
And where will you go? To my daughters house? Does she need a motherinlaw?
Mabel invited me. Ill help with the baby, maybe find work there. The town is big, opportunities abound.
And me? Who will cook, wash, clean?
Margaret gave a rueful smileher answer spoken for itself.
Youre a grown man, Michael. Youll manage. Or youll find someone younger and prettier to put up with your whims.
For the next two days Michael seemed to doubt the seriousness of her resolve, offering halfhearted compliments and vague promises of change.
Lets forget all this, he pleaded one evening as she packed. Ill try, I promise. Well go to the theatre, dine out. How about a holiday by the sea next summer?
But Margaret had already decided. She packed the essentials into a suitcase, leaving the rest for later, if ever needed.
A taxi arrived at dawn. Michael stood in the doorway, shifting his weight nervously.
Will you stay after all? he asked as Margaret gathered her coat. Think it over. Thirty years isnt a jest. You cant just abandon everything.
Goodbye, Michael, she said softly, brushing his shoulder. Take care of yourself.
She did not argue, did not linger on explanations. She simply left.
On the taxis back seat, she watched the familiar streets of their town slip by, feeling, for the first time in many years, a lightness she had not known. The future was unknown, but it no longer frightened her; instead she welcomed the promise of something better.
At the station Mabel and little Danny waited. The child reached for his grandmother, and she held him, tears streamingnot of sorrow, but of relief.
Mum, are you crying? Mabel asked, concerned. Did you and dad fight?
No, love, Margaret shook her head, kissing his chubby cheek. We didnt fight. I just realised sometimes you have to walk away at the right moment.
Six months passed. Margaret found work in a nursery, rented a modest flat near Mabels, and felt happier than she had in years.
Michael called a few times, pleading for her return. Yet his voice carried only selfish longing for the comfort of habit, not genuine remorse.
One evening, walking home from work, Margaret passed an elderly couple strolling arminarmthe very pair shed seen in the café years before. They whispered softly, moving at a leisurely pace. As they passed, the woman smiled at Margaret, and she returned the gesture.
Thats what true love looks like, she thought. Even after many years, you can still look at each other with tenderness, not irritation.
Back home she brewed a cup of tea, settled into her favourite armchair, and opened a book. Outside a gentle spring rain fell, but inside her heart was warm and at peace. She did not regret her choice. Sometimes one must simply leave, to begin anewclose one door, and open another.
