«You’re out of time,» said her husband, nodding toward the door.
«That smell again! I *begged* you not to smoke indoors!» Emma flung open the living room windows, swatting the curtains aside in frustration. «God, even the sofa reeks. What will Beatrice and her husband think when they come for dinner?»
«Whats there to think?» Mark stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray with deliberate defiance. «Theyll think a normal bloke lives hereone who has the odd cig. Big deal.»
«*Normal* blokes, Mark, smoke on the balcony or outside. Not poison their family with secondhand smoke. I get headaches from it.»
«Here we go.» He rolled his eyes. «Twenty-five years married to a smoker, no complaints. Now suddenly, headaches? You sure its not the menopause, love?»
Emma stiffened, lips pressed tight. Lately, he kept needling her about her age, as if aiming for the sorest spot. And he always hit it.
«Whats that got to do with anything?» She turned to the window to hide the tears pricking her eyes. «Im just asking for basic respect. Is stepping onto the balcony really so hard?»
«Respect?» He scoffed. «And wheres *your* respect for *me*? After work, I want to sit, have a cuppa, and smoke in peacenot dash about like some errand boy. Its my house, too!»
«*Our* house,» she corrected softly.
«Yeah, *ours*,» he muttered. «But *I* pay the mortgage. *I* paid for the renovation. *I* bought your new winter coat.»
Emma exhaled sharply. That old argument. True, she hadnt worked in fifteen yearsfirst raising the kids, then caring for his mum, then… just settling into being a homemaker. And Mark never let her forget it.
«I dont want another row,» she said wearily. «Just please smoke outside. Beatrice has asthma; the smoke makes it worse.»
«Fine.» He surprised her by shrugging. «For your precious Beatrice, Ill step out. But only tonight.» He pushed up from his armchair and headed to the bedroom, tossing over his shoulder, «And *why* did you invite them? Ive got an early meeting. I need sleep, not to entertain your dull friends.»
«Theyre not just *friends*,» she countered. «Roberts head librarianhe might help me find work.»
Mark froze in the doorway. «…Work?»
Emma hesitated. Shed meant to tell him later, once things were settled. But now «I want a job at the library. Part-time, three days a week. The kids are grown, youre always at the office… I need something *mine*.»
«And wholl run the house?» he cut in. «Wholl cook, clean, do the laundry?»
«Ill manage. Its only a few hours,» she said, forcing a smile. «The kids hardly visit now, so meals»
«Your mum does, though,» he grumbled. «Every week, expecting roast dinners and puddings.»
«She *helps* me. And its not every week.»
«Whatever. But this *job*its daft, Emma. Youre forty-seven. Stay home, do your needlework, read your books…»
«My *books*?» A hot flare of anger rose in her chest. «Mark, I *taught* literature. I have a *first-class degree*. I *loved* my work before the kids!»
«Yeah, two decades ago,» he said, slumping back into his chair. «Qualifications expire, love. Whod hire you now?»
«The *library*,» she repeated. «I dont need a fortune. Just… purpose. People to talk to. To feel like Im more than your housekeeper.»
«So running our homes *nothing*?» His mouth twisted. «Not worthy of your brilliant mind?»
«Youre twisting my words.» She rubbed her temples. «Lets talk later. Ive got guests to prep for.»
She fled to the kitchen, heart pounding. Lately, every conversation with Mark became a battle. When had it started? Theyd met at uniboth bookish, dreaming big. He wrote poetry; she adored it. Then marriage, kids, his promotions at the publishing house… while she stayed home, her world shrinking to school runs and grocery lists.
She hadnt noticed him changingthe romantic student hardening into a cynical man who cared less about her thoughts, her joy. By the time she *did* notice, they were strangers sharing a house.
Beatrice and Robert arrived at seven sharp. Robert, a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard, launched into politics with Mark. Beatricebirdlike, livelyhelped Emma in the kitchen.
«Howd the talk go?» she whispered, chopping salad.
«He said no.»
«Well, of course.» Beatrice sighed. «Men *hate* changeespecially if it inconveniences them.»
«But Ill still do everything! Just three short days»
«To him, thats Armageddon.» She grinned. «*Imagine*: he comes home, and youre *not there*.»
They laughed, and Emma relaxed. Beatrice always steadied her.
Dinner began smoothly. Mark was charming, even joking. Maybe the afternoons tension was just stress.
«Speaking of books,» Beatrice said, «have you told Mark about the reading group?»
Emma froze. «What group?» Marks fork clinked against his plate.
Beatrice blundered on. «Emma leading a childrens literacy circle at the library. Twice weeklyjust two hours!»
Mark set down his wineglass. «And when were you planning to *mention* this?»
«I *tried* today,» Emma said quietly.
«I dont recall a *discussion*.» He turned to their guests. «Emmas *obsessed* with working. But starting a career at her age is… unwise.»
«Why?» Robert frowned. «Emmas *brilliant*exactly the sort we need.»
«Perhaps.» Marks smile was icy. «But she has *responsibilities*. To me.»
«Mark,» Emma whispered, face burning. «Not in front of»
«Why not?» He spread his hands. «Were all adults. Let me be clear: I *forbid* my wife to work. Full stop.»
Silence. Beatrice gaped; Robert coughed and praised the roast potatoes.
The rest of the evening limped along with stilted small talk. When the guests left, Emma cleared the table in silence.
«How long were you hiding this?» Mark blocked the kitchen doorway.
«I *wasnt*. I just wanted the right time»
«And when *was* that? After youd signed a contract?»
«I dont *understand* this anger!» She gripped a plate. «Its *work*, Mark. Not an affair!»
«To me, its betrayal.» His voice was hard. «We agreed: youd tend the home; Id provide. That was the deal.»
«That was *twenty years ago*! The kids are *grown*. I *need* thisto feel like *me* again!»
«So home isnt *enough*?» He stepped closer. «You want *freedom*? New *friends*?»
«This isnt about *friends*»
«Spare me.» He sneered. «Ive seen liberated women at the office. Work leads to affairs, leads to divorce.»
Emma stared. «You think Id *what*? Fancy some dusty librarian?»
«Im just saying no. End of.»
Something in her snapped. «Im taking the job. Ill call Robert tomorrow.»
Marks face darkened. «Youve *decided*? Without me?»
«You *wouldnt* listen.»
«Right.» He turned on his heel.
She heard him stomping around, muttering. Then he returned, thrusting her handbag and coat at her.
«Youre out of time. If you make decisions alone, you can *live* alone. Get out.»
She blinked. «…Youre *kicking me out*? Over a *library job*?»
«Im *freeing* you. Since my opinion means nothing.»
Her hands shook as she took the coat. Theyd fought beforebut hed never *thrown her out*.
«Youre serious?»
«Deadly.» He shoved the bag at her. «Go on. Maybe *Beatrice*ll take you in.»
She numbly buttoned her coat. As she reached the door, she turned.
«You know whats *saddest*? You never asked *why* I need this. You just *ordered*, like Im property.»
«Why, then?» he spat.
«Because Im terrified.» Her voice broke. «That one day, you wont come home. That youll leave me for that *editor* you stay late with*Olivia*.»
Mark recoiled. «*What*?»
«She calls every night. You take it on the balcony, but the walls are *thin*.»
She stepped out, shutting the door softly. The hallway was quiet, save for a neighbors jazz record.
Outside, the night air was crisp. She inhaled deeplyand felt lighter, as if shrugging off a weight shed carried for years.
Pulling out her phone, she dialed Beatrice. «Its me. Can I come over? …Yes, we talked.»
Walking to the bus stop, she marveled at lifes turns. That morning, shed imagined decades more in that house, with him. Now she was stepping into the unknownand for the first time in years, she wasnt afraid.
Her phone buzzed*Mark*. She hesitated, then declined the call and switched it off.
Her time *was* up. The time of fear, of silence. Now began something newhers alone. And she was ready.
