I gave you the best years of my life, and you swapped me for a younger woman, I told Edward, sliding the divorce papers across the kitchen table.
Do you realise what youve done? Youve torn everything apart! Eleanors voice fractured, trembling with tears she struggled to hold back. Our family, our lifetwentyfive years of building!
Edward stood by the window, his back to her, silent. The broad shoulders that had always felt like a safe harbour now seemed foreign, strained. He did not turn. The hush cut deeper than any scream.
Say something! she begged, stepping nearer. Look at me. Tell me its not true. That the woman Andrew saw you with was just a colleaguea mistake
He finally turned slowly. Fatigue lined his face, deepening the corners of the eyes she had once loved. There was no remorse, no regretonly a dull, distant weariness.
Eleanor, I wont lie, he said quietly. Its true.
The room grew thick, the air heavy as if the walls themselves were pressing in. Eleanor recoiled as if struck. She clung to the flimsy hope that this might be a monstrous misunderstanding.
But why? she whispered, and the whisper rang like a shout in the stillness of the living room. Why, Edward? What have I done wrong?
You havent done anything wrong, he ran a hand through his hair. Youre a perfect wife, a perfect mother. It isnt youits me.
The its not you lineso overused, Eleanor sneered, bitterness curling her laugh. I gave you my prime, Edward! I gave up my career so you could chase yours. I made a home, raised our daughter, waited for you after your trips. And you you traded me for youth.
Its Sophie, he added, oddly precise.
Care I dont give about her name! Eleanor exploded. Shes twentyfive? Thirty? Shes practically my daughter! What could she offer that I didnt?
Youngness, he answered softly but firmly. Lightness. The feeling that theres still a whole life ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us our life has become routine: dinner at seven, a TV show at nine, a holiday once a year in the same bland hotel. Predictable, safe, and inevitably dull.
Eleanor stared at him, not recognizing the man whod once painted walls in a tiny flat with her, whod celebrated their daughters first steps. This was a cold stranger, speaking cruel truths with a frightening calm.
So our life is just routine to you? she asked, feeling something snap inside. My love, my care just boredom?
He said nothing, and that was his answer.
She moved to the sideboard, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. Her hands shook, letters jagged and broken. She scribbled a few words, then walked back to hand him the note.
Whats this? he asked, frowning.
A divorce petition. Ill sign it tomorrow. Leave.
Eleanor, lets not be hasty
Leave, Edward, she said, her voice ringing like metal. Pack your things and go back to your lightness. I dont want to see you again.
He met her gaze for a long, heavy moment, then nodded and exited. Half an hour later she heard the soft clatter of his suitcase in the bedroom, the click of a lock. No goodbye was spoken; the front door shut with a sound that severed the past.
Alone in the living room, she sank into the armchair he used to occupy each evening. Silence pressed on her ears. Twentyfive years of life had filled that house: Emmas laughter, his footsteps, the hum of the telly, kitchen chatter. Now everything was still. The flat felt cavernous, empty, echoing like a crypt. She did not weep; the tears had run out at the start of the argument. Inside was only a scorched desert, cold and lifeless.
Morning found her jolted awake by a persistent phone ring. It was Emma, their daughter, who had been living on her own with her husband for two years.
Mum, hello! Are you and Dad still coming for dinner? Ive baked your favourite apple crumble.
Eleanor closed her eyes. How could she tell her? How to explain that the family no longer existed?
Emma, we wont be coming, she said hoarsely, a strangers voice.
Whats happened? Are you ill? Emma asked, alarmed.
Were divorcing, love.
Silence hung on the line. Then Emma whispered, He left?
Yes.
Im coming over now.
Within an hour Emma stood across the kitchen table, clasping Eleanors hand tightly, eyes brimming with empathy.
I knew something was wrong. Hes been distant, glued to his phone, endless meetings. I just didnt want to believe it. How are you?
I dont know, Eleanor admitted. It feels like Ive been pulled out of my life, left nowhere to go. Its empty, Emma.
Ill talk to him! Emma declared, determined. Ill tell him everything. How could he do this to you?
Dont, Eleanor shook her head. It wont change anything. Hes made his choice. He wants lightness.
They sat in heavy silence. Then Emma rose, rummaged in the fridge, and began pulling out food.
We wont just sit and mope. Ill make something tasty, and tomorrow well shop for a new dress for you, and get you into a salon for a fresh cut.
Why? Eleanor asked, indifferent.
Because life doesnt end, Mum. It just starts again.
The next few days drifted like fog. Eleanor went through Emmas suggestions mechanically: shopping, sitting in the hairdressers chair, even a light makeup session. In the mirror she saw a neatly dressed fiftyyearold woman with a trendy haircut and tired eyes. The new dress fit perfectly but brought no joy. It felt like a masquerade, an attempt to paint over a void with bright colours.
Edward called once to arrange a time to collect his remaining belongings. The conversation was brief, businesslike, no hint of regret. He arrived on a weekday while Eleanor was home, silently gathering books, CDs, winter coats. He lingered by a shelf of family photos, picked up a picture of the three of themyoung, smiling, baby Emma cradledstanding by the sea. He stared, then placed it back gently.
Ill leave it, he murmured. Its part of your memory too.
Eleanor said nothing. As he left, she noticed a knitted scarf on the hall table, the one she had crocheted for him ten years ago. He had either forgotten it or left it deliberately. She took the scarf, inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the faint chill of winter smoke, and for the first time in days she weptbitterly, sobbing into the scratchy wool.
Loneliness pressed down heavy in the evenings. Once filled with his presence, now it was deafening silence. She tried to fill it: television turned on, but the sitcom plots seemed shallow; books lay open, yet the words blurred. She wandered the empty flat, stumbling over ghosts of the pasthis armchair, his mug on the kitchen counter, the dent in the mattress that never smoothed out.
One afternoon, rummaging through a wardrobe, she uncovered a box of old sketches. Before marriage shed studied fashion design, even won an award for her graduation collection. Then Edward, wedding, Emmas birth, and her own aspirations had slipped into the background. Dust covered the sketchbooks.
She sat on the floor, leafing through the yellowed pages: delicate silhouettes, bold colour pairings, daring cuts. One design she recognisedthe dress shed worn on their first date, the one Edward had called her a fairy. The memory pierced her chest. It seemed as if another, more confident version of herself had drawn those lines. Where had she gone? When had she let herself dissolve into domestic routine?
A call came from an old friend, Sarah, she hadnt spoken to in months.
Eleanor, love! Heard from Emma. How are you holding up?
Im managing, Eleanor replied tersely.
Fancy a coffee? We cant spend all our time alone.
Eleanor hesitated, then agreed.
They met in a tiny, cosy café in central London. Sarah, ever the upbeat estate agent, plunged straight in.
Tell me everything. Its the classic midlife crisis, grey hair, the whole shebang. Hes found a young doll and thinks hes a macho.
Dont be so harsh, Sarah. Hes maybe decent, Eleanor tried.
Sarah laughed, slapping the table. He betrayed you, Eleanor! Twentyfive years of your life! Men, eh?
She ordered two huge cappuccinos and a slice of cake.
What about the flat? Sarah asked.
Its mine now. My parents gave it to me. He has no claim.
And how will you live? Sarah pressed. Alimony? He wont be paying, youre not disabled.
Ill find work, Eleanor said, uncertain. Im not helpless.
What, at fifty, with no recent experience? A shop assistant? A concierge? Wake up, Eleanor! Sarah snapped. Youre used to a certain standard.
The words hurt, but they were true. Eleanors savings would not last forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Sarah suddenly softened. Your dresses were the envy of the whole course. You have talent!
It was ages ago, Eleanor shrugged. Who needs it now?
Try it for yourself, not to sell, Sarah urged. Do what made you happy. Otherwise this gloom will eat you.
The conversation sparked something. That night Eleanor pulled the sketchbooks from the attic again, this time with fresh eyes. She fetched an old sewing machine, a forgotten bolt of fabric, and a scrap of curtain cloth. Her hands remembered the rhythm; the needle pierced the fabric, pulling her away from bitter thoughts into a world of creation.
She stitched a simple summer dress, pouring herself into every seam. When finished, she slipped it on, stood before the mirror, and saw a light, airy dress the colour of a clear sky. It fit, made her look younger, slimmer. She twirled, and for the first time in weeks a faint smile brushed her lips.
On a later walk from the market, she collided with Edward, arminarm with a laughing young womanSophie, blond, in a short denim skirt, her hair catching the sun. They looked like father and daughter. Edward froze, eyes flicking to Eleanors new dress, his hair slightly dishevelled. A flash of surprise, perhaps admiration, crossed his face.
Eleanor he began. You look good.
Thank you, she replied evenly, not granting him a glance. And youstay well.
She turned and walked away, feeling his gaze on her back. In that moment the sharp sting of pain faded, leaving only a gentle melancholy for the past and a prick of wounded pride. He no longer saw her as a broken woman, but as calm and beautifula small, vital victory.
Encouraged, she sewed another dress, then a skirt, a blouse. Emma, seeing the creations, gasped.
Mum, this is brilliant! You could sell these!
Who would want them? Eleanor blushed.
Everyone! Emma declared. Youve got a style, a signature. Lets make a page on Instagram. Ill photograph your work, write something lovely.
Eleanor hesitated, but Emma persisted. The account, simply called Eleanors Dresses, launched with photos taken against historic doors in the city centre. The first few days were quiet, then a message arrived: a woman of Eleanors age, thrilled with a dress, wanted one in another colour. Eleanor measured, chose fabric, sewed through the night, terrified of disappointing her first client. When the dress arrived, the clients joy and glowing review poured in. Word spread, and orders kept coming.
Her hobby blossomed into a modest business. She turned a spare room into a studio, bought a professional machine, an overlock, mannequins. She watched tutorials, read about new textiles, and her days filled with purpose. Her clientelemostly women in their fiftiescraved elegant, flattering garments that broke the monotony of highstreet fashion. Eleanor understood them like no one else; she gave them confidence.
One evening, as she finished a commission, the doorbell rang. Edward stood on the threshold, thinner, looking lost.
May I come in? he asked quietly.
She stepped aside. He entered, eyes roaming over the makeshift showroom: dresses on hangers, sketches strewn on the sofa.
Wow, he whispered. Emma said you were sewing, but I didnt expect it to be so serious.
What do you expect? That Id sit by the window and weep? Eleanor replied with a light sarcasm.
No, I I dont know what I thought, he said, sitting in the armchair. Things with Sophie didnt work out.
The irony is almost too much, Eleanor said, a smile creeping.
Please, dont mock me, he muttered, rubbing his forehead. Shes a nice girl, but were from different worlds. She loves clubs, social media, a language I cant speak. Ive realised lightness can be emptiness. I miss our evenings, your soups, the way you laughed at silly comedies. Ive ruined everything. I was an idiot.
His eyes glistened with tears.
I want to come back, if youll have me.
Eleanor stared at the man she had loved almost her whole life, the one who had crushed her heart and now stood at her door, battered and pleading. Part of her, the one that remembered twentyfive years of happiness, wanted to throw herself around his neck, to forgive and forget as if it were a nightmare. Yet another part, newly forged in solitude and pain, whispered a firm no.
You know, Edward, she began slowly, choosing her words, when you left I thought my life ended. I was just your wife, a shadow. When you vanished, I almost vanished too. Then I found myself again, the woman I buried under chores and expectations. Im not just Mrs. Edward any more; Im Eleanor, with my own wishes, talents, dreams.
She walked to the window he had once stood by that fateful night.
I hold no grudge. In fact, Im grateful. You woke me up. But I cant take you back. Not because I havent forgiven you, but because Im no longer the woman you left. This flat is no longer the home you abandoned. Its my home, my life, and theres no room for you here.
She turned to him, his head bowed, silence hanging.
Goodbye, Edward.
He rose, without looking back, and slipped out. The door shut behind him, but this time Eleanor felt no ache, no voidonly a gentle sadness and an immense, allconsuming freedom. She moved to her workbench, switched on the lamp, lifted fabric and pencil. New collections, fresh ideas, a life she was building herself. And she liked this life far more than any dream she had ever known.
