I gave you my best years, and you traded me for a young one, I whispered to James, handing him the divorce papers.
Do you realise what youve done? Youve torn everything apart! shouted Megan, her voice cracking, tears trembling on the brink of escape. Our family, our lifetwentyfive years of building!
James stood by the window, his back to her, silent. The broad shoulders that had once been Megans fortress now seemed foreign, rigid. He didnt even turn. That hush cut deeper than any scream.
Say something! she pleaded, moving closer. Look into my eyes and tell me its a lie. That the woman Andrew saw with you is just a colleague, a misunderstanding
He finally turned, his face weary, eyes lined with deep creases. No remorse, no regretonly a distant, exhausted fatigue.
Emily, Im not going to lie, he said softly. Its true.
The air grew thick, as if the room itself had turned to water, making breathing a struggle. Megan recoiled as if struck, clinging to a phantom hope that this might be a monstrous mistake.
But why? she whispered, her breath a scream in the sudden silence of the lounge. Why, James? What did I do wrong?
You did nothing wrong, he ran a hand through his hair. Youre a perfect wife, a perfect mother. Its not you. Its me.
The not you line, Megan scoffed, bitterly. The most overused excuse on earth. I gave you my prime, James! I gave up my career so you could chase yours. I built a cosy home, raised our Poppy, waited for you after every business trip. And you you simply swapped me for someone younger.
Her name is Sophie, he added, almost as an afterthought.
It doesnt matter what shes called! Megan erupted. Shes twentyfive? Thirty? She could be my daughter! What can she give you that I never could?
Younger. Light. The feeling that theres still a road ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us life became routinea dinner at seven, a drama at nine, a holiday once a year in the same hotel. Predictable, safe, almost boring in a comforting way.
Megan stared at him, unable to recognise the man before her. He was not the James whod once helped her plaster the walls of their tiny first flat, whod cheered at Poppys first steps. He was an alien, cold, delivering cruel truths with eerie calm.
So our life is just habit to you? she asked, feeling the world inside her crumble. My love, my carejust monotony?
He said nothing, and that silence answered.
Megan walked to the sideboard, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. Her hands trembled, the letters jagged. She wrote just a few words, then handed the page to him.
Whats this? he asked, frowning.
A divorce petition. Ill sign it tomorrow. Leave.
Lets not be hasty
Leave, James, she repeated, her voice ringing like struck metal. Pack your things and go chase your light. I dont want to see you again.
He stared at her a long, heavy moment, then nodded and left the room. Half an hour later she heard the soft clatter of his footsteps in the bedroom, the click of a suitcase latch. No farewell. The front door shut quietly, sealing the past.
Alone in the quiet lounge, Megan sank into the armchair he used to occupy each night. The silence pressed against her ears. Twentyfive years had filled these walls with laughter, Poppys giggles, his footsteps, the hum of the telly, kitchen banter. Now everything lay hushed. The flat felt cavernous, empty, echoing like a tomb. Her tears had run dry long ago; inside there was only a burnt desert, cold and lifeless.
The next morning a relentless ring tore her from sleep. It was Poppy, now living with her own husband.
Hi, Mum! Dont forget were coming over for dinner tonight. Ive baked your favourite apple crumble.
Megan closed her eyes. How could she tell her daughter there was no family left?
Poppy, we wont be coming, her voice cracked, foreign.
Is everything alright? Are you ill? Poppy asked, worry sharpening her tone.
Were were getting a divorce, love.
Silence stretched across the line. He left?
Yes.
Im on my way.
An hour later Poppy sat across from her at the kitchen table, squeezing Megans hand with fierce compassion.
I knew something was off. Hes been distant, always on his phone, endless meetings in the evenings. I just didnt want to believe it. How are you holding up?
I dont know, Megan admitted. It feels like Ive been ripped from my life, with no clue what to do next. Its empty, Mum.
Dont waste it on sorrow, Poppy said, determination in her eyes. Ill talk to him, tell him everything. How could he treat you like that?
No, that wont change anything, Megan shook her head. Hes made his choice. He wants light.
They sat in heavy quiet, then Poppy rose, opened the fridge and began pulling out ingredients.
We wont sit around feeling sorry. Ill cook something tasty, and tomorrow well go shopping for a new dress. Well book you a salon appointment, get a fresh haircut.
Why? Megan asked, indifferent.
Because life doesnt end, Mum. It just starts again.
The following days drifted like fog. Megan mechanically followed Poppys suggestions: shopping, the salon chair, a light makeup. In the mirror she saw a neatly dressed, fiftyyearold woman with a fashionable cut and tired eyes. The new dress fit perfectly yet brought no joy. It felt like a masquerade, an attempt to colour a void with bright hues.
James called once to arrange a time to collect his remaining belongings. The conversation was brief, businesslike, devoid of any regret. He arrived on a weekday while Megan was home, silently packing books, CDs, winter coats. He lingered at the shelf of family photographs, lifted a picture of the three of themyoung, smiling, with baby Poppy cradledstanding by the sea. He looked at it, then placed it back.
Ill leave this, he murmured. Its part of your memory too.
Megan said nothing. As he left, she noticed a scarlet scarf on the hall table, the one she had knitted for him a decade ago. Had he forgotten it, or left it on purpose? She took the scarf, inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with cold tobacco. For the first time in days she sobbed, bitterly, clinging the woolly fringe to her face.
Loneliness settled like a heavy blanket. Evenings, once filled with his presence, now roared with deafening silence. She tried to fill the void: the television felt shallow, books blurred into indecipherable lines. She roamed the empty flat, encountering ghosts of the pasthis armchair, his mug, the dent in the mattress that never quite smoothed out.
While rummaging through a wardrobe she discovered a box of old sketches. Before marriage shed trained as a fashion designer, her graduation project even won a prize. Then James arrived, they married, Poppy was born, and his career eclipsed hers. Her sketches lay dusty, pages yellowed, showing daring silhouettes, bold colour pairings, a dress shed worn on their first dateone James once called her a fairy. The memory stung.
One afternoon her longlost friend Sarah called.
Hey, Megan! I heard from Poppy. How are you?
Managing, Megan replied tersely.
Lets meet for a coffee. You cant sit alone forever.
Megan hesitated but eventually agreed.
They met in a tiny, cosy café in the city centre. Sarah, an upbeat estate agent, dove straight in.
So, spill. Classic midlife crisis, greying beard, finding a younger fling, thinking youre a macho. She laughed. Dont be modest. He cheated, didnt he?
Dont say that, Sarah. He might be decent.
Does it matter? Hes betrayed you, Megan! Twentyfive years! Men, right?
Sarah ordered two massive cappuccinos and a plate of scones.
Eat, you need positive vibes. What about the flat?
Its mine; my parents gave it to me. He cant claim it.
And how will you live? He wont pay child support, youre not disabled.
Ill find work. Im not helpless.
What? At fifty, no recent experience? A shop assistant? A concierge? Wake up, Megan! You were used to a certain standard.
Sarahs words were harsh but true. Megan truly didnt know how to sustain herself. Her savings wouldnt stretch forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Sarah asked suddenly. Your dresses were the envy of the whole course.
That was ages ago. Who cares now? Designers are everywhere.
Try again! Not to sell, just for yourself. Find something that lights you up, or this melancholy will eat you.
The conversation sparked a flicker. That evening Megan pulled out the old sketches again, looking at them with fresh eyes. She fetched a dusty sewing machine, a roll of fabric once meant for curtains, and a needle that seemed to remember its purpose. She began stitching, letting the rhythm carry her away from bitter thoughts.
She made a simple summer dress, pouring herself into every seam. When finished, she tried it on, admiring the airy skyblue fabric in the mirror. It suited her, made her feel younger, leaner. She turned, and for the first time in weeks a faint smile curved her lips.
One day, leaving a shop, she collided with James, arminarm with a laughing young womanSophie, blond, short denim skirt, the picture of youthful freedom. They looked like father and daughter. James froze, eyes flicking to Megans new dress, then to her fresh haircut. Something like surpriseor perhaps admirationflashed in his gaze.
Megan he began. You look good.
Thanks, she replied evenly, not granting Sophie a glance. Hope youre well too.
He nodded and walked on, his stare lingering. Megan felt a light ache, not the sharp pain of before, just a gentle melancholy for the past and a prick of wounded pride. He saw her not broken, but calm and beautiful. That was a small, yet vital victory.
Inspired, she sewed another dress, then a skirt, a blouse. Poppy, seeing her work, gasped.
Mum, this is brilliant! You could sell these!
Who would want them? Megan blushed.
Everyone! Poppy declared. You have a style, a signature. Lets set up a socialmedia page. Ill photograph your pieces, write a lovely description.
Megan hesitated, but Poppy persisted. She launched an account called Megans Dresses, snapping photos in front of antique doors in the city centre. The first few days were quiet, then a order arriveda woman of a similar age wrote, delighted with the dress and asking for another colour. Megan measured, chose fabric, sewed through sleepless nights, fearing shed disappoint her first client. When the dress was delivered, the clients ecstatic review sparked a wordofmouth chain. Orders kept coming.
Her hobby blossomed into a business. She turned a spare room into a studio, bought a professional sewing machine, an overlock, mannequins. She watched tutorials, read about new fabrics, spent less time on sorrow and more on creation. Her clientele were women around her age, tired of bland highstreet clothes, yearning for elegance that flattered and empowered. Megan understood them like no one else; she wasnt just making garments, she was gifting confidence.
One evening, as she finished a commission, the doorbell rang. James stood there, thinner, his eyes a mix of loss and hope.
May I come in? he asked softly.
Megan stepped aside. He entered, bewildered by the studiolike living roomdresses on racks, sketches scattered, fabrics draped.
Wow, he murmured. Poppy told me youre sewing, but I didnt expect it to be this serious.
You think Id sit by the window and weep? she replied with a hint of irony.
I I dont know what I thought, he said, sitting heavily. Things with Sophie didnt work out.
Surprise, Megan said, a smile tugging at her mouth.
Dont tease me, he whispered, rubbing his forehead. Shes nice, but were from different worlds. She lives for clubs, social media Ive realised that lightness can be empty. I miss our evenings, your soups, the way you laughed at silly comedies. Ive ruined everything. I was an idiot.
His eyes filled with tears.
I want to come back, if youll have me.
Megan stared at the man she had loved for most of her life, the one who had crushed her heart and now stood at her door, pleading. Part of her, the one that remembered twentyfive years of happiness, wanted to rush to him, to forgive and forget as if it were a nightmare. Another part, forged by solitude and newfound strength, said no.
You know, James, she began slowly, choosing her words, when you left, I thought my life was over. I was just your wife, a shadow. When you vanished, I almost vanished too. Then I found myself againthe girl I buried under chores and family duties. I remembered Im not just Jamess wife, Im Megan. A person with desires, talents, dreams.
She walked to the window he had once occupied.
I dont hold a 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 house you left. Its my home, my life, and theres no room for you here.
She turned to him; he sat, head bowed, silent.
Goodbye, James, she said quietly.
He rose, left without looking back, and the door shut behind him. This time Megan felt no pain, no voidjust a gentle sorrow and an immense, liberating sense of freedom. She moved to her worktable, switched on the lamp, lifted fabric and pencil. New collections awaited, fresh ideas, a life she now built herselfand she liked it.
