I gave you the best years of my life, and you traded me for a youngster I said, sliding the divorce papers across the kitchen table.
Do you even realise what youve done? Youve torn everything apart! Margarets voice cracked, the scream catching on tears she was desperate to hold back. Our family, our life, everything we built over twentyfive years!
Oliver stood by the window, his back to her, silent. The broad shoulders that had once felt like a fortress now seemed foreign, tense. He didnt even turn. That silence hurt more than any shout.
Say something! she begged, moving closer. Look at me, tell me its not true. Tell me that the woman Andrew saw you with is just a colleague, a misunderstanding
He finally turned, his face weathered and drawn. The corners of the eyes Margaret loved were now lined with deep creases. In his gaze there was no remorse, no regretonly a distant, exhausted weariness.
Margaret, I wont lie, he said quietly. Its true.
The air in the room thickened, as if the walls were closing in. Margaret recoiled, as if struck. She clung to a phantom hope that this was a terrible mistake.
But why? she whispered, and the whisper rang out in the deafening silence of the living room like a scream. Why, Oliver? What did I do wrong?
You didnt do anything wrong, he ran a hand through his hair. Youre a perfect wife, a perfect mother. Its not you. Its me.
Its not you, Margaret sneered, bitterness flashing. The most overused line in the world. I gave you my best years, Oliver! I gave up my career so you could chase yours. I kept the home warm, raised Lily, waited for you after every business trip. And you you simply swapped me for someone younger.
Her name is Poppy, he added, as if that mattered.
I dont care what shes called! Margaret exploded. Is she twentyfive? Thirty? She could be my daughter! What can she give you that I never could?
Youth, he replied, steady. Lightness. The feeling that theres still a whole life ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us with us everything became routine, a habit. Dinner at seven, a drama at nine, a holiday once a year in the same dull resort. Safe, predictable, almost boring.
Margaret stared, barely recognizing the man before her. This wasnt the Oliver shed married, the bloke whod plastered wallpaper in their first cramped flat and cheered Lilys first steps. This was a stranger, cold, delivering cruel truths with a frightening calm.
So to you our life is just a routine? she asked, feeling everything inside snap. My love, my care just melancholy?
He said nothing, and that was his answer.
She slipped to the sideboard, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. Her hands trembled, the letters jagged and uneven. She wrote only a few words, then walked back and placed the paper in his hand.
Whats this? he frowned, bewildered.
Divorce papers. Ill sign them tomorrow. Leave.
Margaret, lets not do this in a fit of anger
Leave, Oliver, she repeated, her voice ringing like steel. Pack your things and go after your lightness. I dont want to see you again.
He gave her a long, heavy look, then nodded and walked out. Half an hour later she heard him rummaging in the bedroom, the soft click of a suitcase lock. He said nothing goodbye. The front door shut with a final thud, cutting the past cleanly away.
Margaret was left alone in the silent living room. She sank into the armchair he used to occupy each evening. The hush pressed on her ears. Twentyfive years of laughter, Lilys footsteps, the hum of the telly, kitchen chatternow all hushed. The flat felt cavernous, empty, echoing like a tomb. She didnt cry; the tears had run dry long ago. Inside lay only a burntout desert, cold and lifeless.
The next morning the phone rang insistently. It was Lily, their daughter, now living with her husband.
Mum, hi! Are you and Dad still coming over for dinner? Ive baked your favourite apple crumble.
Margaret closed her eyes. How could she tell her? How to explain that the family was over?
Lily, we wont be coming, her voice was hoarse, foreign to her own ears.
Is something wrong? Are you ill? Lily asked, alarmed.
Oliver were getting divorced, love.
Silence hung on the line. Then Lilys voice, barely a whisper.
He left?
Yes.
Im coming over.
An hour later Lily sat opposite her at the kitchen table, gripping Margarets hand tightly, eyes full of compassion.
I knew something was off, Mum. Hed been distant, glued to his phone, endless meetings at night. I just didnt want to believe it. How are you holding up?
I dont know, Margaret admitted. Its as if theyve ripped me out of my own life and handed me a blank page. Im empty, Lily.
Ill talk to him, Lily said resolutely. Ill make him see how badly hes behaved.
No, Margaret shook her head. It wont change anything. Hes made his choice. He wants lightness.
They sat in silence for a long while. Then Lily rose, opened the fridge, and began pulling out ingredients.
Were not going to sit here feeling sorry for ourselves. Ill whip up something tasty, and tomorrow well go shopping for a new dress for you. Ill book you in at a salon for a fresh cut.
Do I need that? Margaret asked, indifferent.
Because life doesnt stop, Mum! Lily replied firmly. It just starts again.
The next few days blurred together. Margaret went through the motions Lily suggested: shopping, the salon chair, a light makeup. In the mirror she saw a wellkept, fiftyyearold woman with a trendy bob and tired eyes. The new dress fit perfectly, but joy eluded her. It felt like a costume, an attempt to paint over a hollow void.
Oliver called once to arrange the pickup of his remaining belongings. The conversation was brief, businesslike. No reminiscence, no hint of regret. He arrived on a weekday while Margaret was home, silently gathering his books, CDs, winter coats. He lingered by the shelf of family photos, lifted a picture of the three of themyoung, laughing, Lily cradled in their armsstanding on a seaside promenade. He examined it, then carefully placed it back.
Ill leave it, 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 shed knitted for him a decade ago. Whether he forgot it or left it on purpose, she took the scarf, inhaled the familiar scent of his aftershave mingled with a hint of tobacco. For the first time in days, she broke down, sobbing hard, her face pressed against the rough wool.
Loneliness settled like a weight. Evenings were the hardest. Where his presence once filled the space, now only deafening quiet remained. She tried to distract herself: the TV seemed trivial, the books blurred. She roamed the empty flat, stumbling over ghosts of the pastthe armchair, his mug, the dent in the mattress that never seemed to smooth out.
One afternoon, while rummaging through a wardrobe, she found a box of old sketches. Before marriage shed studied fashion design, even won a modest award for her graduation project. Then Oliver, the wedding, Lilys birth, and his career eclipsed her ambitions. Her sketches lay dustcovered.
She sat on the floor, leafing through the yellowed pagesdelicate silhouettes, daring colour pairings, unusual cuts. One design caught her eye: the dress shed worn on their first date, a dress shed sewn herself. Oliver had once called her a fairy when she wore it. The memory stabbed her chest. She realised the woman in those sketches was a different personbold, hopeful, full of dreams. Where had she gone?
A call came from an old friend, Sophie, whom she hadnt spoken to in months.
Margaret, love, I heard from Lily. How are you?
Holding on, Margaret replied curtly.
Lets meet for a coffee, chat. You cant spend all your time alone.
Margaret hesitated but eventually agreed.
They met in a tiny, cosy café in the city centre. Sophie, a bubbly estate agent, dove straight in.
Tell me everything. Classic midlife crisis, grey hairs sprouting like weeds. You found a younger chick and turned into a macho, didnt you?
Dont say that, Sophie. Shes probably decent.
Good or bad, it doesnt matter! He betrayed you, Margaret! Twentyfive years of his life! Men, I tell you!
Sophie ordered two huge cappuccinos and a plate of scones.
Eat, you need some positivity. What about the flat?
Its mine. My parents gave it to me. He has no claim.
At least you have that. What will you live on? He wont be paying child support, does he?
Ill find work, Margaret said, sounding unsure. Im not helpless.
At fifty, no experience for the last quartercentury? You think youll get a job in a supermarket? A concierge? Wake up, Margaret! You were used to a certain standard of living.
Sophies words were harsh but truthful. Margaret truly didnt know how to go on. Her savings wouldnt stretch forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Sophie asked suddenly. Those dresses! Everyone envied you. Youre talented!
That was ages ago, Margaret brushed it off. Who needs that now? There are countless designers out there.
Try it anyway! Not to sell, just for yourself. Do what made you happy. Otherwise that ache will eat you.
The conversation sparked something. That night Margaret pulled out the old sketches again, this time with fresh eyes. She fetched the antique sewing machine her mother had given her, dusted it off, found a roll of fabric once meant for curtains, and began.
Her fingers remembered the needles rhythm, pulling her out of bitter thoughts into a world of creativity. She sewed a simple summer dress, pouring herself into every stitch. When she finished, she slipped it on and faced the mirror. The dress was airy, the colour of a clear July sky, and it fitted her perfectly, making her look younger, slimmer. She turned, and for the first time in weeks a faint smile tugged at her lips.
One afternoon, leaving a shop, she ran into Oliver. He was arminarm with a young, laughing womanPoppy, with bright hair and a short denim skirt. They looked more like father and daughter than partners. Oliver saw Margaret, stopped, and stared. He looked at her new dress, her fresh haircut, and a flicker of somethingsurprise? admiration?crossed his eyes.
Margaret he began. You look good.
Thank you, she replied evenly, not giving his companion a glance. And you stay well.
He nodded and walked on, his gaze lingering a moment longer before he vanished into the crowd. Margaret felt the weight of his stare lift, replaced by a light melancholy for the past and a sharp sting to her wounded pride. He no longer saw her as a broken woman, but as someone whole again. It was a small, but vital victory.
Inspired, she kept sewinganother dress, a skirt, a blouse. Lily, seeing her mothers work, was thrilled.
Mum, this is amazing! Its professional level! You should start selling these!
Who would want them? Margaret blushed.
Everyone! Lily declared. You have a style, a signature. Lets set up a social media page. Ill photograph your pieces, write a nice description.
Margaret hesitated, but Lily was relentless. They created an account simply called Margarets Dresses, photographed the garments against the historic doors of the city centre, and posted the first few designs.
At first nothing happened. Then an order came: a woman in her forties wrote that she loved the dress and wanted the same pattern in a different colour. Margaret measured, chose fabric, and sewed through the night, terrified of disappointing her first client. When the dress arrived, the clients delighted review poured in. Word of mouth spread, and more orders followed.
Her hobby blossomed into a modest business. She turned a spare room into a studio, bought a professional sewing machine, an overlock, and mannequins. She chased online tutorials, read about new fabrics, and rarely allowed herself to dwell on sorrow. Her clients were mostly women of her age, tired of massmarket clothing, seeking elegant, flattering pieces. Margaret understood them like no one else. She wasnt just making clothes; she was giving them confidence.
One evening, as she finished the latest order, the doorbell rang. Oliver stood there, thinner, looking lost.
May I come in? he asked softly.
She stepped aside. He entered, taking in the transformed living roomclothes on racks, sketches scattered, fabrics draped.
Wow, he murmured. Lily told me youre sewing, but I didnt expect it to look this serious.
And what did you expect? That Id sit by the window and weep? she retorted with a hint of irony.
No, I I dont know what I thought, he sat down. Things with Poppy didnt work out.
What a surprise, Margaret said, unable to hide a laugh.
Please, no sarcasm, he rubbed his forehead wearily. Shes a nice girl, but were from different worlds. Shes into clubs, social media, the whole newage scene. Ive realised that lightness can be just emptiness. I miss our evenings, Margaret. Your soups, the way you laughed at silly comedies. Ive ruined everything. I was an idiot.
Tears gathered in his eyes.
I want to come back, if youll let me.
Margaret stared at the man she had loved almost all her life, the man who had shattered her heart and now stood at her doorstep, broken and pleading. Part of her, remembering twentyfive years of happiness, wanted to throw herself onto his neck, forgive, and pretend it was all a dreadful dream. Another part, forged by pain and solitude, whispered a firm no.
You know, Oliver, she began slowly, choosing her words. When you left, I thought my life was over. I was just your wife, a shadow. When you disappeared, I almost vanished too. Then I found myself again. The woman I buried under chores and family duties. I remembered Im not just Olivers wife, Im Margaretmy own person, with wishes, talents, dreams.
She walked to the window hed been standing by that fateful night.
I hold no hatred for you. In fact, Im grateful. You forced me awake. 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 now, my life, and theres no room for you in it.
She turned to him. He sat, head bowed, silent.
Goodbye, Oliver, she whispered.
He rose, walked to the door without looking back, and closed it behind him. This time, the click didnt echo with pain, but with a quiet, liberating resolve. Margaret returned to her workbench, switched on the lamp, picked up a piece of cloth and a sketchpad. A new collection awaited, fresh ideas, a life she would build herselfand she liked it.
