I gave you my best years, and you swapped me for a younger woman, I told Oliver, sliding a divorce petition across the coffee table.
You realise what youve done? Youve torn everything apart! Marinas voice cracked, tears threatening to spill over. Our family, our lifetwentyfive years of building!
Oliver stood by the window, his back to me, shoulders that had once felt like a sturdy wall now seemed tense and foreign. He didnt even turn. The silence cut deeper than any shout.
Say something! I pleaded, moving closer. Look me in the eyes and tell me its a lie. That the woman Andy saw with you is just a colleague, a misunderstanding…
He finally turned, his face weary, the corners of his eyesthose I used to lovelined with deep creases. There was no remorse, no regret, only a distant, exhausted stare.
Marilyn, Im not going to lie, he said quietly. Its true.
The room felt suddenly heavy, the air thick enough to choke on. I stumbled back as if struck. I clung to the desperate hope that this was some monstrous mistake.
But why? I whispered, and my 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.
The not you line, I scoffed bitterly. The most overused excuse in the world. I gave you my prime, Oliver! I gave up my career so you could chase yours. I made a cosy home, raised Lily, waited for you after every business trip. And you you just traded me for a younger thing.
Shes called Katherine, he added, for some reason.
I dont care what shes called! Shes twentyfive? Thirty? She could be my daughter! What does she have that I didnt?
Youngness, he said softly but firmly. Lightness. The feeling that theres still a whole life ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us we slipped into routine. Dinner at seven, a telly show at nine, a holiday once a year at the same seaside hotel. Its safe, predictable, and oh so dull.
I stared at him, not recognizing the man whod once helped me paste wallpaper in our tiny flat and cheered Lilys first steps. This was a stranger, cold and unnervingly calm as he uttered cruel truths.
So our life is just routine to you? I asked, feeling everything inside unravel. My love, my care just boredom?
He said nothing, and that was his answer.
I walked over to the sideboard, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. My hands trembled, letters wobbling on the page. I wrote a few short lines, then handed the note to him.
Whats that? he asked, frowning.
Divorce papers. Ill sign them tomorrow. Pack your things and go back to your lightness. I dont want to see you again.
Marilyn, lets not be hasty
Leave, Oliver, I repeated, my voice ringing like metal. Gather your stuff and go. Im done.
He stared at me for a long, heavy moment, then nodded and stepped out. Half an hour later I heard the clatter of his suitcase in the bedroom, the click of the lock. No goodbye, just the soft thud of the front door, sealing off the past.
I was left alone in the living room, sinking into the armchair he used to claim every evening. The silence pressed against my ears. For twentyfive years the house had buzzed with Lilys laughter, Olivers footsteps, the hum of the television, our kitchen banter. Now it was an echoing, cavernous crypt. I didnt cry; the tears had run dry at the start of the argument. Inside was only a burntout desertcold, lifeless.
The next morning the phone rang insistently. It was Lily, now living with her husband two years ago.
Hey Mum! Dont forget were having you over for dinner tonight. Ive baked your favourite apple crumble.
I closed my eyes. How could I tell her there was no family left?
Lily, we wont be coming, I croaked, my voice foreign.
Is everything alright? Are you ill? she asked, worry in her tone.
Were getting a divorce, love, I managed.
Silence hung on the line. Then Lily whispered, He left?
Yes.
Ill be there in a minute.
An hour later Lily was at the kitchen table, squeezing my hand with both of hers, eyes full of sympathy.
I knew something was off. Hed been glued to his phone, mysterious meetings at night. I didnt want to believe it, but what about you?
I dont know, I admitted. It feels like Ive been pulled out of my life with no instruction manual. Im empty, Lily.
Ill talk to him! she declared. Ill make him see what hes done!
I dont think thatll change anything, I shook my head. Hes already chosen his lightness.
We sat in silence for a while. Then Lily got up, rummaged through the fridge and started pulling ingredients out.
Lets not just sit and sob. Ill make something delicious. Tomorrow well go shopping, get you a new dress, and book a salon appointment. A fresh haircut, maybe?
Why? I asked, indifferent.
Because life doesnt end, Mum! It just starts a new chapter, she said firmly.
The next few days were a haze. I followed Lilys advice mechanically: shopping, a salon chair, a light makeup job. Staring at my reflection, I saw a wellkept fiftyyearold with a trendy cut and tired eyes. The new dress fit perfectly, yet it brought no joy. It felt like a costume, a feeble attempt to colour over a void.
Oliver called once to arrange the pickup of his remaining belongings. The conversation was businesslike, no nostalgic sighs. He arrived on a weekday, collected his books, CDs, winter coat, lingered by a shelf of family photos, picked up a picture of the three of us as a young, happy trio with baby Lily, and placed it back without a word.
Ill leave this, he said softly. For your memory.
I said nothing. As he left, I noticed hed left his old scarf on the hall tablethe one Id knitted for him ten years ago. Was it forgotten or deliberately left? I took the scarf, inhaled the faint scent of his cologne mingled with a hint of tobacco, and for the first time in days I broke down, sobbing into the wool.
Loneliness pressed its weight on every evening. Once, while rummaging through a cupboard, I discovered a box of my old fashion sketches. Before marriage Id studied fashion design, even won a small award for my graduation collection. Then Oliver, the wedding, Lilys birth, and suddenly my career became a hobby. The sketchbooks were dusty, their pages yellowed.
I sat on the floor, flipping through the delicate silhouettes, bold colour combos, daring cuts. One design caught my eyea dress Id worn on our first date, the one Oliver once called me a fairy. The memory stabbed my chest. It felt as if another womanconfident, hopeful, talentedhad been hiding inside me, smothered by years of domestic routine.
A few days later my old friend Sophie rang.
Marilyn, darling! Heard from Lily that youve… how are you?
Im hanging in there, I replied dryly.
Lets meet for a coffee. You cant spend all your time alone.
At first I wanted to decline, but Sophies optimism won me over. We met at a cosy café in central London. She was a lively estate agent, always ready to dive in headfirst.
So, spill. Whats the story? she asked, laughing. Midlife crisis, grey hair turning into a beard, chasing a younger flingclassic British soap.
Dont be so harsh, Sophie, I said. Hes well, hes a bloke.
Says the one who gave him twentyfive years! Men, right? Always swapping the old for the new.
She ordered two huge cappuccinos and a scone.
Eat up, she said. You need some positive vibes. What about the flat?
Its mine, inherited from my parents. He doesnt have any claim.
Good, at least thats sorted. What will you live on? He wont be paying maintenance, I assume?
Ill find work, I said uncertainly. Im not exactly helpless.
What, at fifty, with no recent experience? A supermarket clerk? A concierge? Wake up, Marilyn! Youre used to a certain standard of life.
Her words were harsh but true. My savings wouldnt stretch forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Sophie nudged. Those gorgeous dresses you made in college. Everyone admired you.
That was ages ago, I waved a hand. Who needs that now? Designers are everywhere.
Try it again, just for yourself, she urged. Do it because it makes you happy, not for money. Otherwise the melancholy will eat you alive.
Sophies pep talk lit a spark. That night I pulled out the old sketchbooks again, this time with fresh eyes. I dug up my grandmothers vintage sewing machine from the attic, brushed off the dust, and found a forgotten bolt of fabric meant for curtains. My hands remembered the rhythm; the needle slipped through, pulling me from bitter thoughts into a world of thread and pattern.
I spent days stitching a simple summer dress, pouring my heart into each seam. When it was finished, I tried it on. A light, airy number the colour of a clear English sky, fitting like a promise. I twirled before the mirror, and for the first time in ages a small smile tugged at my lips.
Walking out of a shop one afternoon, I bumped into Oliver, arminarm with a laughing young womanKatherine. She was petite, blonde, in a short denim skirt, looking more like a daughter than a lover. Oliver froze when he saw me, eyes flickering between surprise and something like admiration.
Marilyn he began. You look good.
Thanks, I replied evenly, not even glancing at his companion. Hope youre well too.
He nodded and walked on, his gaze lingering on my new dress. In that moment I realised I no longer felt a sharp sting of hurt, just a gentle melancholy and a pinch of wounded pride. He saw me not as a broken woman, but as someone who had moved on.
Inspired, I made another dress, then a skirt, a blouse. Lily, seeing my work, gasped.
Mum, thats brilliant! You could sell these!
Who would buy them? I blushed.
Everyone! Lily declared. Youve got style, youve got flair. Lets set up a social media page. Ill photograph your pieces, well write a lovely bio.
I hesitated, but Lilys determination won. We created an Instagram account called Marilyns Threads, photographed the garments against the historic doors of Covent Garden, and posted the first few designs.
Nothing happened at first. Then a woman in her forties messaged, thrilled with a dress and wanting the same in a different colour. I measured, chose fabric, sewed through the night, terrified of letting down my first client. When the dress arrived, she praised it enthusiastically and posted a glowing review. Word spread, and orders trickled in one after another.
What began as a hobby blossomed into a proper business. I turned a spare room into a studio, bought a professional sewing machine, an overlock, mannequins. I watched online tutorials, read about sustainable fabrics, and my days filled with pattern making rather than sorrow. My clientele turned out to be women my age, tired of generic highstreet fashion, craving pieces that flattered and empowered them. I understood their needs like no one else.
One evening, as I was putting the finishing touches on a clients order, there was a knock. Oliver stood there, thinner, looking a bit lost.
May I come in? he asked softly.
I stepped aside. He entered, eyes taking in the studiolike living roomclothes on racks, sketches scattered, fabric swatches everywhere.
Blimey, he muttered. Lily told me youre sewing, but I didnt expect it to be so serious.
What did you expect? Me sitting by the window, crying? I replied with a light hint of irony.
No, I I dont know what I thought, he said, sinking into the armchair. Things with Katherine didnt work out.
Surprise, surprise, I said, unable to hide a grin.
Dont be cruel, he whispered, rubbing his forehead. Shes lovely, but were from different worlds. She lives for clubs, social media, and a language I dont speak. Ive realised lightness can just be emptiness. I miss our evenings, your soups, the way you laughed at bad sitcoms. Ive been an idiot.
He looked at me, eyes glistening.
I want to come back, if youll have me.
I stared at the man Id loved for most of my life, the one whod crushed my heart and now stood at my door, humbled and pleading. Part of me, the one that remembered twentyfive years of happiness, wanted to wrap him in a hug and forgive everything. Another part, the stronger, newlyfound self, whispered a firm no.
You know, Oliver, I began slowly, choosing my words, when you left I thought my life was over. I was just your wife, a shadow. When you vanished, I nearly vanished too. But then I found me againthe girl I buried under chores and responsibilities. I realized Im not just Mrs. Oliver; Im Marilyn, with my own wishes, talents, dreams.
I walked to the window, the very one hed stood before that fateful night.
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 home you walked out of; its my home, my life. Theres no room for you here.
He sat, head bowed, silent.
Goodbye, Oliver, I said quietly.
He rose, didnt look back, and left. The door clicked shut, but this time I felt no ache, only a light sadness and a sweeping sense of freedom. I walked to my desk, switched on the lamp, grabbed a piece of fabric and a sketchpad. Ahead lay a new collection, fresh ideas, and a life I was building on my own termsand I liked it just fine.
