I gave you the best years of my life, and you traded me for a younger woman, I told Edward, sliding the divorce papers across the kitchen table.
Do you even realise what youve done? Youve torn everything apart! Margarets voice cracked, trembling with the tears she fought to hold back. Our family, our lifetwentyfive years of building together!
Edward stood by the window, his back to her, silent. The broad shoulders that had once seemed a steadfast shield now appeared stiff and foreign. He didnt even turn. That silence cut deeper than any shout.
Say something! she pleaded, drawing nearer. Look me in the eyes and tell me its not true. That the woman Andrew saw you with is just a colleague, a harmless mistake
He finally turned, his face drawn and weary, the corners of the eyes Margaret had loved now lined with deep creases. There was no remorse, no regretonly a dull, detached fatigue.
Margaret, I wont lie, he said quietly. Its true.
The room grew heavy, the air thick enough to choke. Margaret recoiled as if struck. She clung to the fragile hope that this might be a monstrous misunderstanding.
But why? she whispered, and the whisper rang out in the oppressive hush of the sittingroom like a scream. Why, Edward? What have I done wrong?
You havent done anything wrong, he brushed his hand through his hair. Youre a perfect wife, a perfect mother. Its not you. Its me.
The not you line, Margaret sneered bitterly. The most overused excuse. I gave you my best years, Edward! I gave up my career so you could chase yours. I kept the house warm, raised our Lucy, waited for you after every business trip. And you you simply swapped me for a younger girl.
Her name is Sophie, he added, almost as an afterthought.
Names mean nothing to me! Margaret exploded. Is she twentyfive? Thirty? She could be my daughter! What could she possibly offer that I never did?
Youngness, Edward replied, his voice low but firm. Lightness. The feeling that theres still a whole life ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us life became a routine: dinner at seven, a drama at nine, a holiday once a year in the same resort. Predictable, reliable, and, dull as dust.
Margaret stared, hardly recognizing the man before her. This was not the Edward shed married, the fellow whod helped her plaster the walls of their first cramped flat and celebrated Lucys first steps. This was a stranger, cold, delivering cruel truths with unsettling calm.
So to you, our life was just routine? she asked, feeling her world unravel. My love, my care just boredom?
He said nothing, and that silence answered her.
She drifted to the sideboard, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. Her hands trembled, the letters jagged and broken. She wrote only a few words, then approached Edward and placed the page before him.
Whats this? he asked, brow furrowed.
Divorce petition. Ill sign it tomorrow. Leave.
Margaret, lets not be hasty
Leave, Edward, she said, the metal in her voice ringing. Pack your things and go after your lightness. I dont want to see you again.
He met her gaze for a long, heavy moment, then nodded and slipped out of the room. Half an hour later she heard the soft thud of a suitcase being closed, the click of a lock. No farewell words, just the quiet slam of the front door, cutting off the past.
Margaret sat alone in the living room, sinking into the armchair Edward had favoured each evening. The silence pressed against her ears. For twentyfive years the house had thrummed with life: Lucys laughter, Edwards footsteps, the hum of the telly, the clatter of kitchen banter. Now it was a cavernous, echoing crypt, empty of sound. She did not weep; the tears had run dry long ago. Inside lay a barren desert, cold and lifeless.
The next morning a persistent ring woke her. It was Lucy, her daughter, calling from her own home after two years of marriage.
Hello, Mum! Dont forget were expecting you for dinner tonight. Ive baked your favourite apple crumble.
Margaret closed her eyes. How could she explain that the family was over?
Lucy, we wont be coming, she croaked, voice hoarse.
Is everything alright? Are you ill? Lucy asked, alarmed.
Were getting divorced.
Silence stretched over the line. He left?
Yes.
Im coming over right now.
An hour later Lucy stood at Margarets kitchen door, gripping her hand tightly, eyes full of sympathy.
I had a feeling, Mum. Hed changed, always on his phone, endless meetings at night. I just didnt want to believe it. How are you holding up?
Dont know, Margaret admitted. Its as if theyve ripped me out of my own life and handed me nothing to do with it. Its empty, love.
Ill talk to him, Lucy said resolutely. Tell him how hes treated you. He doesnt deserve this.
No, Margaret shook her head. It wont change anything. Hes made his choice. He wants lightness.
They sat in silence for a long while. Eventually Lucy rose, rummaged through the fridge and began pulling out ingredients.
Were not going to sit and stew in misery. Ill cook something tasty. Tomorrow well go shopping for a new dress for you, and Ill book you into a salon for a fresh cut.
Why? Margaret asked, detached.
Because life doesnt end, Mum, Lucy replied firmly. It just starts again.
The days that followed drifted like a fog. Margaret mechanically followed Lucys suggestions: shopping trips, a salon chair, a light brush of makeup. In the mirror she saw a tidy, fiftyyearold woman with a fashionable bob and tired eyes. The new dress fit perfectly but brought no joy. It felt like a masquerade, a thin veneer over a hollow void.
Edward called once to arrange the collection of his remaining belongings. The conversation was brief, businesslike, devoid of any nostalgia or regret. He arrived on a weekday, gathered his books, records, winter coats. He paused at the shelf holding family photographs, lifted a frame of the three of themyoung, smiling, Lucy cradled in their arms against a seaside backdropstudied it, then set it back.
Ill leave this, he said softly. Its part of your memory too.
Margaret said nothing. As he left, she noticed he had placed his old scarf on the hallway table, the one shed knitted for him a decade ago. Whether forgotten or deliberately left, she picked it up, inhaled the familiar scent of his aftershave mingled with wool and a hint of tobacco. For the first time in days she broke down, sobbing with a raw, guttural cry, clutching the familiar fabric to her face.
Loneliness settled like a weight. Evenings, once filled with his presence, now roared with deafening quiet. She tried to distract herself: the television felt like a pointless spectacle; books blurred into illegible lines. She wandered the empty rooms, stumbling over ghosts of the pasthis armchair, his mug on the kitchen counter, the dent in the side of the bed that never seemed to smooth out.
While rummaging through the wardrobe, she uncovered a box of old sketches. Before marriage shed studied fashion design, even won a modest award for her final project. Then Edward came, the wedding, Lucys birth, and her own ambitions slipped into the background, becoming a hobby gathering dust.
She sat on the floor and leafed through the yellowed pages, each line a whisper of the bold, daring girl she once was. One sketch caught her eyea dress shed worn on their first date, the one Edward had once called her a fairy. The memory pricked her heart. Who was she now, after years of subsuming herself into husband and home?
A call came from an old friend, Sarah, whom she hadnt spoken to in months.
Evelyn, love, its Sarah. Heard from Lucyhow are you holding up?
Im managing, she replied curtly.
Fancy a coffee? Cant have you sitting alone all the time.
At first she wanted to refuse, but something in Sarahs insistence tipped her over.
They met in a tiny, cozy café in the town centre. Sarah, a brighteyed estate agent, ordered two cappuccinos and a plate of scones.
So, spill, Sarah said, leaning in. Whats the story? Another midlife crisis? A bored husband who found a younger girl?
Dont be cruel, Evelyn murmured. Hes hes a man.
Sarah laughed, a sharp burst. Men! They betray twentyfive years as if it were a fleeting fling. Hes a fool, Evelyn!
She ordered a massive slice of Victoria sponge, then gestured to the empty table. Eat, love. What about the house? Are you stuck with it?
Its mine. He doesnt claim it.
And how will you live? He wont be paying alimony, will he?
Ill find work. Im not completely helpless.
What? At fifty, with no recent experience? A supermarket clerk? A concierge? Wake up, Evelyn! You were used to a certain standard of living.
Sarahs words were harsh but true. Her savings would not stretch forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Sarah asked suddenly. Your dresses! Everyone admired them. You had talent.
That was ages ago, Evelyn shrugged. Who cares now? Designers are everywhere.
Try again! Not to sell, just for yourself. Remember the joy it gave you. You need something that sparks you, otherwise the emptiness will eat you alive.
The conversation lit a spark. That evening she pulled the sketchbooks from the loft again, this time viewing them with fresh eyes. She fetched an old sewing machine, a gift from her mother, dusted it off, found a bolt of fabric abandoned for curtains years ago. Her hands remembered the rhythm of needle and thread, pulling her away from bitter thoughts into a world of creation.
She stitched a simple summer dress, pouring her heart into every seam. When it was done, she slipped it on, examined herself in the mirror: a light, airy dress the colour of a clear sky, fitting her just right. She turned, and for the first time in many months a faint smile crept onto her lips.
Weeks later, as she left a shop, she collided with Edward, arminarm with a laughing young womanSophie, hair golden, wearing a short denim skirt. They looked more like father and daughter than lovers. Edwards eyes locked on Evelyns new dress, his gaze flickering between surprise and something like admiration.
Evelyn he began. You look good.
Thank you, she said evenly, refusing to glance at his companion. And you, take care.
He nodded and continued on, his stare lingering for a heartbeat longer. In that moment she realized the sharp pain had softened, leaving only a tender ache of what once was and a quiet pride in her own resilience.
Inspired, she sewed another dress, then a skirt, a blouse. Lucy, seeing her mothers creations, gasped.
Mum, this is brilliant! Youve got the touch of a real designer! You should sell these!
Who would want them? Evelyn blushed.
Everyone! Lucy declared. Lets set up a socialmedia page. Ill photograph them, write a lovely description.
At first Evelyn hesitated, but Lucys determination won her over. She opened an account called Evelyns Dresses, photographing the pieces against the historic doors of the town square. The first few days brought no orders. Then a message arrived from a woman in her own age, thrilled with a dress and asking for a different colour. Evelyn measured, chose fabric, sewed through sleepless nights, fearing she might disappoint her first client. When the dress arrived, the client sent a glowing review, and word of mouth spread.
Soon orders flowed in, and Evelyn converted a spare room into a modest studio, buying a professional sewing machine, an overlocker, mannequins. She watched online tutorials, read about new textiles, and spent less time mired in sorrow. Her clientele grewmostly women of her generation tired of bland highstreet clothing, seeking elegance that flattered and empowered them. She wasnt just making garments; she was restoring confidence.
One evening, as she put finishing touches on a commission, the doorbell rang. Edward stood on the threshold, thinner, eyes shadowed with loss.
May I come in? he asked quietly.
She stepped aside. He entered, looking around at the studioturnedshowroom: dresses on racks, sketches scattered on the sofa.
Blimey, he muttered. Lucy said youre sewing, but I didnt expect it to be this serious.
What did you expect? That Id sit by the window and weep? she replied with a faint, ironic smile.
No, I I dont know what I thought, he confessed, sitting heavily. Things with Sophie didnt work out.
Talk about a surprise, Evelyn said, dryly.
Dont mock me, he pleaded, rubbing his forehead. Shes a nice girl, but were from different worlds. She chases clubs, social media, a language I cant speak. Ive learned that lightness can be a hollow void. I miss our evenings, your soups, your laugh at silly comedies. Ive been a fool.
Tears welled in his eyes. I want to come back, if youll have me.
Evelyn stared at the man she had loved almost all her life, the one who had shattered her heart and now stood at her doorstep, broken and pleading. A part of her, recalling twentyfive years of happiness, yearned to throw her arms around him, forgive, and pretend it was all a bad dream. Another parthardwon, forged in solitudesaid no.
You know, Edward, 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 again, the woman Id buried beneath chores and expectations. I remembered Im not merely Edwards wife, Im Evelyn, with my own desires, talents, dreams.
She walked to the window, the very one he had stood by that fateful night.
I hold no ill will. In fact, Im grateful. You forced me to awaken. But I cant take you back. Not because I havent forgiven you, but because Im no longer the woman you left. This house is no longer the home you walked out of. Its my home now, my life, and theres no room for you in it.
She turned back to him; he sat, head bowed, silent.
Goodbye, Edward, she said softly.
He rose, glanced away, and left. The door clicked shut behind him, this time without echoing pain. Instead, a lightness settled over heran easy, liberating calm. She walked to her workbench, switched on the lamp, picked up a bolt of fabric and a pencil. New collections beckoned, fresh ideas, a life she would shape with her own hands. And for the first time in years, she felt a genuine smile tug at her lips, content with the path she now walked.
