“Traitor!” her mother screamed, while her father simply vanished.
Emily slept soundly when the phone’s shrill ring shattered the silence. She grabbed the receiver, her pulse already racing.
“Emily!” Her mother’s voice trembled with desperation. “Come now. Immediately!”
“Mum, what’s happened?” Emily was fully awake now, fighting off the rising dread. “Another row with Dad? You’ve been at it for years—sort it out yourselves!”
“There’s no one to sort it out with!” her mother shrieked, voice cracking. “Your father’s gone!”
“Mum… is Dad—has he passed?” Emily froze, the blood in her veins turning to ice.
“Come and see for yourself!” her mother snapped. “This isn’t a phone conversation!”
“What am I supposed to see?” Emily nearly shouted in confusion.
“Just come!” Her mother hung up.
Shaking, Emily began packing. She sped towards her parents’ home in the outskirts of Manchester, unable to imagine what awaited her.
“Emily! Come now!” Her mother’s voice over the line had sounded like a tolling bell.
“What now?” Emily mumbled sleepily, rubbing her eyes.
“What now?! I’m at my limit, and she’s asking questions!” Her mother was nearly sobbing.
“Mum, it’s Saturday, seven in the morning,” Emily tried to stay calm, but unease was building inside. “I’ve got plans, the kids, James. Explain what’s wrong, or I’m not coming.”
“You won’t come?” Her mother gasped in outrage. “You don’t care about me! Don’t care that I’m grieving!”
“Mum, you and Dad have been fighting all your lives,” Emily cut in. “I’m tired of refereeing.”
“Your father is gone!” her mother screamed, then the line went dead.
“What’s going on?” James grumbled, rolling over irritably.
“Something serious, I think,” Emily whispered, the echo of her mother’s words still ringing. “I have to go.”
“They’re unbearable!” James burst out. “Does your mother not understand you’ve got your own family?”
“James, don’t start. We don’t choose our parents,” Emily sighed. “I have to go. Sorry, but the kids are on you today.”
“As if it’s the first time,” he muttered. “Tell your mother—one more call like this, and I’ll file for divorce.”
Emily lifted her brows in surprise.
“Seriously?”
“No, of course not,” James smirked. “But she needs shaking up. Maybe she’ll get it.”
“She won’t,” Emily shook her head as she packed.
For as long as Emily could remember, there had never been peace in her parents’ home. Her mother, Margaret Elizabeth, was always shouting, while her father, Charles Henry, would press his lips into a thin line, silent. He never seemed to react, but Emily knew—inside, he was seething.
The fights had started when Emily was still in school. Rare at first, they became daily. Her mother’s voice, loud as a church bell, carried so far the neighbours in their terrace houses would exchange glances: “Poor bloke. How does he stand it?”
No one asked how Emily endured it. Outwardly, they seemed respectable—her father a research director at the university, earning well, her mother a homemaker. But “homemaker” was generous. Margaret ruled everyone—her husband, Emily, even the cleaner Charles hired hoping she’d stop nagging. A wasted effort.
Her mother fought with no shame, as if Emily’s feelings didn’t matter. The girl dreamed of escape. She got it—university in Manchester, moving away, visiting rarely. Yet even those visits were poisoned by her parents’ battles.
Once, after another tirade, her father had snapped: “What more do you want, Margaret? The moon?” Her mother had paused—then laughed. Briefly.
At Emily’s wedding, her mother outdid herself. She corrected Charles constantly, and when the toastmaster invited him to speak, Margaret cut in: “I’ll do it! He’ll bungle it!” The guests exchanged glances; Emily burned with shame.
Afterwards, Charles secretly bought Emily a flat in Manchester, warning her never to tell Margaret. Emily only told James. “Bloody hell,” he’d said. “Hope we never have secrets like that.” “We won’t,” Emily smiled. “I take after Dad—I won’t endure shouting.”
These memories came flooding back as Emily drove to her parents’. She braced for another round of complaints, imagining her father’s weary eyes. But reality was worse.
Her mother opened the door wailing: “I gave him everything—my youth, my life! And this is his thanks!”
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Emily gripped her shoulders.
“Your father ran off last night!” Margaret burst into tears.
“Ran off?” Emily felt the ground drop beneath her.
“Went to bed, and in the morning—gone! Took some of his things!”
“Have you called him?”
“Of course! He won’t answer! You try—he might talk to you!”
Emily dialled. Her father answered at once, voice eerily calm. “I know why you’re calling. I’ve earned the right never to see your mother again. I’m at a mate’s cottage. If you need me, I’m here.”
“Dad, where are you?” Emily asked, feeling her mother’s glare.
“A friend’s place. For now. We’ll see. Understood?”
“Understood,” Emily murmured.
“What’s he saying?” her mother shrieked. “That traitor!”
“Mum, enough! Dad’s no traitor. He’s tired of your rows.”
“He told you that?”
“No, I’m telling you. He’s at a friend’s. He’ll be back—just wait.”
He never returned. Margaret found the cottage, pounded on the door, screamed—no answer. She called Charles relentlessly. No reply. She hunted for another woman, then took it as a fresh insult when there wasn’t one. “How dare he leave me for no reason? Am I nothing?” she sobbed into the phone.
Finally, Emily snapped. “Mum, he doesn’t want your forgiveness. He’s not divorcing you, still pays the bills, makes no demands. He just wants peace. He’s had enough.”
“Had enough?” Margaret screeched. “I’m the one who suffered!”
Then she wept—broken, defeated. For the first time, Emily saw her helpless.
The end was tragic. Two years later, Charles died. His friend passed on his last words: “Bury me alone.” Margaret laughed bitterly when she heard. A year later, she fell ill. Emily nursed her until the end. In her final days, her mother whispered, “I had enough… I just didn’t see it.”
Now Emily often visits the cemetery. Where her parents rest, it’s quiet at last. Too late for peace.
