“Mum, have you lost your mind completely?”
Emily’s words stung Lydia like a punch to the gut. Painful. She silently continued peeling potatoes as her daughter’s tirade raged on.
“Everyone’s pointing at us now—a mother running wild! Fine if it were Dad, he’s a man, but you? A woman! The heart of the home! Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear slid down Lydia’s cheek, followed by another, and soon they fell freely while Emily carried on.
Her husband, William, sat slumped on a chair, shoulders drooping, lips pouting.
“Dad’s ill, for heaven’s sake! He needs care,” William whimpered. “After all he’s done for you—gave you his youth, raised a child together—and this is how you repay him? Walking out now?”
“And how *should* I repay him?” Lydia asked softly.
William gaped. “Are you serious? Look at him, Emily—she’s mocking us!”
“I’m no mother to you, am I? Just some villain,” Lydia murmured. “Funny how you’ve suddenly remembered to defend him.”
“Mum! Stop playing the victim! I’ve had enough—I’m calling Gran. Let *her* deal with this disgrace!”
Emily turned to William. “Imagine—I was walking home from uni, and there they were, arm in arm. Probably reading love poems. His own rubbish, right, Mum?”
“You’re cruel, Emily. Young and cruel.”
“No remorse, none! Fine—I’m calling *both* grandmothers. Let them sort you out!”
Lydia straightened, smoothed her apron, and stood.
“Right then. I’m leaving.”
“Where, Lydia?” William croaked.
“Away. From you.”
“Away? But—what about *me*?”
Emily was already ranting into the phone.
“Dad? What’s wrong? Your back again?”
“She’s… leaving,” William wailed.
“Leaving? At your age? Ridiculous!”
Lydia smiled grimly as she packed her suitcase. She’d tried to leave before, but William’s “sciatica” had flared—oh, how he’d groaned!
“Lydia… must be a slipped disc…”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Bah, doctors! They hide things—wait to bleed you dry. Look at old Thompson—sciatica, they said. Then—*bam*! Herniated disc, some Latin nightmare…”
She hadn’t left then. Couldn’t abandon the “poor lamb.”
But now?
“How much life do you have left?” her friend Margaret had asked. “Slaving for them like a galley slave. What’s William ever given you? *Nothing*.”
She’d slapped the table for emphasis.
“He caroused his youth away—dragged that hairdresser home, remember? *Daisy*.”
Lydia did.
“You worked two jobs, extra shifts, while he loafed. ‘Oh, William needs a spa break!’ Off he’d go, while you dug his mother’s garden. And you limping at forty? ‘Normal’?”
“Margaret, William’s…”
“What? A sacred beast? Other men *strive* for their families. Yours leeches!”
“…You’ve always disliked him. Why?”
Margaret hesitated. Then:
“Fine. I’ll tell you.”
Lydia braced herself.
“Remember his birthday at the cottage? I’d had a few, passed out in your guest room. Woke up—his sweaty hand over my mouth, the other groping. Clawed his face raw. Know the worst? His *mother* watched. Blamed *me* afterward. Threatened to say *I* came onto him. I left before I wrecked your life—you were pregnant with Emily then.”
Lydia sat stunned.
All these years, Margaret had avoided him, fearing her husband’s rage.
“And you never told me?”
“Tell *you*? Saint Lydia, martyr to William’s ‘ulcers,’ Emily’s ballet, his mother’s garden! Ever eaten *fresh* preserves?”
“Of course not—last year’s still—” She stopped.
She’d gone to Margaret not to complain, just to *breathe*.
Now, packing, she remembered other women’s husbands—real partners. Gifts, holidays, shared laughter. William’s “gifts”? A vacuum, a dumpling maker (he loved dumplings), musty perfume from his mum’s cabinet.
And Emily—spoiled, selfish.
“*My* fault, Margaret. Shouldn’t have listened to them—should’ve had that second child.”
Margaret scoffed. “Why’d you marry him, anyway?”
Lydia hesitated.
“…He was premature. His nan baked him in an oven, wrapped in sheepskin.”
“*What*?”
“No, really. Only child, elderly parents. I… pitied him. Other boys rode motorbikes, played guitars. He just… hovered. Glasses like milk bottles.”
Margaret barely stifled a scream.
“Mum caught us talking once. ‘Marry him or stop leading him on.’ I was stupid, Margaret. Wanted mountains, adventure—got a hypochondriac instead.”
They’d cried, laughed, remembered.
Now, scanning the room, Lydia knew: she’d rent a flat, file for divorce. Fight for what *she’d* earned. Emily would side with William—so be it.
She wasn’t leaving for Peter—just friendship. Mostly, she wanted *peace*.
***
The backlash was vicious.
“Selfish hussy!” her mother shrieked. His mum faked a heart attack—Lydia stepped over her. Neighbors took *her* side—they’d seen her life.
Then Emily came, apologizing.
Now, Lydia learns to *live*.
William brought four carnations, newspaper-wrapped. Begged. She refused.
A month post-divorce, he paraded with Daisy. His back? Miraculously cured.
Lydia doesn’t care. She’s booked a salon day with Emily.
And Peter? Invited her hiking—like in her youth.
It’s never too late to start anew.
Hard at first, then… like riding a bike.
