“Mum, have you completely lost your mind?”
Diana’s words hit Lydia like a punch to the gut. The pain was sharp, searing. She kept peeling potatoes in silence, her fingers moving mechanically as her daughter’s voice lashed out.
“They’re already pointing fingers at us—’Oh, look, the mum’s gone off the rails’! If it were Dad, fine, but you? A woman! The heart of the home. Aren’t you ashamed?”
A tear slipped from Lydia’s eye, lingering before dropping onto her hand. Then another… soon they were falling freely, while Diana raged on.
Henry, Lydia’s husband, sat slumped on a chair, shoulders hunched, bottom lip jutting out. “Dad’s ill—did you forget? He needs care!” His voice cracked. “How could you do this? After everything he gave you—your youth, a child, a life? And now you just walk away? Not a chance, love. Not like this.”
“And how should I do it, then?” Lydia’s voice was quiet.
“What? You’re joking! Look at Dad… she’s joking now!”
“Diana, you speak as if I’m your worst enemy, not your mother. Suddenly you’re so concerned for your father…”
“Mum! Stop playing the victim! I can’t take it anymore—I’m calling Gran. Let her sort you out. This is humiliating!”
“Imagine,” Diana turned to her father, “I’m walking home from uni, and there they are—strolling arm in arm, him reciting poetry! His own work, I bet. Love poems, was it, Mum?”
“You’re cruel, Diana. Young and foolish, that’s all.”
“Not a shred of regret. Fine. I’m calling both grandmothers—let them deal with you. Dad and I are done.”
Lydia straightened, smoothed the wrinkles from her house dress, brushed invisible lint away. Then she stood.
“Alright then, my dears. I’m leaving.”
“Where, Lyd?”
“I’m leaving you, Henry.”
“What? Where? What about me?”
Diana, phone pressed to her ear, shot her mother a venomous glare as she ranted to someone.
“Di—Diana!” Henry wailed, as if mourning a death.
“What? Dad, is it your back? Where does it hurt?”
“Oooh, Diana… she… your mum… she’s leaving.”
“Leaving? Where? Mum, have you lost it? At your age?”
Lydia smirked. She packed her suitcase neatly. She’d almost left once before, when Henry’s back flared up—his poor, agonised moans kept her bound.
“Lyd… must be a slipped disc…”
“The MRI showed nothing.”
“Ah, those doctors hide things. They do it on purpose, see—to bleed you dry later. Like old Pete at work—started with painkillers, ended up with some terrifying diagnosis…”
Back then, she stayed. Couldn’t abandon the poor man.
But now…
“How much longer, Lyd?” Her friend Lisa’s voice echoed in her mind. “You slave away for them. What’s Henry ever given you? Nothing!” Lisa slammed her palm on the table. “Ran around in his youth like a stray dog—even brought that hairdresser home—what was her name?”
“Milly.”
“That’s it, Milly! Sticky fingers and all. You worked two jobs, side gigs, while Henry lazed on the sofa. Oh, Henry needs a spa trip—his poor back! Meanwhile, you’re hauling veg for your mother-in-law. And your leg’s been dragging since you were forty—normal, is it?”
“Lisa, Henry’s just…”
“Just what? Sacred? Look at other men—they break their backs for their families. You? You’re the beast of burden. Tell me, when did you last eat fresh preserves?”
“What?”
“Not last year’s—fresh ones.”
“Don’t be daft—we’ve still got last year’s!” She caught herself.
Later, she went to Lisa—not to complain, just to vent.
“Mike, off fishing?” Lisa asked her husband.
“Not in the mood, Lis.”
“Go. Kids, to Gran’s. Aunty Lydia and I need a chat.”
And chat they did—truths spilled like tipped ink.
“Diana’s selfish, Lis. It’s my fault.”
“Oh, here we go—how’s it your fault now?”
“I shouldn’t have listened to Henry and his mum. Should’ve had another child. My own mother nagged—’Henry works full-time, Diana’s just started school…'”
“So you went to the clinic. The doctor begged you not to. But you were stubborn. Then it was too late. And Henry blamed you.”
“Honestly, Lis, I’ve always wondered—you’re smart, pretty—why’d you marry Henry?”
Lydia was silent. Then—
“Lisa… he was born six months early.”
“Who, love?”
“Henry. His gran steamed him in a boot.”
“A what?”
“She’d heat the stove, cool it, stuff him in a felt boot and shove him in.”
“And you married him because…?”
“I pitied him. All the lads had motorbikes, guitars, nunchucks like Bruce Lee… Henry? Clumsy, thick glasses. No charm.”
Lisa gaped.
“Your mum saw us talking once, said, ‘If he’s hanging about, you’d better wed him.’ I was daft, Lis. Only now I see it.”
“He’s been ‘ill’ his whole life—too weak, bad stomach, something always aching. I loved hiking, adventures… with him, I became a nursemaid. Everyone was marrying then—he seemed safe. Sad little thing.”
“You married a stray kitten. And starved yourself. Oh, Lyd…”
“I begged Mum. Swore we’d done nothing. Said I didn’t love him. Know what she said? ‘You’ll grow to. Half the country does. At least he won’t beat you or drink.'”
They cried. Laughed.
“If only you’d let me in sooner…”
“Henry, his mum, even mine—’No friends for married women.’ That’s why we barely met.”
Lydia scanned the room. She had somewhere to go—a flat to rent. Divorce papers to file. Every stitch in this house was hers.
Diana would side with Henry. Fine.
No, she wasn’t running to a man. Peter was just a friend. She wanted peace. Herself.
***
Oh, the scolding she got! Poor Henry, wicked Lydia, wrecking a lovely home.
“Go back! Beg his forgiveness!” her mother shrieked. Her mother-in-law faked a heart attack—Lydia stepped right over her. The neighbours took her side. They’d seen how she lived.
And then…
Diana apologised. Came back. Mother and daughter rebuilt.
Henry turned up with four carnations wrapped in newspaper. Begged.
She refused. A month post-divorce, he paraded with Milly, back miraculously healed.
Lydia didn’t care. She was learning to live.
Diana booked her a salon day.
Peter invited her hiking—like old times.
It’s never too late to start again.
Hard at first, then… like rolling downhill.
