**The Seven Reasons to Leave**
“Enough!”—Valerie flung the dishcloth into the sink so hard water splashed across the counter. “I can’t take it anymore! Do you hear me, Edward? I just *can’t*!”
Her husband glanced up from his newspaper, frowning.
“Here we go again. Nerves acting up? Have a cup of tea.”
“*Have a cup of tea*,” she mocked, planting her hands on her hips. “Thirty years of the same rubbish! *‘Drink some tea, love. Don’t shout, love. Where’s supper, love?’* Am I some sort of servant to you?”
Edward folded the paper with a sigh. Retired women always lost their minds, he thought. No job to keep them busy, so they invented problems.
“Valerie,” he said stiffly, “what’s this about? Speak plainly.”
“Plainly?” She laughed, though it sounded brittle. “Nothing’s happened, Ed. I’ve just realized something. Too late, mind—but I’ve realized.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, untying it deliberately before hanging it on the peg. The slow precision of her movements unnerved him—she only moved like this when she’d made up her mind.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“What’s there to say?” He reached for the paper again. “How about tea first? You promised shepherd’s pie for supper—”
“Shepherd’s pie.” She shook her head. “Of course. Tell me, Ed—when was the last time I did something just for *me*? Not for you, not for the children, not for our grandchildren. *For me*?”
He shifted uncomfortably. Questions like this always left him bewildered. What did it mean, *for herself*? What else was there but family, home, duty?
“I don’t follow.”
“No. You never did.” She crossed to the window, watching the neighbour’s children play in the garden. “Remember how we met?”
“The village dance. You were nineteen.”
“Yes. I wanted to study literature at Cambridge. Remember?”
He vaguely recalled something of the sort, though at the time it had seemed frivolous—why did a woman need university when she could marry well?
“So?”
“So I didn’t go. Because you said, *‘What’s the point when we’ll marry? You’ll have babies to raise, a home to run.’* And I listened. That’s reason one.”
She turned back to him. “Then Margaret was born. I wanted to work at the library when she turned one—I’ve always loved books. You said, *‘Don’t be daft—who’d mind the baby? Stay home, be a mother.’*”
“Rightly so!” he protested. “A child needs her mother!”
“Exactly. Reason two. Then came James. Then your mother moved in—remember? Frail, ill. Who nursed her? Who washed her sheets, fetched her medicines, took her to the doctor?”
“You did. But that’s normal—a man’s at work—”
“Normal. Reason three.” Her gaze sharpened. “And when *I* fell ill? That winter with pneumonia?”
He scratched his neck. He remembered her being poorly, but there’d been an emergency at the bank—deadlines, the manager breathing down his neck—
“You managed,” she said coldly. “I dragged myself to the chemist. Called the doctor myself. You couldn’t even bring me tea. Reason four.”
She sat across from him, hands folded. For the first time, he noticed how thin she’d grown. The new streaks of grey. When had that happened?
“What else?” he asked quietly.
“Then grandchildren. Little Tommy and Lily. Where did they go while their parents worked? Here. Who helped with homework? Fed them? Took them to school?”
“Well… that’s what grandmothers do.”
“Grandmothers. Right. And where were the grandfathers?” Her smile was bitter. “In the pub. Fishing. Watching telly. *‘I’ve worked all my life—now I’ll rest.’* Reason five.”
Edward’s chair creaked as he shrank under her stare. Where was this going?
“Val—enough. What’s your point?”
“My point is—you don’t *see* me, Ed. Not really.” She gestured to herself. “I’m standing here, but you look straight through me. You don’t know my favourite dress. You’d forget my birthday if Margaret didn’t remind you. You’ve no idea what I read, what I think, what I fear. To you, I’m just… *furniture*. Comfortable. Unnoticed. Reason six.”
He flinched. “That’s not true—we’ve been married thirty years!”
“Thirty years side by side—not *together*.” She sighed. “Did you know I’ve been in the drama society since January? Every Wednesday. There are people there who *listen* to me. Who remember my name—not ‘Mum’ or ‘Gran.’ *Valerie.*”
She stood, smooth as resignation. “And the seventh reason, Ed—the simplest. I’m tired of being unhappy. Bone-tired. Waking each morning to the same day, the same life. Cooking, cleaning, washing. Your sour face if supper’s late. The silence. The *loneliness—*in my own home.”
His chest tightened. Had it been so bad? He wasn’t a brute—he’d worked hard, kept the family afloat, never drank, never strayed—
“This is melodrama! We’ve a good life—home, grown children, grandchildren—”
“*Good.* That’s the tragedy, Ed. ‘Good’ means feeling *nothing*. Just existing. I’m sixty-two. I want to *live* before it’s too late.”
She pulled a small suitcase from the cupboard. Ice flooded his veins.
“What are you doing?”
“Leaving. To stay with my sister in Bath. There’s a writing group there at the community centre. I’ve stories to tell—even if they’re bad ones.”
“*What about me?* The house? The grandchildren?”
“You’ll manage. You’ll learn to fry eggs, iron shirts. The children will grow without me. And the house…” She glanced around, “the house won’t change.”
He caught her wrist, words failing. “Val—let’s talk. I’ll—I’ll do better—”
“*How?*” Her eyes were gentle. “Change your nature at sixty-eight? Your habits? It’s too late, love. Years too late.”
“But we loved each other once.”
“Once. Then you stopped seeing me, and I stopped respecting myself. What’s left of love when only duty remains?”
She closed the suitcase. No anger in her face—just weary relief.
“I’m not leaving *you*, Ed. I’m leaving *for me*. For the girl who wanted to learn, to create, to laugh. Maybe she’s still there.”
“What if she’s not?”
“Then I’ll have looked.” She lifted the case. “Supper’s in the icebox. Shepherd’s pie—your favourite. Just warm it.”
He watched from the doorstep as the taxi vanished round the corner. The house yawned empty behind him.
That night, he ate cold pie, deaf to the telly. Seven reasons—all of them true. Bitter as weak tea.
Next morning, old Mrs. Higgins from next door popped in. “Where’s your Valerie gone? Haven’t seen her about.”
“Bath. To her sister’s. For good.”
“*For good?*” The old woman shook her head. “Lord, and here I envied her—steady husband, nice home. And all this time she was miserable.”
“I didn’t know,” he murmured.
“Men never do,” she sighed. “Fed and clothed—that’s enough for you lot. But a woman’s heart needs more. Kindness. Notice.”
After she left, Edward wandered the house like a ghost. In the bedroom, he found Valerie’s books—dozens he’d never seen. Poetry, novels, memoirs. When had she read so much?
On the fridge, a schedule: *Drama—Weds. Swimming—Mon. French—Fri.* A whole life he’d never noticed.
The phone rang—Margaret.
“Dad, Mum called. She’s at Aunt Rose’s. What’s happened?”
“She’s left.”
“Why?”
He stumbled through an explanation. How to explain seven reasons? Thirty years of blindness?
“I’ll come tomorrow.”
Margaret arrived with little Tommy, who immediately searched for his gran.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Visiting Aunt Rose,” Margaret soothed.
“Who’ll read to me?”
“Grandad will.”
“But he does the voices wrong!”
That evening, Margaret sat him down. “Tell me everything.”
He did. The seven reasons, the drama club, the books. She listened, nodding slowly.
Months later, under the cherry blossoms in Regent’s Park, he handed her a single sheet of paper—his first attempt at poetry, clumsy but sincere—and she smiled, slipping her hand into his as if they were twenty again, only wiser.
