**Seven Reasons to Leave**
“Enough! I can’t take it anymore!” Margaret flung the dishcloth into the sink, sending water splashing across the kitchen. “Do you hear me, Robert? I just can’t!”
Her husband lowered his newspaper, frowning.
“What’s got into you now? Nerves acting up? Have some chamomile tea.”
“Chamomile tea!” she mocked, planting her hands on her hips. “Thirty years of the same thing! ‘Have some tea, love. Don’t shout, love. Where’s dinner, love?’ Am I just some housemaid to you?”
Robert folded the paper and sighed. Women just lost their minds after retirement, he thought. No work to occupy them, so they invent problems.
“Margaret Elizabeth,” he said, deliberately formal, “what’s the matter? Speak plainly.”
“The matter?” She laughed, but it was brittle. “Nothing’s the matter, Robert. I’ve just realized something. A bit late, but there you go.”
Drying her hands on her apron, she unhooked it and hung it neatly. Her movements were slow, deliberate. Robert tensed—this was how she acted when she’d made a decision.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” He tried to return to his paper. “How about some tea? Weren’t you doing roast for dinner?”
“Roast,” she repeated, shaking her head. “Of course, roast. Tell me, Robert—when was the last time I did something for *me*? Not for you, not for the kids, not the grandkids. For *me*?”
He blinked. Questions like this always threw him. Why do things for yourself when you had family, a home, responsibilities?
“I don’t get what you’re on about.”
“No, you don’t,” she agreed. “That’s just it. You never did. Remember how we met?”
“At the dance hall,” he answered automatically.
“Yes. I was nineteen. I wanted to go to university, study English. Remember?”
He vaguely recalled something about it, but back then it had seemed like girlish nonsense. Why did a woman need education when she could marry well?
“Suppose I do. So what?”
“So what? I never went. Because *you* said, ‘Why bother? We’ll marry, have kids, you’ll keep house.’ So I listened. Reason one.”
She walked to the window, watching the neighbour’s children play football outside. A day just as sunny as when she first realised life was passing her by.
“Then Sophie was born,” she continued, her back still turned. “I wanted to work when she turned one. At the library. I’ve always loved books. And you said, ‘Don’t be daft. Who’ll watch the baby? Stay home, be a mother.’”
“And rightly so!” he huffed. “A child without its mother’s care is neglected!”
“Rightly so. Reason two. Then came James. Then your mother moved in, remember? Ill, frail. And who cared for her? Who washed her sheets, bought her medicine, took her to appointments?”
“You. But that’s normal—a man’s at work—”
“Normal. Reason three.” She turned, studying him as if seeing him for the first time. “When I got ill—remember? That bout of pneumonia?”
Robert scratched his head. He vaguely remembered her being poorly, but it had been a busy time at the factory, the bosses riding him hard…
“Course I remember.”
“Who looked after me when my fever spiked? Who called the doctor? Who fetched the medicine?”
Silence stretched. He remembered: he’d occasionally poke his head into the bedroom, ask how she was, then leave for the telly. She’d coped alone.
“I did,” she answered for him. “Dragged myself to the chemist’s, rang the GP myself. You couldn’t even bring me tea. Reason four.”
She sat opposite him at the table, hands folded, spine straight. Robert suddenly noticed she’d lost weight. And more grey in her hair. When had that happened?
“What else?” he asked quietly.
“The grandkids came. Sophie’s Emily, James’ little Noah. And where were they left when their parents worked? With me. Who helped with homework, fed them, took them to school?”
“Well… that’s what grandmothers do.”
“Grandmothers. True. And where were the grandfathers?” She smirked. “In the pub with mates. Or fishing. Or watching telly. Because ‘I’ve worked all my life, now it’s my turn to relax.’ Reason five.”
Robert shifted uncomfortably. This wasn’t going well. She was leading somewhere, but where?
“Marg, enough. What’s your point?”
“No point. Just explaining.” She stood, fetched a jug of juice from the fridge. “Want some?”
“Aye.”
She poured two glasses, slid one to him. As he drank, she continued:
“Reason six is simple. You don’t see me, Robert. Not really. I stand before you, but you look without seeing. You don’t know my favourite dress, my birthday without reminders. You don’t ask what I think, read, fear. I’m just part of the furniture to you. Convenient, familiar, invisible.”
“Marg, what rubbish! Of course I see you—we’ve lived together thirty years!”
“Lived,” she nodded. “Side by side. Not together. Did you notice I’ve been in a drama group six months?”
He blanked. What group? She was always home, doing chores…
“Never noticed,” he admitted.
“Exactly. I go every Wednesday. And you know what? There are people there who *listen* to me. Who care what I think. Who remember my *name*. Not ‘mum,’ not ‘gran,’ not ‘wife.’ Margaret.”
She finished her juice, set the glass down.
“And reason seven, Robert. The biggest. I’m tired of being unhappy. Bone-tired. Every morning I wake and think: another day, another year. More cooking, washing, cleaning. More scowls if dinner’s late. More silence at the table. More loneliness under my own roof.”
His chest tightened. Was it really that bad? He wasn’t a monster—just a normal bloke. Worked hard, provided, never drank or strayed…
“Margaret, don’t overdo it. We’ve a good life. House, grown kids, grandkids…”
“Good,” she echoed. “That’s the problem, Robert. ‘Good’ means feeling nothing. No joy, no sorrow. Just existing. I’m sixty-two. I want to *live*, while there’s still time.”
She opened the wardrobe, pulled out a small suitcase. His blood ran cold.
“What’re you doing?”
“Leaving. To my sister’s in Bristol. She’s asked for years. Says there’s a writing group at the community centre. We’ll read poems, tell stories. I’m no writer, but I’d like to try. Got plenty to say.”
“What about me? The house? The grandkids?”
“You’ll learn to manage. Frying eggs, ironing shirts. The kids will grow without me. The house…” She glanced around, “…won’t vanish.”
He stood, stepped closer. For the first time in years, he was lost for words.
“Marg, let’s talk. We’ll sort it. Maybe I can change—”
“Change what, Robert?” She paused, studying him sadly. “Your nature at sixty-eight? Your habits? Your whole outlook? No, love. Too late. 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? Habit. Duty. Fear of being alone.”
Closing the suitcase, she met his eyes. No anger there—just exhaustion and something like relief.
“I’m not abandoning you, Robert. I’m leaving. For *me*. For the Margaret who wanted to learn, work, create. Who used to laugh and dream. Maybe she’s still there.”
“What if you don’t find her?”
“What if I do?” She lifted the case, moved to the door. “Dinner’s in the fridge. Roast, how you like it. Just heat it.”
He watched her taxi disappear round the corner, then stood a long while in the doorway of a house that suddenly seemed too big and too empty.
That evening, he ate cold roast at the kitchen table. The news played unheard on the telly. He thought of the seven reasons Margaret had named. Each one true. Bitter, ugly, but true.
Next morning, neighbour Ethel popped by.
“Robert, where’s Margaret? Haven’t seen her.”
“Gone,” he said shortly.
“Where? Visiting the grandkids?”
“To her sister’s. Bristol. For good.”
Ethel perched on a stool, tsking.
“Oh, Robert. I always envied her. Husband who doesn’t drink or brawl, nice home. Turns out she was miserable.”
“MiserAnd as Robert stood there, the quiet hum of the kettle boiling beside him, he realised for the first time that love wasn’t just about staying—but sometimes, about letting go.
