My husband has raised me and believes that without him Ill be lost Im leaving.
Are you digging through my things again? Andrew roars.
No, Im not, I answer calmly.
Yes you are! I begged you not to touch the papers on the desk! Where is my notebook now?
I pull his notebook from the desk drawer, the one he shoved in there yesterday after coming home a little tipsy from a schoolmates reunion. I say nothing. After almost thirty years of marriage Ive learned that arguing is pointless.
Andrew never makes a mistake. Im the one who always mixes things up, forgets, and does it wrong.
Here it is, I say, handing him the notebook. And please dont shout. The neighbours can hear.
The neighbours, the neighbours! he snarls, snatching the notebook from my hands. Youre always worried about what other people think! You should think about your husband, about how hard it is for him when nothing can be found in his own house!
Rusty, our ageing spaniel, whines under the table. He always reacts to raised voices. I lean down and stroke his silky ears.
Lately it feels as if the dog understands me better than my husband does.
After Andrew storms out, I sit at the kitchen table and stare out the window. Outside, autumn is in full glory. The poplars are turning yellow, some leaves already fallen. The sky is grey and a drizzle is gathering.
When did this happen? I wonder. When did my intelligent, cultured husband a literature lecturer at the university become this perpetually disgruntled, yelling man?
Did it start after he retired? Or when our son David moved with his family to another part of town? Or has it crept up year after year while I simply didnt notice, got used to it, and adjusted?
I stand, slip on my coat, and clip Rustys leash to his collar. I need fresh air. The park nearby is almost empty in this weather perfect.
The park isnt completely deserted, though. By the ponds gazebo a couple sits: a man in his fifties wearing an expensive coat and a woman of the same age.
How many times have I told you not to meddle in my affairs! the man bellows, his voice echoing across the park. Why did you call my boss? Do you know how I look? Like a child whose wife solves his problems for him!
I was only trying to help, Barry, the woman says, shrinking with each angry shout. You said you didnt have time
Ill handle it myself! Barry growls. Good Lord, why do you always stick your nose where it doesnt belong? Why cant you just tend to the house like a proper lady?
I feel a wave of discomfort. In her shrinking, apologising posture I see myself the same woman shrinking under a rain of accusations, convinced that Im the one at fault, that I must try harder, be more attentive, never irritate my husband.
Barry turns and stalks away, leaving the woman standing as the drizzle begins. She collapses onto the wet bench, covering her face with her hands.
I sit beside her. Rusty gently rests his head on her lap, and she strokes his trembling fur.
Sorry, I say, I didnt mean to eavesdrop. I just couldnt walk past.
She lifts tearfilled eyes to mine. Shes beautiful, with delicate features, but her gaze is dim, like a horse thats been spooked.
Its my fault, she whispers. I shouldnt have called
No, I cut in, my voice steadier than I expected. Its not you. Believe me, I know what Im talking about. Ive been married for almost thirty years, and for the past ten my husband has been shouting at me about everything. About the soup being too salty, even though he laced the pot himself because he thought it wasnt salty enough. About the shirt colour, even though he chose it. About the rain falling. And its always my fault.
She stares at me, eyes wide.
And you know what Ive realised just now, looking at you? I continue. This wont pass. It wont get better. Itll only get worse. All because we let it happen. We indulge their whims, stay silent, tolerate, apologise. We tell ourselves theyre just tired, not angry on purpose and they get used to it, thinking its acceptable, that were a lightning rod for their bad moods.
But what can we do? she sobs. We have children, a flat, weve been together for so long
Do you have a life of your own? I ask. Friends he doesnt criticize? Hobbies he doesnt mock? Even one decision you made without consulting him?
She remains silent, defeated.
You know what, I say, standing from the bench, Im going home now, packing my things and moving in with my son. Thats enough. I wont spend the rest of my life apologising for simply breathing. Maybe you should think about the same.
We talk a little longer, then part ways.
Back home I methodically pack my belongings. I call David.
Dad, can I stay with you for a while? I ask.
Whats happened, Mum? he worries. Andrew again?
Exactly. I cant take it any longer. Can I stay?
Of course, he replies.
I leave a short note for Andrew: Andrew, Im leaving. Live as you wish. Im filing for divorce. Dont look back, Eleanor.
I take Rusty with me; Andrew never liked the dog, always complaining about the shedding and mess.
That evening Andrew phones, shouting as usual, accusing me of losing my mind, saying normal women dont behave like this, that he loves me and is raising me for my own good, that Ill be lost without him.
Andrew, I say calmly, you cant even remember the flowers I love. In thirty years of marriage youve never given me the ones I like. You always give me the cheapest ones you can find. Thats not love.
Eleanor! Come to your senses! he screams. We we
Ive already come to my senses. All the best, Andrew.
I hang up. He calls again, then again, until finally he calms down after David talks to him. David knows how to speak to his father.
About a week later I run into the woman from the park at a shop. She smiles when she sees me, her eyes twinkling.
Thank you for stepping in that day, she says. You were like an angel or a messenger of fate.
Im embarrassed, I mutter.
No, truly! Your words
She gathers herself, takes a breath, and finishes: You put into words everything Ive been thinking for ages. Word for word. It gave me the courage to go to my mothers, to file for divorce. Its scary, but it feels right.
Right, I nod.
