A mother shrieked, “You’ve betrayed me!” as the father vanished without a word.
Margaret slept deeply when the telephone shattered the night. She fumbled for the receiver, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Margaret!” Her mothers voice trembled with despair. “Come! Now!”
“Mum, whats happened?” She jerked awake, struggling to steady herself. “Another row with Dad? Youve spent your whole lives at each others throatssort it out yourselves!”
“Theres no one left to row with!” Her mothers voice cracked. “Your fathers gone!”
“Mum is Dad dead?” Margaret froze, her blood turning to ice.
“Come and see for yourself!” her mother snapped. “This isnt a conversation for the telephone!”
“See what?” She nearly shouted in confusion.
“Just come!” The line went dead.
Shaking, Margaret dressed in haste and dashed to the family home in the outskirts of Manchester, dreading what awaited her.
“Margaret! Hurry!” Her mothers voice rang like a death knell.
“What now?” she muttered, rubbing her bleary eyes.
“What now?! Im at my wits end, and she asks questions!” Her mother was nearly weeping.
“Mum, its seven in the morning on a Saturday,” she reasoned, though unease coiled in her stomach. “Ive got plans, the children, my husband. Explain properly, or Im not coming.”
“You wont come?” Her mother gasped in outrage. “Do I mean nothing to you? You dont care about my grief!”
“Mum, you and Dad have bickered your whole lives,” Margaret cut in. “Im tired of being your referee.”
“Your father isnt here anymore!” her mother screamed before the line went dead again.
“Whats all this?” grumbled her husband, Thomas, rolling over in bed.
“Something serious, apparently,” she said quietly, still reeling. “I have to go.”
“Theyre unbearable!” Thomas fumed. “Does your mother not understand youve your own family?”
“Thomas, dont start. We dont choose our parents,” she sighed. “I must go. Sorry, but youll have to manage the children alone.”
“As if its the first time,” he muttered. “Tell your motherif she rings like this again, Ill demand a divorce.”
Margaret arched a brow.
“Seriously?”
“No, of course not,” he said with a tight smile. “But we ought to scare her. Maybe shell learn.”
“She wont,” Margaret shook her head, gathering her things.
The family home had always been a battleground. Her mother, Elizabeth, screeched endlessly while her father, William, stood silent, lips pressed into a thin line. Outwardly, he ignored her tirades, but Margaret knewinside, he seethed.
The rows began when she was a teen, rare at first, then daily. Her mother, shrill as a fishwife, staged scenes loud enough to wake the neighbours. Even the old men on the bench outside would mutter, “How does he live with that? Poor sod.”
No one asked how Margaret endured it. From the outside, they seemed the perfect familyher father ran a university lab, earned well; her mother kept house and fussed over Margaret, though “fussed” was generous. Elizabeth ruled everythingher husband, Margaret, even the cleaning lady William hired to ease her burden. A wasted effort.
The rows grew crueller, more public. Margaret became just another piece of furnitureher feelings didnt matter. She dreamed of escape. And she did. She left for university in Manchester, rarely returning. But each visit was poisoned by their shouts.
Once, her father snapped, “What do you want, Elizabeth? The moon?” Her mother, stunned hed spoken back, laughedthen fell silent. Briefly.
At Margarets wedding, her mother outdid herself. Sniping at William, criticising everything, and when the toastmaster offered him a speech, she leapt up: “Ill do it! You cant trust him with anything important!” Guests exchanged glances; Margaret burned with shame.
After the wedding, her father secretly bought her a flat in Manchester, warning her not to tell her mother. She kept the secret, sharing it only with Thomas. “Blimey,” hed said. “Hope well never have secrets like that.” “Never,” she smiled. “I take after DadI cant stand rows.”
These memories flooded her on the journey. She expected the usual complaints, her fathers weary eyes. But reality was worse.
Her mother wrenched open the door, wailing, “I gave him everythingmy youth, my life! And this is how he repays me!”
“Mum, wheres Dad?” Margaret gripped her shoulders.
“Your father ran off last night!” Her mother burst into tears.
“Ran off?” The floor seemed to drop beneath her.
“He packed his things and left while I slept!”
“Have you rung him?”
“Of course! He wont answer! You tryhell talk to you!”
Margaret dialled. Her father answered at once, eerily calm. “I know why youre calling. Ive earned my peace from your mother. Im staying with a friend. If you need me, Im here. For you.”
“Dad, where are you?” she asked, feeling her mothers glare.
“In the countryside. For now. Well see. Alright?”
“Alright,” she whispered.
“What did you promise him?” her mother shrieked. “That traitor!”
“Mum, enough! Dads no traitor. Hes tired of your theatrics.”
“He told you that?”
“No. I did. Hes with a friend. Hell come backdont fret.”
He never did. Her mother hunted down the address, stormed over, pounded the doorno answer. She rang ceaselesslysilence. She suspected a mistress. Finding none, her fury grew. “How dare he leave without reason? Am I nothing?” she sobbed.
One day, Margaret snapped. “Mum, he doesnt want your forgiveness. Hes not divorcing you, still gives you his wages, blames you for nothing. He just wants peace. Hes had enough.”
“Hes had enough?” her mother screeched. “Im the one whos suffered!” She collapsed at last, as though struck by an unseen blade.
