Andrew raised me and always said Id be lost without him so I left.
Are you digging through my stuff again? he roared.
No, Im not, I said calmly.
Dont lie! I begged you not to touch the papers on my desk. Wheres my little notebook now?
I slipped the notebook out of his desk drawer the one hed shoved there himself after coming home a bit tipsy from a classmates reunion. I didnt say a word. After almost thirty years of marriage Id learned it was pointless.
Andrew never admits hes wrong. Its always me who mixes things up, forgets, does it wrong.
Here it is, I handed it over, trying not to raise my voice. And please, dont shout. The neighbours can hear.
The neighbours, the neighbours! he huffed, snatching the notebook from my hands. Youre always worrying about what other people think! Maybe you should think about your husband, about how hard it is for him when he cant find anything in his own house!
Rusty, our ageing English Springer Spaniel, let out a whine from under the table. He always reacts to raised voices. I bent down and stroked his silky ears. Lately I felt the dog understood me better than my husband did.
When Andrew stormed off, I stayed at the kitchen table, staring out the window. Autumn was in full swing the poplars were turning yellow, some leaves already on the ground. The sky was overcast, a drizzle was gathering.
When did this happen? I thought. When did my smart, cultured husband, a university literature lecturer, become that forevercomplaining, shouting man?
Did it start after he retired? Or when our son Jamie moved out with his family to another borough? Or maybe it crept up year by year and I just got used to it, adapted?
I got up, threw on my coat, clipped Rustys leash and headed out for some fresh air. The park was practically empty in this weather perfect.
The park, though, wasnt completely deserted. By the ponds gazebo a couple was sitting: a man in his fifties in an expensive coat and a woman of the same age.
How many times have I told you not to meddle in my business! the man shouted, his voice echoing across the park. Why did you call my boss? Do you realise how I look? Like a kid whose wife is solving all his problems!
I was just trying to help, Mark, the woman said, shrinking a little with each angry word. You said you were swamped
Ill sort it myself! Mark growled. Good grief, why do you always stick your nose where it doesnt belong? Why cant you just tend to the home like a proper woman?
I felt a knot of disgust. In that moment I saw myself in her shrinking, apologising, becoming almost invisible with every shouted accusation.
How many times have I stood under a hail of blame, thinking its my fault, that I must try harder, be more attentive, not irritate the good husband?
Mark turned and marched off, leaving his wife standing in the sudden rain. She sat down on the wet bench, covering her face with her hands.
I sat beside her. Rusty, ever the empath, rested his head on her knees and she stroked his trembling fur.
Sorry, I murmured, I didnt mean to eavesdrop. I just couldnt walk past.
She lifted tearfilled eyes. A beautiful woman with fine features, but her gaze was dull, like a horse thats been chased too long.
Its my fault, she whispered. I shouldnt have called
No, I cut in, my voice steadier than I felt. 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 for everything. The soup being too salty even though he dumped half the salt shaker in it himself because, you know, he thought it wasnt salty enough. The shirt being the wrong colour even though he chose it. The rain falling. And its always my fault too.
Her eyes widened.
And you know what Ive just realised, looking at you? I continued. This wont get better. Itll only get worse. Because we let it happen. We indulge their whims, stay silent, put up with it, apologise. We think, Hes just tired, not doing it on purpose and they get used to it, start thinking its okay to treat us like a lightning rod for their bad moods.
She sniffed, But what do we do? We have children, a flat, weve been together for so long
Do you have a life of your own? I asked. Friends he doesnt criticize? Hobbies he doesnt mock? Even one decision youve made without looking to his opinion?
She fell silent, defeated.
You know, I said, standing up, Im going home now, packing a few things and heading to Jamies. Enough. I dont want to spend the rest of my life apologising for breathing. Maybe you should think about the same.
We talked a bit more, then went our separate ways.
Back home I methodically packed my things and called Jamie.
Hey love, can I stay with you for a while?
Whats happened, Mum? he asked, worried. Dad again?
Exactly. I cant take it any longer. Can I crash at yours?
Of course.
I left a short note for Andrew: Andy, Im leaving. Live as you wish. Im filing for divorce. Dont bring up the past, Claire.
I took Rusty with me Andrew never liked the dog, always complained about the hair and mess.
That evening Andrew called, yelling, screaming that I was losing it, that I was having a breakdown, that decent women dont act like this, that he loved me, that he was raising me for my own good, that Id be lost without him.
Andy, I said calmly, you cant even remember what flowers I like. In thirty years of marriage youve never given me the ones I love. You always buy the cheapest bouquet. Thats not love.
Claire! Snap out of it! he roared. We we
Ive already snapped out of it. Take care, Andy.
I hung up. He called again, then again, until Jamie talked to him and finally he quieted down.
About a week later I ran into the woman from the park at the supermarket. She smiled when she saw me, and I noticed a spark return to her eyes.
Thank you, she said, for stepping in that day. You were like an angel, or a messenger.
Im embarrassed, I stammered.
No, really! Your words they hit home. I finally decided to go back to my mums, start the divorce. Its scary, but it feels right.
Exactly, I nodded.
