I’m done, Mark. I cant live like this any longer, and yes, Im filing for divorce.
The words tumble out of Eleanors mouth as if its an ordinary remark. Even she is surprised by the ease. Years of bottled bitterness, sleepless nights waiting for him until dawn, inventing excuseseverything compresses into two short sentences.
Mark turns his head toward her. A flicker of bewilderment passes over his face.
Come on youre serious? What for?
What for. Eleanor smirks. For the scent of another womans perfume on his shirts. For the messages she stumbled upon. For the way he looks through her as if she were a piece of furniture thats long overdue to be tossed, but he never finds the strength. For the colleague from work. For the neighbour upstairs. For the waitress at the café where they celebrated their anniversary.
All of it, she shrugs. Im exhausted.
The divorce process drags on for months and becomes so draining that Eleanor sometimes forgets to eat. Court hearings, endless paperwork, interminable sessionsall turn into a viscous nightmare she cant climb out of. She walks into the courtroom in the old dress she wore before she was pregnant. The fabric strains at her hips, the zipper at the back never quite catches, and she hides it under a cardiganthe only decent one left, free of pills and stretched sleeves.
Mark sits opposite her in a fresh suit. The jacket fits like a glove, the tie is the height of fashion with an extravagant pattern. Eleanor stares at that tie, trying to recall the last time she bought anything for herself. Just two days ago she scraped together enough money for winter boots for Oliveralmost new, five pounds, bought from a shop in a neighbouring borough. On the crowded bus to pick them up, she worries about the extra trousers he needs for summer, a jacket, a hat.
Then the solicitor places the printouts on the table.
According to the bank statements, the lawyers voice is steady and businesslike, over the past eighteen months the defendant has spent in restaurants and entertainment venues an amount equivalent to the familys annual budget.
Eleanor eyes the figures, unable to form a coherent picture. Restaurants. Entertainment venues. A separate line for a florist, and she knows he never bought her bouquets. A jewellerearrings, a pendant, a ring. Gifts clearly not meant for her.
Meanwhile she wonders whether she can afford a single banana for Oliver. Not a bunchthats a luxury now. She slices apples thinly to stretch them over several days. She cooks porridge with water because milk has become expensive, and she drinks empty tea, convincing herself its better for her figure.
Mark clears his throat, readjusts that very tie.
Those are my own earnings. I earned them myself.
After the hearing Mark catches up with her in the car park. He grabs her elbow, turns her toward him.
Think youll win anything? his voice oozes venom. Ill take Oliver. Hear that? Ill take him.
Eleanor watches him in silence. The man she lived with for five years, the father of her child, the one who forced her into maternity leave, costing her a job, qualifications, herself.
Youre useless, he continues triumphantly. You cant do anything. Poverty? Ill raise a man out of him, not a mess. And youll pay the maintenance, not the other way round!
Uselessa word he has used before.
Youre useless, you dont understand the basics.
Youre useless, you forgot again.
Youre useless, what can I take from you?
And Eleanor endures it because she loves, because of family, because she feels she has to.
He keeps calling. He demands that Eleanor hand over her son so he doesnt spoil him with her influence, so she stops spending maintenance on who knows what.
During another call Eleanor finally snaps.
Fine, she says. Take him.
Silence hangs on the other end.
What?
I said fine. Ill bring Oliver tomorrow.
And she does.
Oliver stands in Marks hallwaya small boy with a dinosaurshaped backpack and a bag Eleanor packed with his favourite pyjamas, a book about space, and a plush rabbit with a torn ear. Mark looks at his son as if he materialised out of thin air.
There you go, Eleanor sets the bag down. Raise him.
Mum? Olivers voice trembles.
Eleanor sits in front of him, pulls him close, burying her nose in his hair, breathing in the scent of childrens shampoo and sunshine.
Youll stay with dad for a while, okay? Think of it as an adventure. Ill miss you and call every day.
She walks out without looking back, turns the corner, leans against a wall and slides down, pressing her palms to her face. God, what is she doing? Shes exhausted from Marks calls, his voice, his nitpicking.
Lena, its Mark stammers an hour later. When does Oliver start nursery? Tomorrow?
Nursery? Eleanor blinks. Mark, he goes to nursery every weekday at eight a.m. Didnt you know?
How should I Right, Ill sort it out.
He never does. He drops Oliver off with Mrs. Valentine at the same eveningfor a couple of hours while I sort things outand vanishes.
On the fourth day a call comes in. The number shows his mothers name, and she lets a short, angry smile slip before answering.
Lost your conscience? Mrs. Valentines voice rings with outrage. You handed the child over and went off to have fun? And Im the one looking after him? Im sixtysomething, by the way! My blood pressure!
I didnt bring the boy to you, Eleanor replies, calm, almost gentle. I brought him to his father. The same man who promised to raise him into a proper man, hammered his chest, threatened court.
He works! He has no time!
And I have time? I work too, every day. I manage on my own.
But he
Mrs. Valentine, Eleanor cuts in, I gave the child to Mark because he asked. Let him raise him as he promised. I cant help you.
Silence follows, then a few short beeps.
Mrs. Valentine calls back two days later. Her voice sounds different: tired, deflated.
Come, collect Oliver. I cant do this any longer.
Eleanor arrives that evening. Oliver darts to her from the doorway, clutches her legs, buries his face in her stomach.
Mum, mum, mum
He repeats it like a mantra, and Eleanor strokes his head.
Thats enough, little one, no more adventures. Lets go home.
Mrs. Valentine stands in the doorway, arms crossed, a look of irritation rather than remorse flashing across her face. She isnt repentant, just annoyed that her plan failed. The daughterinlaw turns out not to be as helpless as they thought.
Mark disappears. No more calls, no messages, no doorstep threats. He simply fades away. His parents also stop visiting the grandson. They turn up once, years later. By then Oliver is seven, in Year 2, swimming, and obsessed with building LEGO sets.
The boy opens the door and looks at the strangers.
Who are you? he asks.
Oliver! Mrs. Valentine flails her arms. Its us! Grandma and granddad!
Oliver frowns, turns away.
Mum, there are people here.
The conversation is brief and uncomfortable. Mrs. Valentine complains that her grandson doesnt recognize her, doesnt greet her, doesnt rush to hug. Mr. Norton (her husband) shakes his head, muttering about modern parenting.
They leave, muttering that the boy is terrible and illbrought up, just as useless as his mother. Eleanor shuts the door behind them and laughs. What did they expect?
Time sails by. Oliver turns eleven, stretching tall, looking like Eleanors father. He inherits her stubborn chin and sharp, mocking glance. He never asks about his father. Maybe one day he will, and Eleanor will answerhonestly, without sugar, but without venom. For now they manage together, just the two of them.
The past resurfaces unexpectedly when Eleanors friend Kate breaks down in her kitchen, mascara smearing her cheeks.
Hes threatening to take Sam, Kate sobs. He says hell hire a solicitor, gather documents I dont know what to do!
Eleanor pours tea, pushes the sugar bowl forward.
Kate, she smiles at the corner of her mouth, you want advice?
Anything. Im losing it.
Give him the child yourself.
Kate freezes, tea cup in her hand.
What?
Pack your things, take Sam to his dad. Say, Raise him. And walk away. Three daysmaybe less. Thatll settle it forever.
Are you serious?
Absolutely. Ive tested it on my own experience.
Kate looks at her, bewildered, halfdistrusting, a flicker of hope in her eyes.
And then?
Then? Eleanor sips her tea, leans back. Then you live normally. Without those people who need you only as a checkbox on the family list on social media.
She recalls Mark, his parents. All that is history now. But Eleanor has learned her lesson. She aces it.
