I Want to Come Home
Margaret always woke just before the alarm, as if she had an internal clock. She washed, dressed, and made breakfast. When her husband stepped into the kitchen, clean-shaven and smelling of aftershave, a plate of scrambled eggs or soft-boiled eggs, sliced bread, cheese, and ham waited for him, alongside a steaming mug of strong coffee. Margaret herself only took black coffee and a bite of cheese.
They had been married thirty years. By now, they knew each other so well that words were hardly necessary, especially in the mornings. “See you tonight,” “I’ll be late today,” “Thanks…” A glance, a footstep, even silence told them everything. What was the point of talking more?
“Thanks,” said Edward, finishing his coffee before standing.
When they were newlyweds, he used to kiss her cheek before leaving for work. Now, he simply thanked her and walked out. He worked as an engineer at a railway factory, leaving early to beat the traffic across town.
Margaret cleared the table, washed up, and got ready. She was a university lecturer, just two stops from home, and always walked there—rain or shine. Tall and lean, she wore trouser suits, usually grey pinstripe, with soft pastel blouses underneath. In summer, she allowed herself dresses.
Her once-dark hair had turned silver. She never dyed it, instead pinning it into a thin braid coiled at the nape of her neck. No makeup, no jewellery except her wedding ring.
As a lecturer, she talked all day. At home, she preferred silence. Edward liked that. To outsiders, they seemed the perfect couple—never arguing, never fighting.
Edward was two years older but had aged well. Margaret had long grown used to other women noticing him. She used to be jealous, but with time, she shrugged it off. *Where would he go? Nobody cooks for him like I do.* And she *did* cook brilliantly.
They had a daughter who had married an army officer and moved away after university.
Students found Margaret intimidating—rarely smiling, always composed. But she wasn’t cruel. If a student admitted they didn’t know an answer but had studied, she’d guide them, often pulling them up to a pass. But cheat? She’d throw them out without hesitation. Some tried pity, begging for leniency, but lies never worked. She could smell them.
She didn’t socialise with colleagues or indulge in gossip.
Once, in the canteen, she overheard two first-years talking. They hadn’t seen her.
“Honestly, that chemistry lecturer’s such a spinster. If it weren’t for the wedding ring, you’d think she’d never married,” said one.
“She’s got a husband, actually. Quite handsome, too. And a grown-up daughter,” said the other.
“What does he **see** in her?”
“I live near her. She’s alright.”
“Right, ‘alright.’ Dresses like a bloke. Doubt she’s even got a decent figure.”
Margaret finished her lunch, stood, and looked at them.
“Sorry,” they squeaked, turning red.
*A spinster. So that’s what they think.* Later, in the staff room, she studied herself in the mirror. *What **does** Edward see in me?* The bell rang, and she headed to class.
At home, she started dinner—beef stew in pots, timed perfectly for his return. She waited. Edward always parked under their window. But not tonight. Then came the click of the front door.
“No car? Did it break down?” she asked.
“No. Parked elsewhere.”
She didn’t ask why. Back in the kitchen, she pulled the stew from the oven. Edward sat at the table.
“Margaret, sit down.”
She removed her oven glove and sat opposite, fingers laced. She knew at once. He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Look. I’m in love with someone else. I’m leaving.” He wiped his forehead.
Her grip tightened.
“Sorry. I’ll pack.” He stood and left.
The voice in her head screamed: *Stop him! Talk to him!* But she didn’t move. She heard hangers clinking, drawers opening—documents, probably. A suitcase zipper. Silence. Then wheels rolling over carpet, louder on the tiled hall.
He took forever with his coat and shoes. *He’ll come back. He’ll say he changed his mind.* But the door shut. The lock clicked.
She sat for a long time before burying her face in her hands.
*That’s why he didn’t park outside. So the neighbours wouldn’t see. Or was **she** in the car?* She splashed water on her face. *The stew…*
Her first instinct was to dump it, pots and all. Instead, she wrapped them in foil and knocked next door.
A young woman answered.
“Hello—” Margaret paused. She didn’t even know their names.
“The Wilsons? They sold up. Their son took them in. We moved in yesterday. I’m Emily, my husband’s James. Something smells amazing!”
“For you. A housewarming gift.” She tried to smile but couldn’t. Handed over the pots and left.
That night, she didn’t sleep—just paced, crying, arguing with Edward in her head. *Why now? Why not years ago? What do I do?*
By morning, she rose before the alarm. Coffee. Then work. That evening, she didn’t cook. Just stared at the telly.
A knock. *Edward? He has a key…*
Emily stood there with a slice of cake.
“You fed us last night. That stew was **unreal**. James begged me to get the recipe. Thought I’d return the favour. First cake I’ve ever made.”
“Come in.” Margaret put the kettle on.
“You’re alone? Husband working late?”
Margaret shrugged.
“James and I married two months ago. I’m thirty-six—first time! Nearly missed the boat, eh? Lived with my mum, so I can’t cook. James was divorced.” She paused, noticing Margaret’s sharp look.
“You think I stole him? No! His wife left **him** three years ago—took their little girl. He adored her. Sold their house, gave her half. Drank himself silly till I found him. Mum warned me off. But he’s sweet. Stopped drinking. Handy, too—just ask if you need anything fixing.”
“Too sweet. Less sugar next time,” Margaret said.
“Yeah… Teach me? Oh! I’m a hairdresser—I could do your hair. Short would **suit** you.”
“No.”
“But—”
“Emily, no.”
Emily left. Margaret studied the mirror. *Maybe I **should** cut it.*
Days later, she agreed.
“Trust me, you’ll look **amazing**!” Emily gushed.
“Who?”
“Never mind. Weekend?”
Saturday, baking a cake, she answered the door to Emily, clutching a case.
“Ready?”
Margaret had forgotten.
“Smells good!” Emily chattered, setting up.
As Margaret sat, Emily snipped off her braid.
“Don’t panic. Thin, grey—you won’t miss it.”
After tea and cake, the transformation finished, Margaret barely recognised herself. Stylish. Younger.
“We’ll fix your brows next, some mascara, lipstick—”
“Now?”
Emily laughed. “Tomorrow! Love it?”
“More than words.”
They became friends. Evenings, Margaret taught her to cook. Emily filled the silence Edward left.
Margaret grew fond of her new look. She bought dresses, wore lipstick. Compliments came.
“James **adores** me now—thanks to your cooking!” Emily said. “Your husband travelling?”
Margaret didn’t flinch. She told her.
“From **you**?” Emily gasped.
Spring arrived. Walking home in a dress, shawl fluttering, Margaret heard a car door.
“Margaret.”
Edward. Thinner. Older.
“You cut your hair?”
“Collecting the rest of your things? Why wait outside?”
“Dunno.”
Inside, his eyes darted to the coat stand.
“Thought I’d find you with someone?”
“I want to come home. If you’ll have me.”
“Why?”
“Miss you. Mistake. She can’t cook. I’m sick of takeaways.”
“I barely cook now. For one.”
“I know I don’t deserve it. But I’ve nowhere else. Did you tell Sarah?”
“No. It’s your home too. We could sell.”
His face fell.
“My terms: I cook. You wash up, shop, clean your room, launder your clothes. I’ll iron shirts.” She eyed his crumpled one.
“If that suits you, settle in. Dishes are yours.”
She pitied him. This wasn’t the Edward she’d loved. Hearing him mop his floor at night, she almost helped. Almost.
Now, she made the rules. Sometimes she wanted to stroke his thinning hair, say she was glad he was backShe let him stay, but the warmth between them never fully returned, though sometimes, in the quiet of the night, she’d catch herself listening for his steady breathing—still familiar, still somehow a comfort.
