Im tired of being invisible. A dreamlike tale
Youve still not cleared the table! Mary hurled the sponge into the sink, the splash sending droplets dancing over the blue tiles.
Richard barely glanced up from his iPad, his lips curling in irritation.
Good morning to you too, he grumbled, burying himself once again in his glowing screen.
Whats so good about it? Mary felt a wire within her stretch, taut and ready to snap. I asked you yesterday to at least clear the dishes. Just one plate! Could you not have managed one plate?
I forgot, muttered Richard, not bothering to look up. Its hardly the end of the world.
Breadcrumbs scattered across the oilcloth, mocking her. Mary brushed them to the floor, already knowing shed be sweeping them up later. Always her, always the same.
Do you remember anything apart from your silly Chatterbox? She jabbed her chin towards the beloved iPad he treated like sacred scripture.
Here we go, Richard sighed, deep and weary. This early in the morning? Didnt you sleep?
I slept fine, her voice was so soft it was as though it had been chiselled from her bones. Im just tired of being invisible in my own home.
Richards brow furrowed. At last, his hands dropped the tablet. He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time in decades, or as if she was speaking in riddles.
Invisible? Dont get dramatic.
The kettle behind her hissed and spat, making its odd morning symphony. She poured him a coffee, hands shaking from tiredness or fury, she couldnt be sure and sat across from him. She gazed into the blurry, half-awake eyes of a man whod already managed to be annoyed before breakfast.
Nothing, she said. Its nothing.
An uneasy silence stretched between them, sticky and strange. Outside somewhere, crows shrieked. The door of another flat slammed below, echoing up through the corridors of their redbrick block in Finchley. Another ordinary day indistinguishable from every other day in recent memory.
She finished her coffee and rose, gathering plates and sidestepping more crumbs under her slippers. Richard had returned, unseeing, to his digital comfort. She swept the floor, and he didnt notice.
***
On the bus, heat pressed in. Mary leaned on the glass, watching the drizzle paint London in a grey blur. People darted along the pavement like quicksilver. Everyone with their own stories, their secrets, their tiny heartbreaks. She too had problems, but hers seemed to glow with invisible ink, shielded even from the man who had been her companion for almost forty years.
She replayed the morning quarrel if it could even be called a quarrel. Just another droplet in a pool that had slowly deepened to a lake, one she pretended not to see, acted as if it was a normal way to live.
Richard wasnt a bad man. He never drank, never raised a hand. Thirty-some years at the steelworks, pay packet home on the dot. Once, so long ago it felt like a half-forgotten fable, he brought her flowers, held her hand on walks under chestnut trees. Made her float with the gaze he fixed on her, as if she were the only woman in the world.
Now? Now it was the iPad, or the evening news. Collapse onto the sofa after work, remote in hand. She cooked, cleaned, laundered. He ate, muttered thanks, and faded back to the television glow. She washed up; he snored. She woke him; they drifted into their halves of the same bed in silence.
And so, days ticked by months, years.
Mary pressed her forehead against the chilly window pane and wondered: when did she become this ghost in her own home? When did she lose the courage to say all the anger and sorrow roiling inside? She was afraid. Afraid to shatter what little remained to be left alone in this flat, every shelf and corner haunted by their youth, their children long grown and scattered to distant towns.
The bus shuddered to a halt opposite a glass-walled office block in Croydon the home of Vector Consulting. Mary stepped off, adjusted her bag, and entered that other routine: a day adrift between spreadsheets, invoices, and the ancient desktop she called Winston sluggish, unpredictable, but never replaced. Why bother? Bookkeeper Mary Smith never complained.
***
In breezed Linda all fuchsia nails, perfume, thundery presence. With a flourish, she presented her hands.
Look! Got them done yesterday. Arent they divine?
Mary eyed the sequined talons, so brash against the beige hush of the office.
Very nice, Mary forced a smile. Bright.
You should treat yourself too, Linda inspected Marys unadorned, neatly clipped fingernails. Puts you in a good mood instantly. Simon couldnt stop admiring them when we went to The Ivy on Saturday. Said I looked smashing.
Mary nodded and hid behind her screen, numbers shimmering out of focus. But Linda wasnt finished.
So what did you two get up to at the weekend? Go anywhere special?
Just bits and bobs at home, you know. Theres always something, Mary lied cheerfully.
The truth: Richard obsessively watching the football, while she washed, ironed, cooked, caught up on chores, and retreated to bed while he kept company with the late movie. Another weekend, same as every other.
Oh, you cant carry on like that! Linda clapped her hands together. Simons always saying you only get one life, might as well enjoy it. He got me perfume yesterday, out of the blue. Walked past a shop, thought of me, just like that.
Marys smile hung by a thread. When was the last time Richard thought of her, unprompted? The last present was yes, a Dyson three birthdays ago. Itll make cleaning easier for you, hed grinned. Shed managed a thank you, even happiness. Yet, in the silence of night, she wept softly into her pillow: a vacuum, for her birthday. The gift youd give a skivvy.
Mary? You all right? Lindas hand brushed her shoulder.
Yes, just tired. Didnt sleep well.
You want vitamins! Ive got some Omega-3 Simon orders from the States, far better quality. They perk you up straight away.
Mary nodded and pretended to listen, but her thoughts drifted to the dishes waiting at home. Last nights dinner, untouched by soap or sponge she had been too weary and reasoned, Tomorrow, Ill do them. The morning ran away with her. This evening, shed face dried-on porridge and potato peelings. As always.
Well, back to work, Linda said, admiring her nails one last time. Friends are round tonight Simons grilling steaks on the balcony. First time ever! I just need to toss a salad.
She vanished, trailing a cloud of scent and envy. Mary stared at her monitor. Steaks on the balcony. Perfume just because. A husband who makes a fuss. These things sounded like echoes from another planet. The planet where wives werent ghosts where they were cherished, visible.
She used to read about the over-fifties crisis in womens magazines and on advice blogs: Couples become distant, lose interest, must nurture connection, talk, find shared joys. Mary tried. Suggested cinema, day trips, even a mini-break to Brighton. Richard scoffed Why waste money? Home is better. She tried to make conversation about his day, but he retreated into screens and monosyllables. Eventually, she stopped trying at all. Perhaps shed made her bed.
So why the heavy stone in her chest every morning? Why did every glimpse of Lindas happiness sting so sharply?
***
Time collapsed around her endless columns of numbers, eternally crashing Windows, the clocks hands refusing to budge. Six oclock finally arrived. She packed her bag, exchanged soft goodbyes. Dusk had stolen the colour from everything; a chill wind sneaked inside her coat.
On the bus home, seat by the window, bag clutched tight, Mary pictured the return: the mountain of dishes, the jumble of laundry, the husband already sunk into his own favourite dent of the sofa. Shed don her invisible uniform and clock into her real shift, the one no one noticed.
She remembered a friend, Jean, who had divorced at fifty-five. Jeans husband ran off with someone younger. At first, Jean wept over her wine at Marys kitchen table. But you know what, Mary? shed said. Now I get to relax. My place is always tidy. No more socks on the stairs, nobody shouting for his tea. Im free do you see?
Mary hadnt understood. Who could welcome divorce, that ultimate defeat? Shed worn her long marriage to Richard like a medal. Theyd lasted. Theyd saved their family. But what exactly had they saved? The kind of togetherness where you become strangers: wife as caterer, husband as a silent lodger.
This was not a life; it was survival. The endless, unseen labour of wifedom. An article had called it the invisible load. You soldier on in silence, until one day you stop and suddenly its all that anyone notices. Whys there no clean shirt? Wheres dinner?
Her stop appeared. She trudged up the stairs, the weight not just physical but sunk into her very bones. Fatigue not of muscles, but of spirit: the grind of the day that would always loop back tomorrow.
The flat held a staleness, unwashed air. Richards shoes and coat cast carelessly about, television blaring through closed doors.
Mary stepped into the kitchen and stilled. The carnage sprawled before herplates, mugs, a stewpot with crusted porridge, breadcrumbs like confetti across the oilcloth, the bin overflowing, juice dribbling from a toppled carton.
A heat rose in her chest, wild and terrifying. Her fists clenched. Breathing became labor.
She marched to the living room. Richard reclined, propped on one elbow, rapt at the explosions on the TV, apple core balanced on his belly, seeds scattered below.
Richard, she called quietly.
No response. The television roared, indifferent.
Richard! Her voice rang sharp.
He twisted his neck at last. What is it?
Did you see it? she jabbed towards the kitchen.
See what? His face blank.
The kitchen! The dishes. The state of the place!
He grimaced, as if her words were nonsense.
Yes, yes. I had lunch before dashing out. Didnt have time to tidy, I was late.
And yesterday? What was your excuse then? Her voice trembled. And the day before? Every day?
Oh Mary, Im tired, Richard snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dont start.
Youre tired? Something inside her tore. YOURE tired?
She had never yelled. Not once in all their years. But once the words loosed themselves, they surged up as though they had been chained for eons.
I walk in every day to this mess! You wont tidy a thing, wont wash a single plate, put your stuff away, wipe a crumb?
Richard sat up, switched off the TV. Bewildered and irritable, he met her eyes.
What are you shouting for? Gone mad, have you?
Maybe I have! All her years of silence burst. I work too, Richard! I come home exhausted too! Yet somehow, I must clean, and cook, and wash, while you just lounge about!
Im grafting at the factory dawn til dusk! Richard raised his voice now. You think I have it easy?
And I dont? Marys eyes stung, refusing tears. I graft at work, then I graft at home! Have you paused for a second to ask how I am? If Im tired, if Im happy?
What more do you want from me? Richard huffed, pacing. I work all my life for you! I bring in the money! I keep the roof over our heads!
Really? Keep the roof? Do you mean you clean the floors by moonlight, wash the dishes while I sleep? Her laugh sounded brittle.
Thats womens work, he waved her off. Its always been! My mother managed, so did yours. Thats how its done.
But I dont want to live like our mothers! I dont want to be a ghost in my own home I want to be seen!
Invisible, invisible! Richards fists knotted and his face reddened. All this over a dirty plate what a performance.
It isnt about the plate! she shouted, raw. Its that you dont care. You couldnt care less for me, for what Im going through. Its as if you cant see me at all!
He turned away. I see you every day.
No, you dont, she stepped closer. You see a cook, a cleaner, a laundry maid. But me, the woman whos loved you nearly forty years? You havent seen her in years. When did you last bring me flowers? When did we last go out together? Ever talk about life, about anything besides bills and broken taps? Tell me, when did you last say you love me?
He couldnt answer. Mary saw the muscle in his jaw tense. He was searching, but there was nothing.
There, you see? She slumped onto the sofa, empty.
Silence. Richard stared at the floorboards.
So what do you want, then? he asked, hollow, refusing her eyes. Poems, flowers? Were not children, Mary. Were past fifty. Thats just nonsense.
I want you to see me, Mary whispered. To think, once in a while, that Im a person too. I need care, affection Im not a robot that keeps house and feels nothing.
I do think of you, he faltered. Im just not showy.
What use is thinking if you never show it? She met his eyes. Im not a mind-reader. I need words, gestures, something to show that I matter to you not just as a housekeeper.
Richards mouth pressed flat. Something flickered hurt? Confusion? Fear?
Then why do you want me at all? His words were sharp. If Im so bad. Would you be better off without me?
Mary froze. The question hung in the air, sharp as a tack.
Thats not what I mea she began, but he cut her off.
No, say it. Maybe you would be.
He shoved his arms into his overcoat, wriggled his feet into shoes.
Richard, wait She jumped up. Where are you going?
Out. Clear my head. He flung open the door. Or Ill only say something I regret.
The door banged shut. Mary stood there, the flat colder than before. What had she done? What had she said?
She wandered back to the living room, sinking into the sofa. Her hands shook. Hed left maybe for good. Maybe this was the end.
At last, the tears came. Silent, hidden in cupped palms, wrung out of years of exhaustion and disappointment. Of life draining away into a swamp with no shore.
***
She had no idea how long she sat there. The darkness in the window deepened, thick and velvety. Still, Richard did not return. Mary got up and switched on the light, drifting towards the kitchen.
The catastrophe of dishes and crumbs remained. The same sticky puddle on the floor. She reached for the sponge, turned on the tap, and began scrubbing on automatic. Scalding water burned her palms. The pain was oddly comforting.
She cleaned the kitchen until it barely resembled itself. Dried mugs, aligned plates, a spotless table. She surveyed her work and realised she had tidied up, again. Cleared the debris, covered his tracks. Like always.
Dropping onto the stool, head bowed, she wondered why she couldnt leave it all let him discover the mess for once, make him deal with it. But she knew: this was what shed been trained for, all her life. A wife must be the keeper of the hearth, the holder of the ritual of care. Always the one to bear it all quietly, without complaint.
But what about the husbands part? Was love a one-way lane?
She thought about couples ageing together; how, after the children left, the routine suffocated, and love dissolved with the clock ticking on. Maybe Richard was right. Maybe they would be better apart. She tried to imagine life without him an empty flat, immaculate, but silent. No one to grumble about dinner, no one to keep her warm at night. Absolute solitude.
She was frightened by that nothingness. For all his gruffness, Richard was her scaffolding. Without him, shed be a tree with shallow roots, at risk of the faintest wind.
It shocked her to realise how much she depended on this partnership, however lopsided. That for all the hurt and fatigue, she didnt want to let go. Didnt want to face the void.
It was almost eleven when the front door remained unopened. Mary looked at her phone, wondered if she ought to call, or text, or apologise. But for what? For speaking her truth?
She slipped the phone back, a cold resolve surging: If he was coming back, he would come back himself.
She went to the bedroom, lay down fully dressed. Sleep twisted around and around in her mind, bringing back snatches of their argument to spin in the dark.
What was it all for? Did she still love him? She couldnt tell love had become a faded thread among the noise of chores and silence. All that was left was habit. Or maybe just the fear of being all alone.
Marital loneliness the phrase from womens magazines. To share a pillow with someone, but feel absolutely abandoned. The emptiness swallowing everything viable inside you. Shed lived in that lonely place for years, only now did she admit it.
At last, somewhere near dawn, she drifted into a fretful sleep.
***
The morning was hushed. Mary awoke to the sounds of Richard moving about, careful, almost apologetic in his attempts not to wake her. The door clicked and he was gone, no farewell.
Hed made himself coffee she found the cup washed and standing on the side. For the first time in as long as she could remember, he had cleared up.
Mary felt a peculiar sensation. Not joy, not relief. Something more uncertain. A first wobbling step, or merely an aftershock from their row? Time would tell.
At work, she was distracted, uncharacteristically muted. Linda tried to cajole her with stories, but Mary retreated behind one-word answers, unwilling for once to pretend.
The day moved slowly; soon enough Mary was riding the bus, uncertain of what awaited her at home. More silence? More frosty distance?
When she opened the door, she stopped in her tracks: on the mat, a vast bouquet waited. Roses, chrysanthemums, lilies arranged in the shape of an M. Bright, extravagant, absurd.
Richard appeared in the doorway, nerves drawn between his shoulders.
These are for you, he managed.
Mary crouched by the flowers, their sweet scent thick as syrup.
Richard
Im sorry, his voice was low. You were right. I was wrong.
She looked up at him. He seemed older, worn. Maybe he hadnt slept either.
Thank you, she said, standing, still holding the blooms. Theyre lovely.
Awkwardness hung heavy. Flowers are just gestures, she thought. What mattered was beneath them, and she was afraid there was nothing beneath.
Ill try, he said at last. I’ll try to help out more.
She nodded. She wanted to believe, but hope was a brittle thing. How many times had she heard such promises? Things so often slid back to familiar grooves.
The days that followed felt surreal. Richard really did try. He washed his own plate, wiped the table after dinner. Once he even hoovered, but with such blaring performance that Mary was uncertain whether to laugh or cry.
But these were pieces of effort, not a new rhythm. He still didnt see the big picture didnt grasp that housework was not a one-off but a living, endless thing. He did a chore, then retreated as though the book was closed.
Mary said nothing. She received his small efforts with a thank you, but inside, disappointment gathered strength. Fundamentally, nothing had changed.
***
Weeks passed. Richard slowly slid back towards his old habits. The television, the unspoken mess, the retreat. On Fridays, Linda would arrive with some new glossy tale. Mary nodded along, her envy turning inward.
Then one Friday, Linda appeared hollow-eyed, her mascara abandoned, draped in a mottled grey jumper.
Linda, whats happened? Mary finally asked.
Lindas eyes filled. Simons gone, she whispered. Moved out. For someone younger. Packed up last night and left.
Mary froze. The perfect Simon bringer of perfumes, balcony chef, model husband.
Im so sorry, Linda.
You know whats worse? Linda wiped her cheek. I honestly thought we were happy. He was so attentive, so caring. Except it was all for show. At home, wed barely speak. He was always working, texting, in another world. I was completely alone. I just didnt want to see it.
Mary sat, stunned. All this time, behind the glossy surface, there was the same void the same silence and alienation, maybe worse because Linda had believed so strongly.
The gifts, the fancy dinners, Linda said bitterly. It was all compensation. He thought money could fill the gap. I was so proud of it all. Now, I just feel foolish.
Dont, Mary squeezed her hand. You just wanted to be happy. Nothing wrong in that.
And you, Mary? Are you happy? With Richard?
Mary hesitated. For years, shed have lied. But something in her had shifted.
I dont know, she replied quietly. Weve been together so long. Hes not bad. But Im not happy. Im just tired.
Linda nodded, understanding.
I think we all need to start telling the truth. To ourselves, at least, before its too late.
Mary returned to her ledgers, Lindas words twining around her thoughts. She had spoken her truth, but what had actually changed? A bouquet, a few bumbling chores, then the path wound back to silence.
Maybe it wasnt Richard. Maybe it was both of them two people who had forgotten how to talk, to be together. Not partners, just cohabitants, separate and alone.
That evening, as Mary travelled home, she wondered if genuine understanding could be revived, after so many years of silence.
***
She entered the flat and immediately sensed something was different. The air was fragrant with real food. Kitchen noises drifted through.
She crept in and stopped, not daring to believe: the kitchen was clean, the table set for two. There was soup steaming on the hob, a plate of misshapen, the tiniest bit burnt meatballs resting on the side.
Richard stood there, spoon in hand. He turned, looking awkward.
You you made all this? Mary could barely ask.
I tried, he scratched his head. Burnt the meatballs, over-salted the soup, but I gave it a go.
She tiptoed closer yes, the soup smelt salty, the meatballs crisped on one side, but hed cooked.
Dont laugh, he muttered, hiding embarrassment. Ive never cooked, have I? But you said you were tired. I thought well, I ought at least to try.
She sat, hands trembling. He ladled out the soup, gave her a meatball, then sat opposite. They ate in silence.
Mary swallowed her mouthfuls slowly. The soup was bad, the meatball tough but she was moved. Richard sat there, nervous, waiting for her verdict.
Thank you, she whispered.
He startled. For what? I ruined dinner.
For trying.
They finished, she began cleaning up as always, but Richard fetched a tea towel.
Ill dry.
Side by side at the sink, they worked awkward and slow, but together, for the first time in years.
Mary, Richard said at last. I want to try. I dont know if Ill manage for years I believed all this was women’s work. I worked, I provided, that was enough. But youre right. It isnt. You work too, youre tired too. Ive got to be more than just someone who lives in this flat.
She didnt stop washing. The words were clumsy but honest.
Im scared, she told him. Scared to hope anything will change. That Ill be let down again.
So am I, Richard folded the towel. Afraid I cant do it. Afraid youll give up on me. That Ill lose you.
Mary turned and in his eyes she saw the same fear and hope.
Were both afraid, she said. But maybe we can try to be brave. Together?
He hesitated, then nodded.
Lets try.
They stood on a tiny kitchen in a Finchley block, two people who had almost lost one another, armed with nothing but a battered sponge and a shared, nervous hope.
Mary didnt know what would come next. Whether Richard would really change, whether shed have the strength to believe again. But just for that moment, beside him, she felt the faintest spark not joy, but the fragile beginnings of possibility.
Will you teach me to cook properly tomorrow? he asked, almost smiling. So I wont always burn things.
I will, she smiled back. So long as you promise not to bolt.
I wont.
They wiped down the sides, switched off the lights, and sat together on the quiet sofa. No telly. No words. Just a gentle, restful silence. The first, in a long time, that didnt feel like being alone.
Mary looked at Richard. He gazed out at the glowing city, the milky stars. What was he thinking? Maybe the same as her that you dont always get a second chance at life, and if you do, grab hold.
Richard.
Yes?
I do love you. In spite of everything.
He met her gaze. There were tears, raw and real.
I love you too, Mary. I just forgot how to show it. Im sorry.
They sat, hand in hand. Older, battered, frightened, but together. And for now, that was enough.
It was the beginning of something new or perhaps of remembering something old.
