Not again! You havent cleared the table! Margaret hurled the dishcloth into the sink, water droplets splattering across the tiles.
David looked up from his tablet, frowning with annoyance.
Good morning to you, too, he muttered, eyes dropping straight back onto the screen.
Good morning?! Margaret felt something inside her draw taut, ready to snap. I asked you last night to clear away at least the dishes. One plate! You couldnt carry a single plate to the sink?
I forgot, David replied, not even glancing her way. Its hardly a tragedy.
Crumbs on the tablecloth looked like a joke at her expense. Margaret brushed them onto the floor with her hand. Of course, shed have to sweep them up later. She always did.
Do you ever remember anything except your precious Mates?! She nodded at the tabletDavid clasped it like a holy relic.
Oh, here we go again, he sighed heavily. Youre on one this morning. Not slept well?
Margaret stayed by the cooker, gripping the counter, her hands shakingwas it anger or exhaustion? The coffee machine hissed, brewing his usual morning cup. Like always. Just as shed done every morning, for the last thirty-eight years.
I slept just fine, her voice was quiet, as if each word cost her something. Im just tired of being invisible in my own home.
David finally put the tablet down, looking at his wife as though seeing her for the first time in yearsor maybe not understanding at all.
Invisible? Whatever are you on about?
Margaret poured herself a coffee, still trembling, the cup rattling against the saucer. She sat opposite him, looking into the puffy, tired eyes of a man freshly woken and already annoyed.
Nothing, she said flatly, just nothing.
A heavy silence pressed down between them. Crows squawked outside. A car door slammed somewhere below. Another ordinary day in Willow Groves drab block of flats was dawninga day identical to yesterday, to the day before, to the last many years.
Margaret sipped her coffee, then stood to start clearing. David dove back into his tablet. Crumbs crunched beneath her slippers as she swept up. He didnt even notice.
***
The bus was hot and crowded. Margaret pressed her forehead to the glass, watching rows of dull brick houses and people intent on their hurried errands. Everyone was rushing, living their own lives, with their own problems. She had her own worries, but it seemed as if no one really saw themnot even the man shed shared almost four decades with.
Her mind wandered back to the mornings argument. Or not even an argumenta brief, sharp clash, just one more drop in a cup spilling over. These drops had accumulated over the years, pooling into a lake. Shed spent years pretending not to see it, convincing herself all was normal, that everyone lived this way.
David wasnt a bad man. He didnt drink, didnt lay a hand on her, had worked at the Progress Works for over thirty years, always brought his wages home. Once upon a time, hed given her flowers just because. Theyd gone for evening strolls, hand in hand. Once, hed gazed at her as though she was the most beautiful woman alive.
And now? Now he stared at his tablet. Or the telly. Came home from work, collapsed onto the settee, flicked on some endless shows. Shed cook dinner, do the washing up, the laundry. Hed mutter a quick cheers, head back to the television. Shed tackle the dishes. He’d fall asleep on the sofa; she’d wake him, and theyd silently retreat to their separate sides of the bed.
Day by day. Month after month. Year slips into year.
Margaret closed her eyes, resting her brow on the cold window. When did she become this person? This tired, grey woman who couldnt even tell her husband what was boiling inside? Fear, mostlyfear of destroying what little they had left, of ending up alone in the flat where every wall remembered their youth, their happiness, their childrenchildren grown and long gone.
The bus halted by an office block marked Vector Solutions. Margaret adjusted her bag and headed inside. Work awaitedanother day among figures, stacks of paperwork, and the sluggish old computer everyone moaned about but no one bothered to replace. Why bother? Margaret Smith in accounts never complains. Shell cope. She always did.
***
Helen swept into the office like a storm. Lively, noisy, nails painted a blinding fuchsia that didnt quite fit the drab little office.
Look! She thrust her hands out. Done yesterday! What do you reckon?
Margaret eyed the glitter-covered nails and rhinestonesoutlandish in their sober setting.
Very bright, she managed a strained smile.
You should try it! Helen critiqued her own hands, eyes flicking to Margarets practical, short nails. It really cheers you up! Serge took me to a bistro Saturdaycouldnt keep his eyes off my hands. Kept saying, Beautiful!
Margaret nodded, staring at her screen. The numbers blurred and shifted. Helen prattled on.
So what about you two? Did you go anywhere at the weekend?
No, just bits and bobs round the house, Margaret shrugged, theres always something, you know.
A small lie, easy enough. They hadnt been anywhere. David had watched football all day while she cooked, did the washing, ironed, tidied up. The same sort of weekend as always.
Oh, come on! Helen waved dismissively. Lifes too short! You need to make time for yourself. My Serge always says: youve only got one life, so enjoy it. Yesterday, he brought me perfume for no reasonjust saw it, thought of me, bought it.
Margaret tried to smile, but something squeezed inside. When was the last time David thought of her that way? When had he bought her anything simply because? She honestly couldnt remember. Her last present had been a Vortex vacuum cleanerfor her birthday, three years ago. Make cleaning easier for you, hed said. Shed thanked him, made a show of happiness. Later, she’d lain awake and silently wept: a vacuum, for her birthday. As if her life was nothing but choresjust an appliance for a live-in cleaner.
Margaret, are you all right? Helen prodded her shoulder. You look miles away.
Fine, fine, Margaret blinked, forced her focus back to the monitor. Just tired, poor sleep.
Have some vitamins! Helen announced, nodding sagely. Im on Omega-3Serge gets it imported, its much better quality. Youll feel on top of the world in no time.
Margaret nodded and pretended to care, thoughts drifting to the unwashed dinner plates waiting for her at home. David had eaten, deserted his dishes, and slouched off. Margaret, so exhausted the night before, had left the washing up until morning. Didnt have time. Shed be scraping crusted food all evening. As usual.
Best get on, Helen jumped up, admiring her nails again. Weve friends coming tonightSerge is grilling kebabs on the balcony. Can you imaginehim, cooking! Im just chopping salads.
Helen swept off, leaving a trail of perfume and an echo of envy in her wake. Margaret sat, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen. Kebabs on a balcony. Husband cooking, buying perfume just because. Seemed like another worlda world where wives werent invisible. Where they were noticed, loved, appreciated.
Margaret read about this, the midlife relationship crisis, in magazines and online. All the articles said the samecouples drift, lose interest, need to work on the marriage, talk, find new interests together. Shed triedsuggesting cinema trips, weekends away. David shrugged her off. Whats the point? I like it at home. Conversation ran dry; he mumbled monosyllables into his screen. Eventually, she gave upor so she told herself.
So why did she feel this heaviness every morning? Why, when Helen spoke of little joys, did it make Margaret want to cry?
***
The workday dragged on. Numbers blurred together, mistakes crept in. The battered computer froze and stalled, as if conspiring with her own sour mood. Margaret checked the clock every ten minutes, but time seemed stuck.
Six oclock finally arrived. She powered off, grabbed her bag, and said goodnight to her colleagues. The autumn wind bit at her as she hurried for the bus.
This time, the bus was near empty. Margaret sat by the window, bag clutched to her chest. In half an hour, shed be home. Home, where dirty dishes, scattered shoes, and an absent-minded husband on the sofa awaited. Back where her invisible uniform lay ready: cook, cleaner, laundressher lifes pattern, repeating.
She remembered the words of her friend Ann, who shed seen a month earlier. Ann left her husband at fifty-five; he ran off with someone younger. At first, Ann cried, bitter at the loneliness. But you know what, Margaret, shed said, at least I can rest now. I come in, everythings just as I left it: no socks everywhere, no raised voice if teas not ready. Freedom, if you get me?
Back then, Margaret hadnt understoodhow could you welcome divorce? Wasnt it a disaster, a defeat? She was proud to have stuck it out with David, keeping the family together. But, sitting now, in the hot, dim bus, peering at the darkness, she wondered: what exactly had they kept? What family, when two people live side by side but separatelywhere she is just the help, and he, a silent guest?
It wasnt life, it was some kind of burnout. Pouring herself into home and husband, nothing came backno warmth, no thanks, no simple acknowledgement. They call it a wifes invisible work in the articles. No one noticesthe endless meals and cleaning and laundryuntil you stop. Then, suddenly, the complaints come thick and fast: Why havent you ironed my shirt? Whats for dinner?
The bus stopped by her building. Margaret got off, made her weary way upstairs. The fatigue wasnt physicalit ran deeper, right into her bones, weariness at a life trapped on endless repeat.
She opened her front door, the musty smell of stale air hitting her. Davids shoes littered the hallway, jacket slumped in the corner. From the sitting room, the television blared.
She entered the kitchenand paused. The table was a mess of dirty dishes, some from last night, some from today: plates, mugs, saucepan with leftover porridge, bread crumbs everywhere, overflowing sink. A juice carton had leaked sticky trails on the lino.
Margaret stood gazing at it all. A hot, unbearable fury boiled up. Her hands balled into fists, breath coming hard.
She spun round, through to the lounge, where David lounged on the sofa, propping up his head while staring at explosions on the screena loud action flick.
David, she said quietly.
No response. Just more explosions and gunfire.
David! she raised her voice.
He reluctantly looked round. What?
Have you seen the kitchen? she nodded towards it.
Yeah? I had lunch at home. Didnt have time to tidy up, had to dash for work.
And yesterday? And the day before? Every day?
Margaret, Im shattered, he sighed. Please not now.
Youre shattered? She could feel herself trembling, on the verge of tears but somehow keeping it together. Youre shattered?!
She never shouted. Not in all their married years. But now, the words burst out as if they’d been trapped for years.
I come home and its a tip! Every single day! You cant clear up after yourself? Cant wash a plate, put away your things, wipe the table?!
David swung upright, TV off. He stared at her, confused and irritated.
What are you shouting for? Lost your head, or what?
Maybe I have! It all spilled outyears of resentment, unleashed. I work as hard as you do! I come home every bit as tired! But why is it always me cooking, cleaning, washing while you just flop on the sofa?!
I slog my guts out at the Works from dawn till dusk! he bellowed. Dyou think thats easy?
And my jobs a doddle, is it? Margaret blinked hot tears away. I work, and I do everything at home as well! Have you ever even asked how I am? If Im tired?
What do you want from me? He started pacing, agitated. I work for you! Bring money home! I keep this house going!
You keep the house? Really? Because you wash dishes in your sleep, do you? Or polish the floors at midnight?
Thats womens work! David waved her aside. Its always been like that! My mother did it, yours as well! Life was fine!
I don’t want to live like our mothers did! Margaret stepped closer, voice trembling. I dont want to be a servant in my own house. Im tired of being invisible!
Invisible? Whats this nonsense? Davids face flushed, fists clenched. Sick of your moaning! One plate, and its the end of the world!
Its not the plate! Margaret cried. Its that you dont care! About me, about how I feel, about the fact that Im suffocating in this life! You dont even see me anymore!
Course I see you, every day, David muttered, turning away.
No! Margaret forced him to face her. You see the cleaner, the cook, the laundress. But methe woman youve lived with almost forty yearsyou stopped seeing a long time ago. When did you last give me flowers? When did we just walk together? Do you even remember the last time you said you loved me?
He said nothing, eyes averted. She could see the muscle twitching in his jaw as he searched for words, found none.
See? Margaret slumped onto the sofa, defeated. You cant even remember.
The silence that fell was thick and chilly. David stood awkwardly, staring at the rug. Margaret sat with hands in her lapemptied of anger, left hollow.
What do you want? he asked quietly, his head lowered. To start bringing flowers? Reading poetry? Were not kids. Were over fifty. Thats nonsense.
I want you to see me, Margarets voice was soft, almost pleading. To think, once in a while, that Im a person toothat I get tired, that I need love and care. Im not a machine who cooks, cleans, and feels nothing.
I do think about you, he mumbled defensively. I justdont show it.
What does that matter if you dont show it? She met his eyes. Im not a mind-reader, David. I need wordsI need you to actually do something, not just take me for granted.
David pursed his lips. Something flickered in his eyes. Hurt? Confusion? Fear?
So why do you still want me? he pressed. If Im such a let-down. If youre so miserable with me.
Margaret fell silent; the question hung in the air, sharp as a knife.
I didnt mean that she started, but he cut her off.
No, say it. Why? Wouldnt you be better off without me, then?
He grabbed his coat, stamping his feet into shoes.
David, wait she leapt up. Where are you going?
For a walk. To cool off, he snapped, wrenching the door open. Before I say something really stupid.
The door slammed. Margaret stood staring at the door, numb with cold dread. What had she done? What had she said?
She returned to the lounge, sat on the sofa, hands shaking. One thought echoed in her mind: Hes gone. Hes leftand maybe he wont come back. Maybe this was the end.
The tears finally came. Silent, wracking sobsof fear, disappointment, exhaustion, of a life that had become a mire with no way out.
***
She didnt know how long she sat there. Maybe an hour, maybe more. Darkness crept in across the windows. David didnt return. She stood, switched on the light, wandered into the kitchen.
Nothing had changed. Dishes piled up, crumbs scattered. The leaking juice packet still trickled on the floor. Staring at it brought a new wave of hopelessness.
Margaret fished out a sponge and washing-up liquid, turned on the tap, and started cleaning. Mechanically, her hands found their rhythm, scrubbing mugs and pans. Scalding water stung her handsstrangely comforting.
She washed, wiped the table, swept the floor, took out the rubbish. Scrubbed the cooker. Put everything neatly away. At last, the kitchen was as she liked it. Margaret surveyed her workand suddenly, she realisedshed done it again. Cleared up after him. As always.
She collapsed onto a stool, head in her hands. Why couldnt she just walk away from the mess? Why couldnt she leave him to it? Because it was what shed been taught: the wifes job, the womans duty. Keep the home, create comfort, carry the load and never complain.
But what about his duty? Wasnt love and care a two-way street?
She thought about older coupleshow many split up after the age of fifty. Children grown, routine stifling. When you find yourself living next to a stranger you know, but no longer feel.
Maybe David was right; maybe theyd be better apart. Margaret tried to imagine it. The flat, silent, empty. No more mess, no more discarded things. But no good morning either, no how was your day? No one to share the nights cold with. Just utter loneliness.
The prospect terrified her. Despite everything, David was her lifeher habit, her anchor. An imperfect one, but an anchor all the same. Without him shed be rootless, blown over by the first gust.
It was a terrifying realisationshe depended on this marriage far more than shed thought. Despite the resentments and fatigue, she didnt want to lose him. Didn’t want to be alone.
The mantel clock said it was eleven. David was still out. Margaret picked up her phone, considering calling, texting, apologising. But for what? For finally saying what she really felt? For telling the truth?
Noif he wanted to come back, he would. And if not…
She quashed the thought, headed to the bedroom, and lay down fully dressed. Sleep eluded her; only scraps of conversation swirled round her head. Why do you want me, then? The question echoed in the darkness.
Why? Did she love him? Right now, she couldn’t say for sure. The old feeling had ebbed away, drowned in routine, silence, and distance. Affection was left. Or habit? Or simply fear of solitude?
Married lonelinessthat was another phrase from those articles. Being beside someone and feeling utterly on your own. The emptiness in a marriage growing like a tumour, stifling everything alive. Margaret realised shed been living with that loneliness for years. Only now could she admit it.
A key rattled in the front door. Her heart leapt. David was home. Margaret lay still, listening as he took off his coat, went to the kitchen. Silence. Hed seen shed cleared up. What would he think? What would he feel?
He hovered near the bedroom; the door opened slightly, a strip of light falling on the carpet. Margaret feigned sleep. David lingered, then closed the door quietly and padded off to the loungeprobably to sleep on the sofa.
Margaret lay staring into the darkness. So that was it. Silence, detachment. Nothing decidedjust further apart.
She finally drifted off in the early dawn, restless, troubled.
***
She awoke to quiet. Heard David getting ready, moving carefully so as not to wake her. Or perhaps to avoid her. The door clicked behind him. He was gone. Not a word.
Margaret wandered out. The coffee machine was switched off. David had made his own for the first time in years. His cup stood on the table, washed up. Hed tidied after himself.
A strange feeling gripped her. Not relief, not happiness. Something differentperhaps a small step forward. Or just a reaction to last nights outburst. Time would tell.
She was reserved and absent-minded at work. Helen tried to chat, but Margaret only offered monosyllables. She didnt want to hear about Serges gifts and French cafés. She didnt want to keep lying, pretending she was fine. She simply wanted silence.
The day crept past. That evening, Margaret rode home, dread knotting her stomach. What would she come home tomore silence, more coldness?
She opened the front door, and stopped short. In the hallway stood a huge bouquetroses, chrysanthemums, lilies arranged in the shape of an M. Bold, bright, expensive.
David appeared from the sitting room. He looked tense.
These are for you, he said.
Margaret knelt, touching the cool petals. Fresh, potent scent filled the flat.
David…
Im sorry, he murmured. You were right. I was… wrong.
She gazed at himhe looked worn, older. Maybe hed slept poorly. Maybe hed thought all night, too.
Thank you, she whispered, lifting the bouquet. Theyre beautiful.
A pause; both fumbled for words. The flowers were a gesturebut a gesture was hollow if nothing stood behind it. She understood; so, apparently, did he.
Ill try, he said, after a moment. Help more.
She nodded. She wanted to believe, but doubted. Hed promised before, and life returned to the same old pattern.
The next few days, David genuinely made an effortclearing his plates after meals, wiping tables, once even vacuuming the sitting room. It was clumsy and overdone, but he was trying.
But it was all piecemeal. He didnt comprehend that housework isnt a one-off taskits a constant, never-ending effort. Hed do a small job, then believe hed done his bit.
Margaret said nothing. She accepted the rare gestures, thanked him, but disappointment grew inside. Nothing had really changed.
***
A week passed. Another. David gradually slipped back into his old habitsless and less clearing up, more sofa and tablet. Margaret felt familiar resentment welling up again.
At work, Helen kept up her tales of Serges glorious life. Margaret listened, nodded, smiled, enviedand hated herself for the envy.
Then, on Friday, Helen arrived with red eyes, no make-up, hiding in a drab grey jumper. She sat down, staring at her monitor, silent.
Hel, whats happened? Margaret pressed.
Helen looked up, tears brimming.
Serge left, she whispered. For someone younger. Packed his things, gone last night.
Margaret froze. Sergethe perfect husband, giver of perfume, vitamins, balcony BBQs and Parisian meals.
Oh God, Helen, ImGod, Im so sorry.
You know whats worst? Helen said, dabbing at her eyes. I thought everything was fine. He was thoughtful, generous on the outside. At home, we barely spoke. He was always on his phone, lost in his own world. I was alone. Utterly. I just wouldnt admit it to myself.
Margaret listened, a knot tightening deep inside. Even the perfect lives hid the same emptinesssame silence, same separation. Worse, maybe, for being an illusion. And illusions are the cruelest loss of all.
All the gifts, the meals out Helen gave a tearful laugh, he was buying me off. He thought he could swap money for love. And I bought it, like a fool. Bragged about it. Im so ashamed now.
Dont be, Margaret squeezed her hand. You just wanted to be happynothing wrong with that.
Are you happy, Margaret? Helens sudden question made her pause. With David?
Margaret reflected. Once, shed have lied, reflexively. Of course, all fine. Now, she couldn’t.
I dont know, she admitted. Its been so long. Hes not a bad man. But I just feel tired.
Helen nodded, understanding.
Perhaps we all need to start telling the truth. To ourselves and each other. Before its too late.
Margaret turned back to her work, but Helens words wouldnt leave her. Telling the truth. Shed tried. Shed said it all. What had it changed? A bunch of flowers, a few clumsy chores, then back to habit.
Maybe it wasnt just Davids fault; maybe it was both of them. Theyd forgotten how to talk, how to be together. They lived side by side, but not together. Two lonely people under one roof.
That evening, sitting on the bus, Margaret wondered if it was possible to win each other back after so many years of silence. Or had they strayed too far?
***
She opened the front door and instantly knew something was different. The flat smelled of food. Sounds came from the kitchen.
Margaret stepped in, and froze. The kitchen was spotless, the table set: two plates, two cups, napkins. A pot simmered on the hob, and a frying pan with home-made burgers sat on the sidesomewhat burnt, rather misshapen, but burgers all the same.
David stood at the cooker, stirring the soup. He turned, awkwardly.
You cooked? Margaret managed.
I tried, he said. Not sure if its edible. Burnt the burgers, soups probably too salty. But I gave it a go.
She stepped closer. The soup did smell over-salted, the burgers looked overcookedbut hed tried, just for her.
Dont laugh, David muttered. Ive never really cooked. No idea what Im doing. But you said you were tired, so I reckoned it was time I learnt.
Margaret sat, her hands trembling. David dished up soup, placed burgers in front of her, then sat opposite. They ate in silence.
She tried the soupsalty, but fine, just edible. The burgertough, but not awful. She chewed slowly, watching her husband. He ate with his eyes down, embarrassedher big, stoic, factory-fresh man embarrassed by a burnt dinner.
Thank you, she said quietly.
He looked up. For what? Ive ruined it.
For trying.
They finished. Margaret gathered the plates. David followed, grabbing the tea towel.
Ill dry up, he offered.
They stood side by side by the sink. She washed, he dried. Not fast, not perfectbut together. For the first time in years, together.
Margaret David broke the silence. I really am going to try. I dont know if I can change. My whole life, I thoughtbloke works, brings the pay; the rest is the womans job. But youre right. Its not fair. You work too. You get tired too. I need to be more than just a lodger here.
Margaret washed on, listening to his plain, clumsy, honest words.
Im scared, she admitted. Scared to trust that itll change. Scared to be hurt again.
Im scared too, David put the towel down. Scared Ill cock it up. Scared youll stop trying and leave. Scared of losing you.
Margaret turned. In his eyes she saw fear, confusion, the same as hers.
Were both scared, she said. Maybe we could try not to betogether?
He hesitated, then nodded.
Lets try.
They stood in that small kitchen, in their tired old block of flats in Willow Grove. Two people whod nearly lost each other. Two people, perhaps, with a sliver of hope.
Margaret didnt know what the future held, whether David would really change, whether shed find strength to hope again. But at that moment, standing beside him, she felt something shift. Not happiness, not yet. But a tiny flicker of courage in the dark.
Will you teach me how to cook something decent tomorrow? David asked with a sheepish smile. All I can manage is setting fire to burgers.
I will, Margaret smiled back. If you dont change your mind.
I wont.
They finished the washing up, wiped the table, turned off the kitchen light. Went to the sitting room, and sat together on the sofa. No telly onjust side by side in a gentle, companionable quiet. Not the cold silence of before, but peacefullike a break before a new beginning.
Margaret looked at her husband. He gazed out at the lights of the estate, at the distant stars. What was he thinking? Maybe the same as shelife doesnt often give second chances. And, if it does, youd better take it.
David, she said softly.
Yes?
I love you. I still doin spite of everything.
He turned to her. Tears glimmered in his eyes. He took her hand and squeezed it.
I love you too, he whispered. I just forgot how to show it. Im sorry.
They sat quietly, hand in hand. Older, weary, uncertainbut together. And, really, that was what mattered most.
Thats how Margaret and David began their new life.
