Reflection of Strength

A Reflection of Strength

“Simon, what on earth are you playing at?” I remember my voice, trembling and far too shrill, as if it belonged to someone else.

He didnt even turn around at first. Stood there, hand snaked around the waist of the woman next to him. Tall, sharply cropped hair, a leather jacket. She leaned to murmur something into his ear, and he smiled. Smiled in a way I hadnt seen in years.

“Simon!” This time, louder.

He turned then. His face flickered: surprise, then sour annoyance. As though Id spoiled something important.

“Marianne, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? You said to come at half eight. I picked up your order from the tailorsI thought wed meet”

The woman let herself drift back, but not from fear, more out of intrigue. She took me in, all the details: the battered sheepskin coat, scuffed handbag, the advancing grey at my roots I meant to dye for weeks, but never had.

“Victoria, this is” Simon hesitated, and said, quieter, like an aside, “my wife. Marianne, not here, alright?”

“Not here?” I hardly recognised my own voice. “Where, then? You only come home at two in the morning, run out at first light, never answer your phone”

Victoria snortedmore amused than cruel, which was somehow even worse.

“Simon, at least talk to her,” she said softly. “Ill wait outside.”

Simon caught her hand in plain view. “Stay.” He didnt release her fingers. “Marianne, I thought youd understood. I told you last Thursdayme and Victoria”

“You were drunk! I thought you were rambling”

“I was sober. And I meant every word.”

I remembered that nighthim coming home late, reheated casserole. Mumbling about being tired, life slipping by, wanting something else. Id hardly listened. Men go through these spells, Id told myself. Just a crisis, you wait it out.

“Twenty-eight years, Simon. Twenty-eight.”

He sighed heavily. “Thats why, Marianne. Thats why I need the rest to be different.”

Victoria set her hand on his shoulder, sure and casual. I stared at that handbraced by a slim leather cuff, nails bare and cut close. Inside, everything turned upside down.

“Go home,” Simon said at last, rubbing his temples. “Ill come tomorrow, we can talk calmly.”

“No.”

Even I wasnt expecting to say it. Nor to step forward. Nor to clumsily shove Victoria in the shoulderawkward, girlish.

“And who the hell are you, some homewrecker?”

It all happened so fast. Victoria simply caught my arm, spun me, pinned me against the bar. Not painfully, but firmly. Very firmly. I struggled, shoulder throbbingthe body doesnt listen, not when its afraid.

“Let her go,” Simon murmured.

Victoria released me. I stumbled back, cradling my wrist. Eyes watched: barman, two blokes near the window, waitress frozen with her tray. All of them looked at mea pathetic sight in my old sheepskin, unable even to land a decent slap on the rival.

“Sorry,” Victoria said in an even tone. “Reflex, thats all. Didnt mean any harm.”

I turned and hurried out, nearly tripping. The tears threatened but I refused to let them fallnot in there. Only when the pub door swung shut behind me did I lean on the cold brick wall and let them flow.

Snow was falling in thick flakes. The window of the pub, awash with Christmas lights. People passing, faces tucked into scarves, pretending not to see. In London, no one stares at a crying woman.

Home was a journey. Tube, bus, long walk through familiar streets. The flat was dark, and I left it that way. Coat and bag on the floor, bed in my clothes.

Simon didnt show the next day, nor the next. Called after three days, curtly. Said hed collect his things at the weekend, leave the flat to me, send moneysounding for all the world like a business transaction.

I nodded, though he couldnt see me. Put the phone down. Another week passed. Then another.

My old friend Susan called every day.

“Come on, Maz, enough now. Come out for a walk at least.”

“I dont feel like it.”

“Are you eating anything at all?”

“Im eating.”

Lies. I barely touched foodtea and biscuits, sometimes reheated packet soup. The stomach shrank at the thought of anything more.

I spent hours online. Found Victorias pagephotos of her at the gym, up a rock face, on a motorbike. Bold captions: “Training,” “Weekend,” “New challenge.” One was of her in boxing gloves in a ring, comments from friends admiring, encouraging.

I scrolled back years, searching for some flaw, some crack to grab hold of. None.

One evening, entirely by chance, I found a post about her job. She turned out to be a self-defence instructor, running womens classes. In one photo she stood beside a poster”Athena Martial Arts Centre. Womens Beginners Group.”

I watched her, phone in hand, until my reflection stared back from the wardrobe mirror.

A worn face, hair lifeless, eyes ringed with exhaustion. Fifty-eight, I thought. Body that vanished into chorescarrying shopping, scrubbing pans, ironing shirts. When had I last thought of that body as myself? Not whether my back ached, or my shoes pinched, or I ought to see a doctortruly thought of it.

I couldnt recall.

Shed won, not because she was younger or prettier. Shed won because she was stronger. Physically stronger. Shed stopped me so easilylike brushing away a fly.

“Reflex,” shed said.

A reflex born in a body that could defend itself. A body trained, unafraid.

I rose and crossed to the window. Down in the courtyard, the streetlights glowed; a boy glided on a scooter despite the cold, his mother calling from the stairwell.

Life trundled on.

Mine had ended that night in the pub. Or, at least, the part that waited for Simon with dinner, that dreamed of grey-haired evenings together, grandchildren, holidays in retirement. All vanished, erased in a moment.

What now?

I didnt know. But I knew lying in bed was no longer an option.

Next morning, for the first time in weeks, I got up at dawn, fried an egg, made coffee, turned to the laptop.

“Beginner sports clubs London.”

The list was vastyoga, Pilates, aqua-aerobics, dancing. Too soft. I needed something more. Something to stop me ever being a victim.

I tried: “Womens self-defence classes London.”

An hour later, five suggestions in Camden and Kentish Town. One club was a twenty-minute walk awayAthena Sport.

“Fitness, boxing, functional training. Beginner groups. Any age.”

Any age.

I stared at the phone. Then dialled the number.

“Athena Sport, hello?” A woman answered.

“Hi. Id like some information on classes. For beginners.”

“Of course. Fitness, boxing, stretching? What are you after?”

“Boxing.” The word surprised me on my lips.

“Fantasticweve a womens group Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven. Coachs called Irene. First trials freejust come along.”

“Will I be the only older one?”

A pause.

“No, love. People of all ages. Quite a few in their forties and fifties. Dont worry. Irenes not some kid herself, she gets it.”

“Thank you. Ill come Thursday.”

When Saturday came, Simon arrived for his things. Packed suits, books, paperwork without a word. I watched the street from the window.

“Ill transfer money as usual,” he said, boxing the last of his things. “If you need anything call.”

“I wont.”

“Maz”

“Just go.”

He left. The door closed quietly, without drama. The flat felt bigger, emptier.

Good or bad? I wasnt yet sure.

Thursday evening, I pulled on old trackies, baggy t-shirt and a jacket, took a water bottle, and left early.

The club was in a basement of an old building, unremarkable sign. Inside, sweat and rubber mats. A woman in her thirties sat by the entrance with a tablet.

“Evening. Boxing?”

“YesI called. Marianne.”

“Dressing rooms that way. Irenes not long.”

In the changing room, three womentwo young, one a few years older. All quiet. I wriggled into my stretched t-shirt and felt suddenly foolish. Why was I here? What was I thinking?

“First time?” the older woman asked, lacing up cheap trainers.

“Yeah.”

“Dont worry. Irenes alright. Slow and steady.”

I nodded.

The room filledten women, all shapes and ages. Some stretching, some on the bags. Irene strode in not long after, compact and sturdy, cropped hair, a scar on her eyebrow. Fifty if she was a day.

“Right, any new faces?”

I raised a hand.

“Name?”

“Marianne.”

“Irene. Good. Just watch at first, then get stuck in. Warm up, ladies!”

First half hourabsolute misery. The body wouldnt respond. Arms didnt lift, legs tangled. Three missed punches before I connected with the bag. Shame blurred my eyes.

“Thats fine,” Irene said, stopping by. “First time always is. Try again.”

I tried. My fist landed soft, unsteady, but it landed.

“Thats itagain.”

Again, and again. Slow at first, then a little quicker. Sweat soaked my back. Breath short, heart pounding.

“Rest now,” said Irene.

I collapsed onto the bench. Everything trembled, but something new flickered insideanger? Excitement?

Life.

Getting home was an effort. My muscles sang and burned. Under a hot shower, staring at reddened knuckles and an old bluish mark still healing from that pub night, I realised it was almost gone.

“You coming again?” Irene asked, as we changed.

“I will,” I said. And did.

Tuesday, then Thursday. Every week, for two months.

My body changed slowly. I stopped hurting each morning, found myself climbing five flights with ease, noticed the waist drawing in and arms firming up in the mirror.

But more was changing inside.

I rarely thought about Simon anymorenot with self-pity or rage, but calmly, as another persons chapter. Like winter sliding away, or the end of a film.

Susan saw the difference when we met for coffee.

“Youve lost weight,” she said. “And you lookwell, you look different.”

“Ive started at a gym.”

“Really? You?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, then apologised. “Sorry. I never thought youd Well, you always said sport wasnt your thing.”

“I said a lot of things.”

We fell silent. She stirred her coffee, staring at her cup.

“Simon called?” she ventured.

“No.”

“I heard he moved in with that Victoria.”

“I know.”

“Does it bother you?”

A pause. Did it? It hurt, yes. Of course. But lessno longer a wound gasping for air. Now it was a bruise, healing quietly.

“Not really,” I answered honestly. “Its painful, but Im living.”

Spring crept in unexpectedly. Snow was gone in a week; sunlight filled the city. I walked to training instead of catching the bus. Forty minutes each way. Irene voiced her approval.

“Walkings the best thing. Cardio without killing your knees.”

One late March evening, Irene pulled me aside after class.

“Youre getting on. Want a go at sparring?”

“Sparring?”

“Light, dont fretjust helmets and pads. Better practice with a partner than with bags.”

Fear flaredI said yes anyway.

My first sparring partner was Helen, the older womanfifty-two, already at it for two years. Her punches were cool, measured, not heavy. I took a few to the body, one to the shoulderdefence was rubbish, but suddenly I blocked, countered, landed one.

“Well done!” Helen said, grinning.

Afterwards I slumped, helmet off, hands trembling with joy. Id done it. Reacted. My body finally did what Id taught it.

“Not bad,” Irene murmured, dropping down beside me. “First goes always like that.”

“I was scared.”

“Everyone is. You didnt stop, though.”

I looked at her curiously. “Whyd you start, Irene? Coachingboxing?”

She shrugged. “Long story. In short: my husband hit me. For years. Until I learned to hit back. Left him, came here, realised I wanted other women to learn sooner than I did.”

I was quiet.

“Your story too?” she asked, eyes kind.

“Yeah. Only he didnt hit mejust left.”

“Still hurts.”

“It does,” I admitted. “But its getting better.”

She nodded, a gentle squeeze on my good shoulder.

“It always does. Just takes time.”

By April I went to the hairdressers for the first time in half a yeardyed, chopped, and bought a new jacket, jeans, trainers. Not costly, but mine.

The alimony appeared in my bank account, as hed promised. I didnt touch it; just let it pile up. For what, I couldnt say.

One evening, I nipped to the small shopping centre for water. As I stepped on the escalator I saw her.

Victoria, at the sports shop window, alone. Same determined stance, same calm.

I froze. The old fear welled up. I wanted to bolt.

But didnt.

I stepped forward. Then again.

Victoria looked up, recognised meface tightening.

“Marianne?”

“Hello.”

We stood, not quite facing each other. Victoria looked away first.

“How are you?” she asked, low.

“Im well.”

“Youve changed. Lost weight.”

“I box now.”

“Good.”

Silence hung between us. I saw her afresh: not the woman whod been my nemesis, cause of pain, but someone tired, a new crease at the lip.

“Hows Simon?” I asked.

Victoria smiled wryly. “Gone. Split up two weeks ago.”

“Oh?”

“Didnt work out. He wanted me tonever mind. It wasnt right.”

I felt nothing at all. No triumph or relief. Just emptiness.

“Sorry,” Victoria ventured. “About that night. About everything.”

“Dont be.”

“I mean it. I didnt want to hurt you. It wasnice, at first. Then” She shrugged.

I studied her. “Youre a martial arts instructor, arent you?”

A surprised arch of the brow. “How did you”

“The internet. After.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to understand you. And I realised it wasnt you at all. The problem was me. I didnt lose my marriage to youI lost myself years ago.”

Victoria looked at me, thoughtful, and nodded.

“Youre wiser than me, then.”

“No, just older.”

We laughed, awkward, but genuine.

She left for the escalator. I watched her go, then turned and walked back out. The evening was warm, the trees in bloom, children shouting on the green. I strolled slowly, taking it all in.

Susan texted as I reached my estate.

“How are you? Miss seeing youfancy tea tomorrow?”

“Tonights training. Tomorrow?”

“Perfect!”

I slipped the phone away, glanced up at my fifth-floor windowlights left blazing. That used to drive Simon mad”Marianne, turn the lights off, for Gods sake.” Now I didnt care. My flat, my bills, my rules.

At the bench by the flats, old Mr Watkins was scattered seed for pigeons.

“Evening, Mrs Price.”

“And to you, Mr Watkins.”

“Home late?”

“From the gym.”

“Good for you. At your age, I was glued to the telly.”

I smiled.

“Doing my best.”

I walked every step to the fifth floor without tiring, slid off coat and shoes, showered, then sat at the kitchen table with tea, watching twilight bloom over the rooftops.

Once, I thought life ended if Simon left. That Id shatter with the loneliness.

But I hadnt shattered.

Id survived.

Life moved on. It was different. Harder, lonelier. But it was mine.

The phone buzzeda number I didnt know.

“Hello?”

“Marianne Price? Its Irene, from Athena.”

“Yes, hello.”

“Would you fancy helping out with our beginners morning group? Not coaching, just assisting new starterschecking technique, helping out. Its not much money but its experience. Interested?”

I hesitated. Me? Helping? I barely knew anything.

“Im not sure Im up to it”

“You are,” Irene insisted. “Youve come further than most in six months. You know what its like to be new, scared. Thats exactly what our newcomers need. Not a superstara fellow traveller.”

“Ill think about it.”

“Dogroup starts in two weeks.”

The next training, I caught her.

“Ill do it.”

She grinned. “Brilliant. Monday morningwell go through everything.”

Saturday morning: five women, all nervous. Two young, one middle-aged, two very unsure. One of the older women hovered at the edge in oversized joggers.

I went to her, while Irene explained.

“Hello, Im Marianne. Assistant coach.”

“Gloria,” she nodded, barely looking at me.

“First time?”

“Yes. My daughter talked me into itsaid I was turning into a puddle.”

“I know the feeling.” I almost said, ‘My daughter did too,’ but stopped myself. “Its daunting, isnt it?”

“Very. Im terrified people will laugh.”

I saw a version of myself six months backfrightened, crumpled.

“No one here will laugh,” I whispered. “We all started somewhere. So will you.”

She looked up, hesitant hope in her eyes.

“Really?”

“Really.”

After class, Gloria hovered again.

“Thank you. For the support.”

“My pleasure.”

“Youre so calm. So strong. You mustve always done sport?”

I laughed. “Started at fifty-eight, terrifiedexactly like you.”

She blinked.

“Why?”

I considered. Simon left, my life brokebut the truth was older and deeper. Id drowned myself in someone else, forgotten me.

“I lost myself,” I said. “And decided to look.”

“And did you find her?”

I gazed out at the sunlight, at the world hurrying by.

“Im finding her. Bit by bit.”

“I hope I can, too.”

“You will. Just dont stop turning up.”

That night, I found our wedding photos. Young facesSimon holding my hand, my eyes fixed on him in adoration. Twenty-eight years ago.

I studied each for a long while. Not with sorrow, not with bitter longing. Just a memory. That Marianne was gone, and so was that Simon.

Now there was only me. Fifty-eight, alone but strong.

The phone rang. Simon. The first time in four months beyond bank transfers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Maz. How are you?”

“Im fine. Whats wrong?”

“Nothing. Just I wanted to talk. Its been a while. Maybe we rushed into all of this, the divorce”

I listened without feeling, as if to a once-beloved song, now merely a jingle.

“Simon, I dont want to meet.”

“Why? Marianne, Ive made a mistake. Victoria and I didnt work. Ive been thinking. Cant we try again?”

Once I would have cried. Or rejoiced, or screamed in fury. Nownothing but tiredness.

“No. We cant.”

“But why?”

“Because Ive changed. I dont want to go back to that life.”

“What life? We were happy!”

“Maybe you were. Im not sure I was. I just existed. Revolved around you.”

“Thats not fair”

“Maybe not. But its truemy truth.”

He said nothing.

“Do you hate me then?”

“No. Not at all. But I dont love you either. You were a part of my life, Simon. And that parts over.”

“So thats it?”

“Thats it.”

I hung up. Put the album away, high in the cupboard. Let it be a memory, not an anchor.

That June I went down to the old family cottage near Oxford. Simon said I could have it; he didnt want it. Id not been for two yearsthe memories too raw. It greeted me with overgrown grass, a sagging shed, damp. I aired the rooms, cleaned, mended the porch.

For two days I worked till my body ached. Mowing, painting, fixing. The ache was honest.

That evening, birdsong and sun over the hedges, I sat with tea on the porch.

“Well, Ill be,” said a voice.

Old Mr Fletcher, the neighbour, stood smiling. Lived year-round.

“Evening,” I said.

“Not seen you in years. Alone?”

“Just me.”

“And Simon?”

“We divorced.”

He shook his head. “Kids these days. So many years, then split.”

“It happens.”

“It does,” he sighed. “Hang in there, love. Life is tough, but you keep going. Been fifteen years since my wife. Still here.”

“Are you used to being alone?”

He chuckled. “You never get used to it. You just adapt. Theres some good in it, too.”

“Such as?”

“Freedom. Do what you like, how you like, nobody fussing. Its its own sort of happiness.”

I thought about that.

“Maybe so.”

He waved. “Call if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

He left. I drank my tea. Slept soundly for the first time in months.

Morning brought singing birds, cold water at the well, stretches on the grass. Breakfast on the stoop. I headed for a walk in the woods, bucket for wild strawberriesmind drifting over the long road behind me: from despair, to acceptance, to freedom.

I hadnt become a different person. Simply, Id remembered who I was, before marriage, before being lost in someone else.

The old me was brave. Wanted to learn, travel, work. Then I fell for Simon, married, would have had childrenbut didnt. My life narrowed to being a good wife.

I was a good wife. But lost myself.

“What now?” I said aloud, standing among the pines.

No answer but the wind.

I sat, scrolling old messages with Susan. Found one sent a year ago:

“Susan, sometimes I think Ive let my whole life pass me by. Ive done nothing.”

Susan replied: “Dont talk rubbish, Maz. Youre a marvellous wifethat counts for something.”

Id believed her.

Now I knew: it wasnt enough. Not really. Not to be good for someone else. I had to be good for me.

The phone buzzeda text from Irene.

“Hows the rest? Gloria asked after you. Misses your advice. When are you back?”

I smiled. “Soonback the day after tomorrow. Miss the club.”

Back in London, I bumped into Victoria in the supermarket queue.

She was ahead, paying. Turned, startled to see me.

“Again,” she said, smiling ruefully.

We left together.

“Simon called me,” she said suddenly. “Last month. Wanted to return.”

My eyebrows rose. “Did you?”

“I said no.”

“Right,” she said. “Hes a good man, but weak. Needs propping up. First you, then me, now someone else, probably.”

“Not my concern anymore.”

“No, it isnt.”

She checked her watch. “Training soonhave to run.”

She paused. “You know, I admire you. For getting through all of this. Not many could have.”

“Thank you.”

“Its true. I saw you that night, in the pub. You were broken. Now youre someone else. Someone strong.”

I looked her in the eye.

“I hated you then.”

“I know.”

“Im grateful now.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because you destroyed my illusion. Without you, Id have kept sleepwalking. All my days.”

She nodded sadly. “Youre rightI just lived my own life. You do the same.”

And so we parted, benign at last.

Back home, I walked the golden streets, music spilling from cafés, children shouting. My life moved on.

Autumn crept in, gentle and golden. Training continued; I helped more with Irene. Gloria stayed. Slimmed, grew stronger, thanked me each session.

“You saved me,” she said.

“No,” I answered. “You saved yourself. I was only there.”

In October, Irene suggested a coaching course.

“Youve got a knack. People trust you. Why not do it officially?”

I hesitatedcost, commitment. But said yes.

Three months of study, theory, practice, exams. Then, in January, a year to the day since the pub, I clutched a certificate: “Marianne Price, Fitness and Basic Boxing Instructor.”

Irene hugged me. “Proud of you.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“You did it yourself.”

Home that night, certificate in hand, I stared at my name in bold print.

A year ago, I had been a nobodya discarded wife, hollow, lost.

Now, I was a coach. Helping women rediscover themselvesjust as I had.

Susan rang.

“Home, Maz?”

“Here.”

“Im coming over. We must celebrate!”

“What for?”

“Your certificate, of course! Irene told me. Im so proud of you.”

She turned up with cake and champagne. We sat around the kitchen, glasses raised.

“You know,” Susan said, “sometimes I barely recognise you now. You seemsolid. Like youve found something.”

“I have.”

“What?”

“Myself,” I said simply.

She nodded.

“And Simon?”

“Not forgotten. Just let go. It’s different.”

“Miss him?”

A pause. Did I? Sometimes, at night, a pang of what was and what wasn’t. Not painthe ache had faded to a gentle sadness. I didnt want it back.

“For the past, yes. For himno.”

“Then heres to you. To your new life.”

“To my new life.”

We toasted. I watched snowflakes drift in the night, lights glimmering across the city.

Somewhere, Simon lived his new life, with his own burdens.

Somewhere, Victoria walked her own road.

Here, I wasMarianne. Fifty-nine. Alone, but free. Strong.

And that was enough.

After training a week later, I sat in the park near the club, coffee in hand, watching the world. Old and young, running, dog walking, laughing.

A woman, grey-haired, rested on the bench.

“May I?”

“Please do.”

We sat together. She breathed heavily.

“Bit far for my poor legs. Visiting my daughter. Looking after my granddaughter. Daughters husbands gone off. She thinks the worlds over. Cries at night, wont listen when I saylifes still there, dumpling, just changed shape.”

I nodded. “Mine did too. Last year.”

She smiled. “Men. All the same. Dyou miss yours?”

“Not now.”

She laughed. “My old manhe died years ago. Thought life was done, but I managed. Raised my kids, worked, now I chase grandkids. It all carries on, love, as long as you keep walking.”

“So true.”

“It is. Main things not to give updont flop on the sofa and fade away, like so many do.”

I smiled. “Wise words.”

She stood, leaning on her stick. “Must get on. Take care, love.”

“And you.”

She shuffled off. I finished my coffee and walked home, phone chiming. Irene.

“Maz, are you about? Theres a new ladyfifty-five. Terrified to try, worried shes too old. Could you talk to her?”

“Of coursesend her number.”

I dialled. Nervous, uncertain voice answered.

“Hello, is this Athena gym?”

“It is. This is MarianneI started at fifty-eight.”

Silence, disbelief.