I ought to have left ages ago.
Poppy sat in the lukewarm tub, too drained to pull herself upright. I should have left a long time ago, she muttered for the umpteenth time, half as excuse, half as conviction. She knew a few messages had pinged her phone, but she refused to open them, aware of what they’d reveal.
Her saga with Tom had always been a rollercoaster. Theyd met at a music festival, and shed invited him over for the night, never intending to see him again. The next morning, she spotted him waiting at the entrance with a bunch of daisies and realised she was hooked.
She then left for a years placement in Manchester, while Tom stayed behind, sending her long letters. When her flight back was delayed by five hours, Tom met her at the terminal, pale with nerves and fatigue, clutching another bouquet of daisies. In that moment she knew she wanted children with him.
She returned to work five months after giving birth, while Tom looked after their little girl because he couldnt find a job. Every half hour he rang her, asking where everything was and whether shed be home soon. Colleagues cooed, amazed that a man could sit with a baby. Poppy didnt share their sentiment; after work, with her daughter in her arms, she cooked, washed, cleaned, and then worked late into the night.
She borrowed money to buy her daughter a bike, repair the cottage roof theyd received as a wedding gift, service the car theyd bought so Tom could do oddjob rides until he landed a permanent job. Poppy, a junior researcher, earned a modest salary and struggled to climb higherperhaps she lacked the talent, perhaps the time.
Years passed, and a second child arrived. She went back to work half a year later, this time leaving her son with his mother. By then Tom had managed to find some sort of jobshuttling kids to nursery, borrowing for a new winter coat for his son, paying for the daughters swimming lessons, making soups, changing the water in the vase of daisies.
Toms employment was spotty; he spent as much time watching telly as he did working, but mostly he drank. In the ninth year of their marriage, an appendix burst and the doctors, after a careful look, suggested a stint in a rehab clinic. It seemed his blood held more whisky than red cells.
Poppy rehearsed her speech on the way home a hundred times: We need some space, and Lets get a divorce. She grew repulsed by his sight, his scent, his touch. The cottage roof rotted again, and she had no desire to fix it. They stopped visiting the cottage; the daisies wilted fast because she forgot to change the water.
She fell for another man and was unfaithful. She couldnt blame Tomhe still looked at her with those same eyes hed had at the airport, as if fearing shed never return. She craved entirely new eyes. She told herself it meant nothing, yet it meant exactly one thing: shed needed to leave for a long time. The other man was married, so she wasnt running to a lover.
One day she caught herself wondering how many years shed serve if she ever committed murder. That was the final straw. She packed the kids, her suitcases, and moved in with her mother. Tom kept crying, begging dont go. Poppy stayed silent, tears streaming, but shed never felt so light.
Finally, she rose from the cool water, slipped on a fluffy bathrobe, and fished her phone from her pocket. Sooner or later shed have to read them, she thought. After a dozen messagesI love you, come back, call me, dont leaveTom wrote back, Then Ill leave. That was the last text.
