“You’re suffocating me,” said the husband, standing by the suitcase.
“You’re suffocating me,” said Albert, pausing beside the open suitcase.
Margaret froze, a towel clutched in her hands. She had just stepped out of the bath and hadnt grasped the weight of his words at first.
“What did you say?” she asked, adjusting her dressing gown.
“Exactly what you heard. You smother me, Maggie. I cant live like this anymore.”
Albert methodically folded shirts into the suitcase without glancing up. His hands were steady, his voice calm, as if he were reading the weather report.
“Albert, whats happening?” Margaret moved closer. “What are you talking about?”
“Im leaving. For good.”
“Leaving? Where? Why?”
Albert finally looked at his wife. His eyes held no anger, no regretonly exhaustion.
“To Mrs. Whitmores. She offered me a room. Temporarily, until I find something permanent.”
Mrs. Whitmore was their downstairs neighbour, a pensioner who rented out a spare room to lodgers for extra income.
“Albert, have you lost your mind?” Margaret sank onto the edge of the bed. “Mrs. Whitmore? Whats she got to do with this?”
“Shes quiet. No one monitors my every step. No one interrogates me about where Ive been, who I spoke to, what I ate for lunch.”
“I dont”
“You dont?” Albert turned sharply. “Who grilled me yesterday for staying half an hour late at work? Who checks my pockets every evening? Who calls my office five times a day?”
Margaret felt heat rush to her cheeks.
“I worry about you. Its what a wife does.”
“A wife?” Albert gave a bitter laugh. “Maggie, Im fifty-four. A grown man with a mind of his own. Im tired of justifying every little thing.”
“But were family! Seventeen years together!”
“Seventeen years of you treating me like a pet. Feed me, pat me, tuck me in.”
Margaret sprang up.
“How can you say that? Ive given you everything! The house, the care, the devotion!”
“Devotion,” Albert echoed. “And in return, you demand an account of every breath I take. Know what my colleagues say? That Im henpecked. That I dont even go to the loo without my wifes permission.”
“Thats not true!”
“It is. And Im ashamed. Ashamed I let it go on so long.”
Albert closed the suitcase and set it down.
“Lets talk this through,” Margaret reached for his hand, but he pulled away. “If theres something you dont like, tell me. Ill change.”
“Too late. My minds made up.”
“But why now? Whats happened?”
Albert fetched his jacket from the hallway. Margaret followed, bewildered.
“Your sister called yesterday,” he said, pulling on his shoes. “Clara. Asked how things were. I told her about us. Know what she said?”
“What?” Margaret whispered.
“That youve always been this way. Even as a child. Controlling everyone, dictating their lives. Said she was surprised I lasted this long.”
“Clara had no right”
“She did. Because she wasnt wrong. I just didnt want to face it.”
Albert took his suitcase and turned to the door.
“Wait!” Margaret cried. “What about our plans? The cottage we were saving for? Travelling when we retired?”
“What travels?” He paused. “You panic if I go further than the corner shop. What cottage, when you fret if I spend a day fishing?”
“I just worry”
“You dont worry. You possess. Like property.”
The words struck deeper than anything else.
“Thats unfair,” she whispered. “I love you.”
“I know. And thats what makes it worse. You love me, but you wont let me live.”
Albert opened the door.
“Ill collect the rest later. Once youve calmed down.”
“Albert, please dont go.”
But the door clicked shut. Margaret stood in the hallway, unable to believe it.
She drifted to the sitting room and slumped into an armchair. On the coffee table lay the morning paper, folded open to the job listings. Even here, hed been searching for escape.
She tried to recall when things had soured between them. Theyd seemed happy once. Albert worked as an engineer at the factory, she as an accountant at the local surgery. Modest but content. Children hadnt comeit just hadnt happenedand theyd accepted it.
Had that been why she clung to him so tightly? He was her only family, the centre of her world.
The phone rang. Margaret snatched it up, hoping it was Albert.
“Hello?”
“Maggie, its me,” came Claras voice. “How are things? Hows Albert?”
“Hes gone,” Margaret said flatly.
“Gone where?”
“For good. Said I suffocate him.”
A pause.
“Oh, Maggie…” Clara sighed. “I thought he was joking yesterday.”
“Joking?”
“When he rang me. Said he couldnt breathe at home. I assumed it was just work stress…”
So hed spoken to her sister too. Shame burned Margarets cheeks.
“Clara, am I really like that? The way he says?”
Her sister hesitated.
“Remember how you used to follow me everywhere as a girl? Who my friends were, what I read, where I went? Mum even scolded youtold you to give me space.”
“I was looking out for you!”
“You were. But sometimes care becomes a cage.”
Margaret hung up and wept. Bitter, angry tears rolled down as emptiness spread through her chest.
She pulled out the photo album and flipped through the pages. Their weddingAlbert smiling, her arm around his waist. A holiday in Cornwall, tanned and happy. Moving into this house, buying the car, birthdays…
In every picture, Albert seemed content. When had that changed?
She remembered last Sunday. Hed wanted to go fishing with his mates. Shed arguedwhy bother with them? Better to stay in, watch a film. Hed stayed, but sulked all day.
And when he worked late, she had rung every half-hour. Just in case.
His pocketsyes, shed checked them. Not distrustfully, just habit when doing laundry. Though if she were honest, had she ever been looking for something? Probably.
The doorbell chimed. Margaret wiped her eyes and hurried to answer, hoping it was Albert.
Mrs. Whitmore stood there in slippers and a housecoat.
“Margaret dear, whatevers happened?” she fretted. “Mr. Palmer came down with his suitcase, terribly upset.”
“We had a row,” Margaret admitted.
“Oh dear. He says hes staying with me a while. I couldnt say no, such a decent man. But youll make up, wont you? Splitting up at your ageits not right.”
“I dont know, Mrs. Whitmore. I dont know.”
The neighbour shook her head and left. Margaret shut the door, alone again.
That evening, their friends son, James, rang. A computer programmer who sometimes helped Margaret with tech issues.
“Aunt Maggie, good news,” he said cheerfully. “Found a buyer for your house.”
“What buyer?”
“The one you listed. The three-bed on Elm Street?”
Margaret was stunned. Shed listed nothing.
“James, you must be mistaken.”
“No, its definitely yours. Your names on the ad. Buyers seriousready to put down a deposit.”
After hanging up, Margaret checked the listings online. There it wastheir home, posted two days prior.
So Albert had planned this. Prepared every detail while she remained oblivious.
She called him.
“Hello?” His voice was guarded.
“Albert, did you list our house?”
“Yes. Problem?”
“Problem? Its our home! You cant decide that alone!”
“I can. Its in my name.”
“But we bought it together! I paid into it too!”
“Margaret, no hysterics. Youll get your share. Fair and square.”
“I dont want money! I want my home!”
“This home suffocates me. Just like you.”
The line went dead. Margaret stared at the receiver in disbelief.
On the kitchen table lay the shopping list shed written that morning. Usual weekly items: bread, milk, mince for Alberts favourite pies. Oats for his breakfast. Yoghurt for his indigestion.
She crumpled the paper and tossed it away.
Next morning, her friend Eleanor called.
“Maggie, how are you? Saw Albert at the grocers yesterday with a suitcase. Asked where he was off tojust shook his head.”
“Hes left me, Ellie.”
“Left? How?”
“Just packed and went. Says I smothered him.”
