The air in the kitchen was thick with tension as Edward adjusted his tie before the mirror. “Make sure dinner is proper tonight,” he said without looking at his wife. “The boss is coming, and I want to make an impression.”
Margaret nodded silently, spreading butter on toast. The bread caught in her throat when he added, “And for Gods sake, try to look presentable. Im embarrassed to be seen with you.”
The door slammed, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and the bitterness of unspoken words. Margaret stared at her reflection in the kettle. Forty-three years old, crows feet at her eyes, grey roots she never had time to dye. When had it happened? When had she gone from the lively girl whod won the heart of young engineer Eddie to the weary housewife his colleagues werent meant to see?
The flat greeted her with its usual silence. Eighteen-year-old Daniel had already left for university; fourteen-year-old Emily was staying at a friends. Just her, the kitchen, and the endless list: laundry, cleaning, groceries, preparing that “proper dinner.”
At the shop, Margaret mechanically loaded meat, vegetables, and the expensive wine Edward liked to serve guests. Ahead in the queue, a young woman rocked a fussy baby, whispering soothing words. Margaret remembered when shed done the same, when Edward would wrap his arms around her and say, “Weve got the best family in the world.”
What had changed? When had he stopped holding her? When had he last said he loved her?
At home, unpacking groceries, she stumbled upon old photos fallen from the drawer. There they were at graduation, laughing, his hand in hers. Their weddingher in white, him unable to look away. Daniels birthEdward kissing her forehead, radiant. Emilys first stepsboth of them on the floor, cheering her on.
Where had that happiness gone? Between mortgage payments and sleepless nights with sick children? Between his career ambitions and her chores?
Margaret started cooking. Meat in the oven, salad, appetisers. Automatic motions, honed over years. Then the phone rang.
“Maggie? Its Sarah.”
Her friends voice was a lifeline in the sea of grey routine.
“Sarah! How are you?”
“Dont ask,” Sarah laughed bitterly. “Finalising the divorce.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. Just realised I was invisible in my own life. Fancy coffee? A proper chat?”
“I cant. Edwards bringing his boss tonight.”
“Again? Maggie, when did you last go anywhere without him? When did you last do something just for you?”
Margaret paused. She couldnt remember.
“Its different, Sarah. Ive got a family, responsibilities.”
“And I didnt? But heres the thingwhile youre living someone elses life, your own passes you by.”
After the call, the weight in her chest grew heavier. She cooked on autopilot, Sarahs words echoing. Was she really living someone elses life?
By six, the table was set, her best dress on, hair done. She checked the mirrorpresentable enough. Why did Edward say he was ashamed to be seen with her?
The guests arrived promptly: Edwards boss, Mr. Thompson, with his wife, and another couplecolleagues. Margaret smiled, served, made conversation. All was well until work came up.
“And what do you do, dear?” asked Mrs. Thompson.
“She keeps house,” Edward cut in, his tone apologetic.
“How lovely!” the woman exclaimed. “Did you work before?”
“I was an accountant,” Margaret began, but Edward interrupted.
“Years ago. Once the kids came, we decided it was best for her to stay home.”
*We decided?* Margaret remembered the truth. Maternity leave with Daniel, then his childhood illnesses, then Edwards ailing mother moving in. Another pregnancy. And when the children grew older, Edward had said, “Why work? I earn enough. Just focus on the house.”
And she had. Laundry, cleaning, cooking, shopping. Days blurring into one.
“An acquaintance of ours was a homemaker,” Mrs. Thompson continued. “Now she runs a florist. Says shes never been happier.”
“Not everyones cut out for business,” Edward smirked. “Maggies happy as she is.”
*Happy?* Something twisted inside her. When had he last asked if she was?
The evening dragged. Finally, the guests left, praising the food and hospitality. Edward was pleased.
“Made quite the impression,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Mr. Thompson said Ive got a cracking wife.”
“You mean a cracking housekeeper?”
“Whats your problem? You stay homeso keep house. I dont get the attitude.”
“Edward, remember what we dreamed of when we married?”
“Whats that?”
“Travelling. I wanted to learn French. You said youd support anything I loved.”
“Were adults, Maggie. Kids, responsibilities. No time for nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Her voice shook. “My life is nonsense?”
“Your life is our family. Or isnt that enough?”
She wanted to say it wasnt, that she was suffocating, that shed forgotten what being alive felt like. But she stayed silent. As always.
The next morning, Edward left early without a word. Margaret sat with coffee, flipping through old photos. One showed her holding a diploma from an accounting course. Shed wanted to grow, once.
The doorbell rang. A courier held roses.
“Margaret Whitmore?”
“Yes?”
“Flowers for you.”
The card read: *”Thank you for last night. Youre a splendid hostess and fascinating company. Warm regards, Mr. Thompson.”*
She arranged the bouquet, wondering when Edward last brought her flowers. She couldnt recall.
Later, Emily called. “Mum, can I stay at Lucys? Were going to the theatre tomorrow.”
“What about schoolwork?”
“Mum, its Sunday! Have you forgotten?”
She had. The days had blurred.
That evening, Edward came home late and shut himself in the study.
“Dinner?” she asked through the door.
“Later,” he muttered.
She ate alone, cleared up, went to bed. He came in after midnight, turned his back. Not even a goodnight.
Sunday morning, she woke to an empty bed. Edward had gone to his parents without inviting her.
“Youd be bored,” hed said.
Wasnt she bored at home? She dressed in the colourful dress he called “too young,” applied makeup, and stepped outsideno shopping list, no chores.
The park was alive. Families, couples, elderly hands linked. A young mother pushed a giggling child on the swings. An older man bought his wife an ice cream, their laughter bright.
When had she and Edward last laughed together?
“Margaret? Margaret Whitmore!”
She turned. Andrew, a school friend she hadnt seen in fifteen years.
“Andrew! Is that you?”
“In the flesh!” He grinned. “How are you?”
They talked for hours. Andrew, too, was recently divorced, had moved back for work. A photographer, well-travelled.
“Remember,” he chuckled, “you swore youd see the world? Dreamed of Paris.”
“Childish dreams,” she waved off.
“Says who? Im forty-five and only made it to Paris last year. Dreams dont expire, Maggie.”
They talked until dusk. His photosvibrant, full of lifemade her feel awake for the first time in years.
“Come to my gallery opening tomorrow,” he said as they parted.
At home, Edward was asleep. She lay awake, heart racing. Shed felt alive today.
The next morning, Edward scowled.
“Where were you yesterday? I calledno answer.”
“In the park. Phone died.”
“Park? What about the house? Its a mess!”
She glanced around. A few cups, a newspaperhardly chaos.
“Edward, I need time for myself too.”
“From what? Sitting at home?”
“From living by your rules.”
He spun around. “My rules? I work my arse off for this family, and you complain?”
“Im not complaining. I just want to live, not exist.”
“Dont be daft.”
That evening, she went to the exhibition anyway, telling Edward she was with Sarah. Andrews photos took her breath awayplaces shed dreamed of, moments of pure joy.
“You look beautiful,” he said softly. “And sad. Trouble at home?”
She didnt answer, but he understood.
“Lifes too short for unhappiness,” he murmured.
She returned late. Edward waited in the hallway, face stormy.
“Where were you?”
“At Sarahs.”
“Liar. I called. She hasnt seen you.”
Her stomach dropped.
“An exhibition. With Andrew. We met in the park.”
Edwards face darkened. “So youre sneaking around with men now?”
“Don
