“Emily, my dear, can you not feel a twinge of pity for him?” Margaret Hughes implored, her voice cracking as she perched on the edge of the sofa, a handbag shielding her knees. “He’s vanished without you, you know? Completely vanished.”
I said nothing. Outside, a group of boys kicked a football in the courtyard. A lone girl in a pink jacket lunged after the ball, trying to wrest it from them. They laughed, shoved her away, yet she kept scrambling back. It was clearly her ball, snatched by the boys for their own game.
The sight gnawed at me, that childish stubbornness and relentless persistence. I remembered how I used to pester James, how he would grin at my annoyance, sometimes flare up, and often lie outright.
His own actions pushed me away, yet I clung to the hope of rescuing him, of fixing what was broken. For three years I devoted myself to him, discarding my own needs. My thoughts were consumed by what awaited me that night, where he would be, what would happen.
“Do you hear me, Emily?” The former motherinlaws voice snapped me from my reverie. “I’m begging you, talk to him one last time. He always listened to you. You could have swayed him.”
I turned, Margaret perched on the sofa, her handbag still draped over her legs.
“Margaret,” I sighed, “I lived with him for three years. I nursed him, coaxed him, wept for him. He promised change and broke it again. You all know that.”
“I know, love,” she replied, eyes softening. “But now he’s hit rock bottom. He was sacked from his job two weeks ago. The flat is a mess I barely recognise. He doesn’t wash dishes or change his sheets. I come once a week, tidy up, cook for him. All he thinks about is his bottle and his mates. The only thing he asks of me is, ‘Mum, can you lend me some cash?'”
I nodded understandingly. Margaret’s eyes welled, reddening as she wiped them away.
Outside, the girl in the pink jacket finally wrested the ball and sprinted away, clutching it to her chest with a triumphant grin. She had reclaimed her prize.
“If you go back, he’ll pull himself together,” Margaret whispered, her voice trembling. “I know he’ll change. He’d do anything for you. You know how much he loves you.”
“Loved,” I corrected. “When he was sober. He loved fiercely then. When he was drunk he hurled insults, hurled plates. Do you remember the night I ran to you in my nightdress, barefoot, because he hid the keys and left me locked out? I cursed him for stumbling home in a state beyond comprehension, after I’d already called every friend and the ambulance. I’m not iron; I cracked, you see? When your feelings are trampled day after day, they wear thin and disappear.”
Margaret glanced away, a heavy sigh escaping her. We sat in silence, the tension thick. She fidgeted with the cracked strap of her handbag, her knuckles white.
“He didn’t want to,” she finally said. “He didn’t understand what he was doing.”
What else could she say? I understoodshe was a mother watching her son drown, powerless to steer him away.
“Didn’t understand,” I agreed. “I saw it, Margaret. I saw it every time he staggered in at three in the morning, launching a tirade. I found his stashes in the toilet cistern, under the cupboard, behind the radiator. I saw him pilfer money from my purse without asking. I fielded calls from his drunken mates begging me to bring James home. I knew it all. That’s why I left.”
“But he’s your family!” she shouted. “Your husband! You swore to love him in sickness and in health!”
She sprang up so abruptly her handbag slipped from her lap, spilling crumpled papers, a faded handkerchief, and a blister of pills onto the floor. We knelt together, gathering the pitiful remnants.
“I swore,” I said. “Only the sorrow proved too much, Margaret. The joy has evaporated entirely.”
She clutched my wrist with cold, griping fingers.
“Emily, he won’t survive without you. The doctors say his liver is failing. One more year like this and” She choked on the words. “Do you really want that?”
“Margaret,” I replied politely, “I don’t. I swear it. But I’m not going to kill myself either. If I return, I’d die before him, or become his perpetual caretaker, sniffing out crises, hauling him out of pits, forever. What of children? How could they live in that nightmare? I want childrenhealthy, normal ones.”
“But you loved him,” she whispered, tears spilling. “You loved him!”
“Loved,” I echoed. “In another life. That life ended when I realised love isn’t a heroic sacrifice, not a martyrdom. Love is when both people thrive. We never thrived, Margaret. I certainly didn’t.”
She dabbed her face with the handkerchief, exhaled a noisy sigh, and slipped it back into her bag.
“So you won’t help,” she said, half statement, half question.
“I won’t,” I affirmed. “Because I simply can’t. I lack the strength.”
Margaret stood, tugged her coat crookedly, and shuffled to the door. One button missed its loop, unnoticed. At the threshold she paused, voice low:
“He asked about you yesterday, when he was sober. That’s rare these days. He said, ‘How’s Emily?’ I told him, ‘She’s fine, love.’ He nodded, said, ‘Good heavens, let her be. She’s earned it.'”
A wave of melancholy washed over me. I missed the James I once adoredcheerful, tender, caringuntil the bottle wedged itself between us.
“Tell him I wish him a recovery,” I said. “Honestly, I do. But without me. Let him heal on his own. I can’t live for him any longer.”
Margaret nodded and left. I heard her footsteps fade in the hallway, the front door thudding shut. I moved to the window, watching her hunched, small, helpless figure disappear down the stairs. My heart ached for her.
Then the memory of James’s final night with me slammed into mehis scream that I had ruined his life, that my selfishness drove him to drink, that I never understood or valued him. I recalled dragging a single suitcase out, thinking, “How blessed we are not to have children.”
Now I live alone in a rented onebed flat, work during the day, read, bingewatch series, hit the gym in the evenings, meet friends on weekends. My life is ordinary, calm, free of drama. I refuse to return to that abyss, to wonder each night if James will relapse again, if he’s lying somewhere unconscious now.
I will not go back.
Because I’ve chosen myself, my right to be content, or at least at peace. That’s not selfishness; it’s common sense.
James chose the bottle long before I entered his world. I simply didn’t see the warning signs, or I ignored them because I loved him. His choice, his responsibility, his lifemine ends here.
