Emily, my dear, are you truly heartless toward him? Margaret Clarke wailed, her voice cracking like wet plaster. Hell disappear without you, you understand? Completely vanish.
I stayed silent. Outside, boys from the estate chased a football down the cracked pavement. A little girl in a pink jacket kept lunging for the ball, her small fists pushing the boys back each time. They jeered, shoving her away, but she persisted, eyes fixed on the leather. It was clearly her ball; the boys had snatched it and were now playing with her treasure.
The sight gnawed at me, the stubbornness and pettiness of the children mirroring my own past with James. I had once hurled myself at him, only for him to laugh, to flare with anger, to lie more often than I could count. He repelled me with his own actions, yet I clung to the illusion that I could rescue, rebuild, save him. For three years I gave myself to him, ignoring my own needs, my thoughts consumed by the night that awaitedwhere he would be, what would happen.
Emily, can you hear me? Margarets voice ripped me from my reverie. Im begging you, please speak to him one last time. He always listened to you. You could still sway him.
She perched on the edge of the battered sofa, a worn handbag shielding her knees.
Margaret, I exhaled, the weight of three years pressing on my chest. I lived with him for three years. I tended his wounds, coaxed him, wept for him. He promised, broke, promised again. You know all of it.
I know, love, she snapped, eyes flashing. But now hes at rock bottom. He was sacked two weeks ago. The flat is a messI barely recognise it. He wont wash the dishes or change his sheets. I come once a week to tidy, to cook, and all he cares about is the bottle and his drinking mates. The only thing he asks of me is, Mum, could you give me some cash?
I nodded, understanding flickering across her tearstreaked face.
Beyond the window the pinkjacketed girl finally wrested the ball from the boys, clutching it to her chest as she ran, her face lit with triumph. She had won back what was hers.
If you go back, hell change, Margaret whispered, her voice trembling. I know hell. Hed do anything for you. You know how much he loves you.
Loved, I corrected, voice sharp. When he was sober. He loved fiercely then. When he was drunk he hurled abuse and smashed plates. Remember that night I sprinted to you in my nightgown, barefoot, because hed hidden the keys and left me locked out for scolding him? Id called every friend, every hospital. Im not steel; I cracked. When your feelings are trampled daily, they fade into nothing.
Margaret lowered her gaze, sighing heavily. We sat in a strained silence, her fingers twisting the frayed strap of her bag.
He didnt want to, she finally said. He didnt understand what he was doing.
What else could she say? I knew she was a mother losing a son, powerless to halt his selfdestruction.
I understand, I replied. I understood. I knew we couldnt live like thishim stumbling in at three a.m., the fights, the hidden stashes in the toilet tank, the cupboard, behind the radiator. I saw him pilfer money from my purse, the drunken pals ringing to collect him. I saw everything. Thats why I left.
But hes family! Margaret shouted, rising so abruptly her handbag toppled to the floor, spilling crumpled receipts, an old cotton handkerchief, a blister pack of tablets. We knelt together, gathering the scattered remnants.
Family, I said. Theres too much grief, Margaret. The joy has evaporated completely.
She seized my hand with cold, tight fingers.
Emily, he wont survive without you, she pleaded. The doctors say his livers failing. One more year like this and
I dont want that, I said calmly. I swear I dont. But I wont kill myself either. If I return, Ill die before him, or Ill become an endless caretaker, sniffing, watching, rescuing until my own life ends. And what of children? Do you want them growing up in this nightmare? I want normal, healthy kids.
Yet you loved him, Margaret whispered, tears spilling. You loved him!
I loved him, I agreed, in another lifeone that ended when I realised love isnt a sacrifice, not a heroic rescue. Love is two people thriving together. We never did, Margaret. I never did.
She dabbed her face with the handkerchief, sighed, and slipped it back into the bag.
So you wont help? she asked, halfstatement, halfquestion.
I wont, I confirmed. I cant. Im physically exhausted, drained.
Margaret shuffled to the door, fastening her coat crookedly; a button missed its hole, unnoticed. She paused, voice low.
He asked about you yesterday, when he was sober. Its rare these days. He said, Hows Emily? I told him, Shes fine. He nodded, smiled, and said, Good. She deserves a good life.
A wave of melancholy washed over me, nostalgia for the James who once was cheerful, tender, caringbefore the bottle became the wall between us.
Tell him I truly wish him recovery, I said. But without me. Let him heal himself. I cant live for him any longer.
Margaret nodded and slipped out. I heard her footsteps fade down the stairwell, the door thudding shut behind her. I moved to the window, watching her small, hunched figure disappear. A sharp pity pierced me.
Then I remembered his last night with me, screaming that Id ruined his life, that his drinking started because of me, that I was selfish. I recalled packing a single suitcase and thinking, How relieved I am we have no children.
Now I live alone in a tiny flat in Manchester, working my shift at the call centre. Evenings are for books, a bit of Netflix, the gym. Weekends bring coffee with friends. Its an ordinary, steady life, free from the chaos that once swallowed me. I have no desire to return to that inferno, to wonder if James will relapse again, to picture him lying unconscious somewhere.
I wont go back. I chose myself, my right to be at peace, maybe even happy. That isnt selfish; its common sense.
James chose the bottle, long before I entered his world. I simply didnt see the warning signs, or I ignored them because love blinded me. His choice, his responsibility, his lifenow mine is to walk forward, unburdened.
