That morning, her suitcase stood in the hallway.
“Valerie…” John began.
“Dont,” she cut him off. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. John was left alone.
He sat at the kitchen table, absentmindedly pushing his fork through cold porridge. Half past six. Valerie was already an hour and a half late.
The telly in the corner murmured about another political scandal, but John wasnt listening. His gaze drifted over familiar detailsyellow curtains with poppies that Valerie had hung five years ago, his slippers by the fridge, her knitted cardigan draped over the chair.
Everything in its place. Except for her.
The front door clicked. Finally.
“Johnny, Im so sorry!” came her weary voice. “Dad took ill. We had to call an ambulance.”
John grimaced. Those old folks again.
Valerie stumbled into the kitchendishevelled, eyes red from crying.
“What happened?” he asked, not looking up from his plate.
“His blood pressure spiked. The doctor said he needs constant monitoring” She slumped into the chair opposite him. “Mum was beside herselfdidnt know what to do.”
“Dont they have a phone? Cant they call an ambulance themselves?”
Valerie flinched as if struck.
“John, theyre in their seventies. They were frightened. And theyre my family…”
“And what am I? Not your family?” He set his fork down and glared at her. “No ones home, dinners gone cold. I come back from work, and youre…”
“Im sorry,” she whispered, reaching for the stove. “Ill heat it up.”
But irritation had already welled up inside him. She used to greet him at the doorhand him his slippers, ask about his day. Now it was always her parents.
Valerie moved quietly by the hob, shoulders slumped, hands trembling as she shifted pans. John stared at the back of her head, remembering how she used to turn to him with a smile.
When was the last time? A month ago? Two?
“Look,” he said, softening his tone, “maybe they really do need a carer. Theyve got decent pensions.”
Valerie froze, ladle in hand.
“Decent? John, Dad gets £800 a month, Mum gets £600. Nearly half of that goes on prescriptions and bills.”
“£600?” John frowned. “She worked all her life.”
“As a teacher in a village school,” Valerie turned to him. “You know that.”
He didnt. Hed never paid much attention to his in-laws finances.
His own parents had died ten years ago, leaving behind a one-bed flat hed sold straight away. Valeries, he only saw at holidays.
“Then hire someone part-time,” he suggested. “For cleaning, cooking.”
“With what money?” Her voice sharpened. “Did you hear what I said? £1,400 between them!”
John shrugged. Hed never bothered with other peoples budgets. He and Valerie had enoughhis engineering salary, her private English tutoring. They lived comfortably, careful but never wanting.
Outside, the sky darkened. Valerie set a reheated plate before him and sat down. She didnt eatjust propped her cheek on her hand and stared at the table.
“Val,” he said. “I dont mind helping. But you cant abandon our family.”
“What family?” She lifted her eyes. “Is this still a family?”
The question hung in the air.
John chewed his porridge, thinking. A family? Suppose so. Though theyd never had children. Valerie couldnt, and adoption had never felt right. So theyd lived quietly, just the two of them.
“Of course we are,” he said at last.
The next weeks became pure tension.
Valerie was at her parents every other daydoctor visits, prescriptions, cleaning. John came home to an empty flat.
Dishes in the sink, bed unmade, leftovers in the fridge.
“I cant do this anymore,” he said one evening. “The house is falling apart.”
“What exactly is falling apart?” Valerie sighed. Shed just returned, a bag of laundry in hand. “Forgotten how to cook? Wash up?”
“Its not about that.”
“Then what?”
John had no answer. It wasnt chores. It was being the centre of her attention. Now that centre had shifted.
“Theyre not children,” he tried. “They managed without you before.”
“Mum fell in the bath yesterday. Lay there two hours till I got there.” Valerie dropped the laundry. “What, should I have left them?”
“Hire a carer!”
“With what money?” she shouted. “With what?”
They stood in the kitchen, yelling for the first time in fifteen years of marriage.
Valerie cried, tears streaking her cheeks. John felt something twist inside him.
“John, do you hear yourself?” Her voice shook with anger. “Theyre my parents! My father! My mother!”
“And what am I?” he exploded. “Your lodger? Your flatmate?”
“Youre my husband! But they”
“But they come first!” he snapped. “I get it! Fifteen years we were fine, now suddenly you remember filial duty!”
Valerie recoiled as if slapped.
“How can you say that? John, theyre old, theyre ill”
“And Im thirty? Im tired too! I want my home back! My wife, not some ghost!”
“So I should abandon them? Let them die alone?”
“I didnt say die! But they can manage! Theyve got moneyhire help!”
“What money?” she cried. “Do you know what carers charge? £20 an hour! Minimum!”
John faltered. Hed never thought about carer rates.
“Well maybe not every day. An hour a day”
“An hour?” Valerie laughed bitterly. “John, listen to yourself! Clean, cook, wash, laundryin an hour? Impossible!”
“I cant take this!” He slammed his fist on the table. “Watching you leave every day! Every damn day, youre there, not here!”
The words spilled out, and he knewthis was it. Not chores, not dinner, not dirty dishes. Fear of losing her. Fear of being alone.
Valerie stared at him, wide-eyed.
“So its not about money. Youre jealous of my own parents.”
“Im not!” he snappedthough she was right. “I just I want my wife, not a carer!”
“What if your parents were alive?” she asked. “Would you abandon them?”
John opened his mouth, then shut it.
His parents If theyd lived this long, hed have helped. Probably.
But this was different!
“My parents are gone” he started.
“Mine arent!”
“Right,” he said quietly. “No more visits. If you want to help, £100 a month. Thats enough for a carer twice.”
“What?”
“No more visits. No more than £100. Thats final. I forbid it.”
Valerie stood in the middle of the kitchensmall, dishevelled, tear-streaked. She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“You forbid me,” she said slowly. “A forty-year-old woman. Forbid me to help my dying parents.”
“Val”
“A hundred a month,” she continued, ignoring him. “Thats four carer visits. An hour each. Four hours help a month. The rest of the time, they can starve? Live in filth?”
She fell silent, wiped her tears, and studied him a long moment. Then turned and walked out.
That morning, her suitcase stood in the hallway.
“Valerie…” John began.
“Dont,” she cut him off. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. John was left alone.
The first days felt almost nice. No nagging about socks. Football late, eating from pans. Freedom.
But by weeks end, he knew it wouldnt do. John found a cleaner through an adLinda, mid-forties, came twice a week. Scrubbed, laundered, cooked ahead. Cost him £400 a month.
“Wheres your wife?” she asked once.
“Split up,” John said shortly.
Linda clucked sympathetically and scrubbed the sink.
News of Valerie came in scraps. A neighbour saw her at the GPs with an old manher dad, likely. A colleague mentioned spotting her at the theatre with some bookish bloke.
Then she filed for divorce.
The news of her remarriage came from that same neighbour, delivered with barely hidden glee.
“Your Valeries remarried. Some doctor. Widower, kids, they say.”
John nodded, shut the door, sat on the sofa, and stared at the ceiling.
So shed found a new family. With children. Wonder how she managed.
Years slipped by. Linda came on schedule. John worked, watched telly, met friends occasionally. Life settled.
Till he turned sixty. Work grew hardback pain, blood pressure. John retired.
Forms, paperwork. His pension was less than expected£1,200. With bills at £500, little remained.
First to go was the cleaner.
Alone at sixty, he relearned washing, cooking. Hands clumsy, back aching. What Valerie had done effortlessly now took half his day.
After six months, he knewsomething had to change. So he made the call.
“Hello?” The voice was familiar yet foreign.
“Val Its John.”
Pause.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
Words failed. He fumbled with the receiver.
“I I was wrong. Im sorry.”
“And?”
“I want to fix this.”
Valerie laughed.
“Fix it? John, its been ten years. Ten years!”
“I know, but”
“You pay for everything,” she cut in. “Understanding comes too late.”
The line went dead. John slowly hung up.
That evening, he sat at the same kitchen table. The yellow curtains had faded; Valeries cardigan was long gone. Only his slippers by the fridgeworn, aged.
Outside, streetlights flickered on. Neighbours windows glowedfamilies inside, someone waiting for someone.
And he was alone.
