In the morning, her suitcase stood in the hallway.
“Valerie…” began John.
“Dont,” she interrupted. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. John was alone.
He sat at the kitchen table, prodding cold porridge with a fork. Half past six. Valerie was already an hour and a half late.
The TV in the corner murmured about another political scandal, but John wasnt listening. His gaze drifted over familiar detailsthe yellow curtains with poppies Valerie had hung five years ago, his slippers by the fridge, her knitted cardigan draped over a chair.
Everything was in its place. Except for her.
The front door clicked. Finally.
“Johnny, Im so sorry!” came her weary voice. “Dad took illwe had to call an ambulance.”
John frowned. 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. “Mum was panickingdidnt know what to do.”
“Dont they have a phone? Couldnt they call for help themselves?”
Valerie flinched as if struck.
“John, theyre in their seventies. They were scared. And theyre my family.”
“And what am I? Not your family?” John set down his fork and glared at her. “The house is empty, dinners cold. I come home from work, and you”
“Im sorry,” she whispered, reaching for the stove. “Ill heat it up.”
But irritation swelled in his chest. She used to greet him at the doorhand him his slippers, ask about his day. Now it was always her parents.
Valerie moved silently at the stove, shoulders slumped, hands trembling as she shifted pots. John watched the back of her head, remembering how, once, shed turned to him with a smile.
When was that? A month ago? Two?
“Look,” he said, softening his tone, “maybe they need a carer? Theyve got decent pensions.”
Valerie froze, ladle in hand.
“Decent? John, Dad gets £1,200 a month, Mum £900. Half of that goes on medicine and bills.”
“£900?” He blinked. “She worked her whole life.”
“As a village schoolteacher. You know that.”
He didnt. Hed never paid much attention to her parents finances. His own had died ten years ago, leaving a flat hed sold straightaway. Valeries he only saw at holidays.
“Then hire help by the hour,” he offered. “Cleaning, cooking.”
“With what money?” Her voice sharpened. “Did you hear me? £2,100 between them!”
John shrugged. Hed never bothered with others expenses. He and Valerie had enoughhis engineering salary, her private English tutoring. Comfortable, frugal, but never wanting.
Outside, the sky darkened. Valerie set a reheated plate before him and sat down. She didnt eatjust rested her cheek on her hand, staring at the table.
“Val,” he said. “I dont mind helping. But you cant abandon our family.”
“What family?” She lifted her eyes. “Are we even a family?”
The question hung in the air.
John chewed his porridge, thinking. A family? Wellyes. 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 finally said.
The next weeks were thick with tension. Valerie vanished to her parents every other daydoctors, medicine, cleaning. John returned to an empty flat.
Dishes piled in the sink. The 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, dropping a bag of laundry. “Forgotten how to cook? Wash up?”
“Its not about that.”
“Then what?”
John had no answer. It wasnt the chores. It was that hed been the centre of her world. 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 arrived.” She flung the bag down. “What, should I have left them?”
“Hire a carer!”
“With what?” she shouted. “With what?”
They stood in the kitchen, yellingthe first time in fifteen years of marriage.
Valerie cried, smearing tears. John felt something twist inside.
“John, do you hear yourself?” Her voice shook with rage. “Theyre my parents! My father! My mother!”
“And what am I?” he exploded. “A lodger? A flatmate?”
“Youre my husband! But they”
“But they matter more!” he cut in. “Fifteen years we were finenow you remember your duty?”
She recoiled as if struck.
“How can you say that? Theyre old, theyre ill”
“And Im still thirty, am I?” he barked. “Im tired too! I want my wife here, not God knows where!”
“So I should abandon them? Let them die alone?”
“I didnt say die! But they can manage! Theyve got moneyhire help!”
“What money?” she shrieked. “Do you know what carers cost? £20 an hour! Minimum!”
John faltered. Hed never priced such things.
“Wellmaybe not every day. An hour a day…”
“An hour?” She laughed, shrill. “John, listen to yourself! Clean, cook, wash, all in an hour? Impossible!”
“I cant take this!” He slammed the table. “I cant watch you leave! Every day! Youre there, not here!”
The words spilled outand he knew. This was it. Not chores, not dinner, not dishes. Fear of losing her. Fear of being alone.
Valerie stared, wide-eyed.
“So its not about money,” she said quietly. “Youre jealous of my own parents.”
“Im not!” he snappedthough he knew she was right. “I justI want my wife, not a carer!”
“If your parents were alive,” she asked, “would you abandon them?”
John opened his mouth. Closed it.
His parents… Had they lived this long, hed have helped. Probably.
But this was different.
“My parents died” he began.
“Mine didnt!” she shot back.
“Fine,” he said coldly. “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 repeated slowly. “A forty-year-old woman. Forbid me to help my dying parents.”
“Val”
“£100 a month,” she continued, voice hollow. “Thats four carer visits. An hour each. Four hours a month. The rest of the timewhat? They starve? Live in filth?”
She wiped her tears, stared at him, then turned and left.
In the morning, her suitcase stood in the hallway.
“Valerie…” John began.
“Dont,” she cut in. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. John was alone.
At first, it was almost pleasant. No nagging about socks. Late-night football. Eating straight from pans. Freedom.
But after a week, it wasnt. He hired a cleanerMargaret, fortyish, twice a week. Washing, cooking, £400 a month.
“Wheres your wife?” she once asked.
“We split,” he said shortly.
Margaret tutted sympathetically and scrubbed the sink.
News of Valerie came in scraps. A neighbour saw her at the clinic with an old manher father. A colleague spotted her at the theatre with some academic type.
Then she filed for divorce.
The neighbour broke the next update with barely hidden glee:
“Your Valerie remarried. Some doctor. Widower, kids, they say.”
John nodded, shut the door, sat on the sofa, stared at the ceiling.
So shed found a new family. With children. He wondered how she managed.
Years slipped by. Margaret kept her schedule. John worked, watched telly, saw friends sometimes. Life settled.
Till his sixtieth birthday. Work grew harderhis back ached, his blood pressure spiked. He retired.
The pension was less than expected£900. With bills at £300, little remained.
First to go was the cleaner.
Alone at sixty, he relearned washing, cooking. His hands fumbled. His back ached from mopping. What Valerie had done effortlessly now took half his day.
After six months, he knewsomething had to change. So he made the call.
“Hello?” Her voice was strange.
“Val Its John.”
Silence.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
Words failed. He fumbled with the phone.
“I I was wrong. Im sorry.”
“And?”
“I want to fix things.”
Valerie laughed.
“Fix? John, its been ten years. Ten years!”
“I know, but”
“Everything has its price,” she interrupted. “Understanding shouldve come sooner.”
The line died. 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, old.
Outside, streetlights flickered on. Neighbours windows glowedfamilies inside, someone waiting for someone.
And he was alone.
