“I’ve got a new life now,” said my husband, and switched off the lamp.
“Marina, dear, is it true your Nicholas has moved to the cottage for good?” asked Auntie Clara from next door, leaning over the garden fence.
Marina startled, nearly dropping her watering can. Shed been drenching the tomatoes for half an hour but couldnt focus. Her thoughts tangled like loose threads in an old sewing box.
“Oh, dont be silly, Clara. Its just the summer heathe fancied staying there a bit longer,” she replied without looking up.
“Only, people are saying things,” Auntie Clara shook her head. “That he took all his things. And sold the car…”
Marina spun around. Sold the car? How did the neighbour know something she didnt?
“Clara, love, dont listen to gossip. Nicks just taken up gardening properly, thats all,” she said, her voice barely trembling.
The neighbour nodded knowingly and retreated. Marina stood there, watering can in hand, staring at the dripping tomato leaves. Sold the car… So it was true. Just like when shed asked him to help carry the shopping bags a week ago.
“I cant do this anymore, Marina,” hed muttered, perched on the edge of the bed, avoiding her eyes. “Ive got a new life now.” And then hed turned off the light.
By morning, he was gone. Just a note on the kitchen table: *Cottage keys in the drawer. Dont let the milk go off.*
Marina set down the watering can and walked inside. Thirty-two years of marriage. Thirty-two years in this house, decorating, fixing leaks, buying furniture. She remembered picking out the chandelier in the loungehow Nick had spent half a day swearing at the wiring.
*Ding!* Her phone lit up. A text from their daughter, Emily. *Mum, you alright? You sound odd.*
“Perfectly fine, sweetheart. Just tired. This heat, you know,” Marina said, sinking onto the stool by the phone.
“Hows Dad? Havent seen him in agesthought Id pop round with Oliver this weekend.”
Oliver, their seven-year-old grandson, worshipped his grandad. Weekends were for garage projects and fishing trips. What was she supposed to tell him?
“Hes at the cottage, gardening. You know how he loves his tomatoes.”
“Right. But youre on your own? Fancy coming to ours?”
“Oh no, Ive got heaps to do. Jam seasons starting.” She hurried off the call.
Jam season. Hilarious. Every August, she and Nick turned the kitchen into a factoryhim sterilising jars, her chopping fruit. The house would smell of sugar and cinnamon, rows of jars lining the counters. Hed brag to his mates at work: *My Marinas got magic hands!*
Now? Whod eat all that jam?
She drifted to the window. Kids played in the street; women gossiped on benches. Life went on, completely unbothered. Hers had just… stopped.
The landline rang. For a wild second, she hoped it was Nick.
“Hello, Marina? Its Gloria from the cottage park. Near your plot.”
Her stomach dropped. Had something happened?
“Your husband asked me to tell you not to worry. Says hes staying in the villagerented a room at the Harrisons, three doors down.”
“Rented a room?”
“Mm. Said the cottage was too cramped. Easier this way. Said if you need anything, ring the Harrisons.”
Marina slowly hung up. Rented a room. So he really was gone. But why? What had she done?
She wandered the house, touching framed photos. Their weddingyoung, laughing, in love. Emilys birthNick cradling her like she was spun glass. Holidays in Cornwall, birthdays, Christmases…
When had it ended? When had they stopped making plans, stopped dreaming aloud? She couldnt remember the last proper talk theyd had. Lately, it was just logistics: *Whos cooking? Did you pay the gas?*
“Marina, remember that time we saw *Les Mis*?” hed asked out of nowhere three months ago, mid-TV show.
“Which time?”
“The one where you wore that blue dress. With the little flowers.”
She remembered the dress. Bought it specially. But that was fifteen years ago.
“Course I remember. Why?”
“Nothing. Just… long time ago.” Hed sighed and changed the channel.
At the time, shed shrugged it off. Now she sawhed been reaching for something lost.
She opened the wardrobe. Dresses hung neatly, unworn for years. When had she stopped bothering?
The hallway mirror showed a tired fifty-seven-year-old woman. Grey hair in a messy bun, no makeup. When had she let herself go?
The phone rang again.
“Mum, can I come over?” Emily sounded tense. “Somethings off.”
“Dont be silly, Im”
“Mum. Truth. Wheres Dad really?”
Marina closed her eyes. Emily always knew.
“Come over.”
Emily arrived within the hour, flustered, eyes red.
“I rang the cottage. Neighbours said he hasnt been there in a week.”
Marina told her everythingthe note, Glorias call. Emily gaped.
“But you two were… solid. Never even bickered.”
“We didnt,” Marina agreed. “We didnt talk much either.”
“Why? What happened?”
“I dont know, love. We just… drifted.”
Emily paced. “Right. Were talking to him. This is ridiculousthirty-two years and he just ghosts you?”
“Em, if he doesnt want to”
“Are you joking? And what, hes got some floozy out there?”
The question Marina dreaded. But Nick? He was a homebodywork, garage, repeat. When would he have met someone?
“Doubt it. Not his style.”
“All men are the same, Mum. Sorry.”
Emily stayed the night. Over tea, they reminiscedNick teaching her to ride a bike, helping with maths. Good dad.
“But with you?” Emily asked. “Did he help at home?”
“He did. Took the bins out, washed up. Never missed a bill.”
“But did you *talk*?”
Marina frowned. About what? Work. Emily. The neighbours. The weather. Anything else?
“Cant remember.”
“Mum, maybe thats it. You became flatmates who happened to be married.”
Maybe. But how? Theyd once talked for hours.
“Remember those awful poems he wrote you when you met?”
Marina smiled. Terrible rhymes, but so earnest. She still had them in a drawer.
“When did he stop?”
“Dunno. Just… did.”
“Did you ever do anything special for him?”
“Cooked, cleaned”
“No, I meansomething that made his face light up.”
Marina thought. She used to sing. Nick had loved that. And shed listenedreally listenedwhen he talked about work, dreams…
When had she stopped?
“Mum, what if you go see him? Not as his wife demanding answers. Just… as a friend.”
“Hes renting a room, Em. He doesnt want me there.”
“Or he doesnt know how to say hes lonely.”
Marina studied her daughter. When had she got so wise?
“Ill think about it.”
Next morning, Emily left for work. Marina wandered the empty house, touching things. Did she want him back? And if sohow?
She dug out the old poems. Sloppy handwriting on yellowed paper:
*”Marina, my love, my light,
Your laugh turns my grey skies bright…”*
Corny, but sincere. When had he stopped seeing her as light? When had she stopped shining?
She studied herself in the mirror. Maybe it was time for a change. Not for himfor her.
She booked a haircut, bought a new dress, dusted off her makeup bag.
“Mum, blimeyyou off to a ball?” Emily laughed that evening.
“Going to see your dad. To talk.”
“Good! But ring the Harrisons first”
“No,” Marina said. “Ill surprise him.”
The cottage park smelled of barbecues and freshly cut grass. Kids splashed in the pond. Normal life.
The Harrisons house was quaint, roses round the door. Marina hesitated at the gate.
“Can I help?” An older woman stepped out.
“Im here for Nicholas. Im his… wife.”
“Oh! Gloria mentioned you. Hes out backdigging potatoes.”
Marina followed her. There he wastanned, thinner, in mud-streaked jeans. He straightened, spade in hand.
“Marina? What?”
“Thought we could talk. If thats alright.”
He nodded, wiped his hands.
