Felicity, love, can you not feel a scrap of pity for him? Margaret Thompson begs, her voice cracking. Hes vanished without you, you know. Completely disappeared.
I stay silent. Outside, a group of boys kick a football down the lane. A little girl in a pink jacket darts after it, trying to snatch it back. They laugh, shove her aside, and she scrambles again. It must be her ball they stole.
The scene makes my chest tighten with a weary melancholy, the stubbornness of childhood reminding me of how I once clung to James, how he would mock me, sometimes rage, and often lie.
His own actions pushed me away, yet I kept convincing myself I could rescue, repair, save him. For three years I poured everything into him, ignoring my own needs. My thoughts revolve only around tonightwhere will I be, what will he be doing?
Can you hear me, Felicity? the former motherinlaws voice jolts me from my reverie. Please, just one more talk with him. He always listened to you. You could have swayed him.
I turn. Margaret sits on the edge of the sofa, a handbag resting on her knees.
Margaret, I sigh. I lived with him for three years. I tended to him, tried to coax him, wept for him. He promised, then broke those promises again. You know all of that.
I know, dear, she says, shaking her head. But hes at rock bottom now! He lost his job two weeks ago. I hardly recognise the flathe doesnt even wash the dishes or change the sheets. I come by once a week to tidy up, cook a meal. All he cares about is the bottle and his drinking mates. The only thing he asks me for is Mum, could you lend me some money?
I nod understandingly. Margarets eyes swell and turn pink.
The girl in the pink jacket finally wrests the ball from the boys and runs off, clutching it to her chest. Her face beams with triumph; she has reclaimed what was hers.
If you go back, hell change, Margaret promises, her voice trembling. I know he will. Hed do anything for you. You know how much he loves you.
Loved, I correct. When he was sober he loved me deeply. When hes drunk he curses, throws plates, becomes a menace. Remember the night I showed up in a nightgown, barefoot, because he hid the keys and left me locked out? Hed stumbled home in a horrific state while Id already called every friend and the hospital. Im not steel. I cracked, you understand? When your emotions are trampled day after day they evaporate completely.
Margaret looks away, sighing heavily. We sit in a long silence, her fingers fiddling with the cracked strap of her bag.
He didnt want to. He didnt understand what he was doing, she finally admits.
What else could she say? I get itshes a mother watching her son selfdestruct, powerless to stop it.
I know, I say. I understood. I knew we couldnt live like this, especially when he arrived at three in the morning shouting. I found his hidden cash stashed in the toilet tank, the wardrobe, behind the radiator. I saw him pilfer money from my purse without asking. I field calls from his drinking buddies begging me to bring him home. I saw it all, and thats why I left.
But hes still family! Margaret exclaims. Your husband! You swore to love him in sickness and in health!
She leaps up so sharply her handbag drops, spilling crumpled papers, an old cotton handkerchief and a bottle of tablets onto the floor. We both scramble to gather the pitiful remnants.
I swore, I say. Only grief proved too much, Margaret. Theres no joy left at all.
She grabs my wrist with cold, firm fingers.
Felicity, he wont survive without you. Do you hear that? Doctors say his liver is failing. One more year like this and thats it. Do you really want that?
Margaret, I answer politely. I dont. I swear I dont. But Im not going to kill myself either. If I return, Ill die before him, or Ill become his endless caretaker, watching, cleaning, rescuing, forever. What about the children? How could they live like that? I want healthy, normal children.
But you loved him too, Margaret whispers, tears breaking free. You loved him!
Yes, I loved him, I concede. In the past, before I realised love isnt a heroic sacrifice or a rescue mission. Love is when both people are well. And we were never well, Margaret. I never was.
She wipes her face with the handkerchief, sighs loudly, and stuffs it back into her bag.
So you wont help, she says, halfquestion, halfstatement.
No, I wont, I confirm. Because I simply cant. I lack the strength.
Margaret stands, halfzipping her coat, shuffling to the door. A missing button catches on the frame, but she doesnt notice. At the doorway she pauses and whispers:
He asked about you yesterday when he was sober. Thats rare these days. He said, Hows Felicity? I told him, Shes fine, love, shes doing well. He nodded and said, Good, thank God. Let her live well, she deserves it.
A wave of sadness washes over me. I miss the James I once adoredcheerful, tender, caring. He was that until the bottle finally wedged itself between us.
Please tell him I wish him a swift recovery, I say. Honestly, I do. But without me. Let him mend himself. I cant live for him any longer.
Margaret nods and steps out. I hear her footsteps fade in the hallway, the door closing with a soft click. I move to the window and watch her walk away, bent and vulnerable, and I feel a painful pity for her.
Then I recall the last night we shared, his voice screaming that Id ruined his life, that his drinking began because of me, that Im selfish and ungrateful. I remember leaving with a single suitcase, thinking, Thank heavens we have no children.
Now I reside alone in a rented studio flat in Manchester, working fulltime. Evenings I read, watch dramas, or hit the gym. Weekends I meet friends. My life is ordinary, calm, free of turmoil. I have no desire to return to that inferno, to wonder each night whether James has relapsed, whether hes lying somewhere unconscious.
I will not go back.
Because I chose myself, my own right to be happy, or at least at peace. That isnt selfishits common sense.
James chose the bottle, long before I entered his story. I simply didnt see the warning signs, or I ignored them because love blinded me. That was his choice, his responsibility, his life. Not mine.
