I was up late, thirsty for a glass of water, when I heard a low conversation drifting from the kitchen. It was my wife, Imogen, and my parents. By the time morning came shed already packed a suitcase and told me she was filing for divorce.
Imogen smoothed her hair as she stared at my parents house. The twostorey brick home in Surrey always felt far too spacious for two retirees.
Ready? my brother, Tom, asked, pulling the suitcases from the boot.
Of course, I replied, forcing a smile. Fifteen years of marriage had taught me how to mask discomfort.
The front door swung open for Margaret, my mother, dressed in a fresh housecoat.
Oh, youre here, love, she said, hugging Tom and planting a quick kiss on his cheek. She gave Imogen a fleeting glance. Hello, Imogen.
Hello, Imogen said, holding out a tin of chocolates.
Dont bother, Margaret replied. Your fathers diabetes is getting worse.
I said nothing, as usual.
In the lounge, Arthur, my father, watched the news. He nodded at us and turned his attention back to the screen.
Dinner in an hour, my mother announced. Tom, help me in the kitchen. Imogen, you relax.
Relax, as if I were an invalid.
Imogen slipped into the guest bedroom, dropped her bag in the wardrobe and sat on the bed. Through the thin wall she could hear Tom and Margaret talking about work, the neighbours, health.
Why did they come here every month? To keep up appearances? Or did Tom really miss his parents?
Immy, come and eat! Margaret called. The spreadroast chicken, potatoes, saladwas the same as always.
Tom told us you spent your holiday in Spain again, Margaret began. When we were your age we went to the cottage and helped the country.
Times have changed, Imogen replied.
Oh, theyve changed, indeed. Back then family mattered more than leisure.
Imogens fists clenched. Tom chewed his chicken in silence.
And when are you two going to have children? Arthur asked, looking up from his plate. The years are ticking away. Weve talked about it, Mum, Tom muttered.
Talked and talked. What came of it?
Imogen rose from the table.
Excuse me, I have a headache. Im off to bed early.
In her room she shut the door, sat on the bed, hands trembling. The same old hints, reproaches, disapproving looks.
Tom came in half an hour later.
Whats wrong with you?
Nothing. Just tired.
They dont mean any harm. Theyre only worried about us.
Worry. Imogen lay down, turned to the wall.
Good night.
Tom stripped off his shirt, lay down beside her, and soon started snoring.
Imogen lay there, thinking about tomorrows snide breakfast comments, about Toms habit of pretending not to hear. Fifteen years. Was it always going to be like this?
She awoke at three in the morning, drymouthed, head buzzing. Tom was still snoring, sprawled across the whole bed.
She slipped out, threw on a robe and padded to the kitchen for water. A nightlight glowed in the hallway; the floorboards creaked underfoot.
She paused at the doorway. Voices floated from the kitchenmy parents.
putting up with that barren cow, hissed Margaret. Fifteen years! No kids, no use.
Quiet, someone might hear, grunted Arthur.
Let her hear! Maybe shell finally feel shame. Tom could have any woman. Handsome, welloff. Imogen pressed herself against the wall, heart thudding so loudly it seemed the whole house could hear.
So whats your plan?
Talk to him tomorrow. A serious talk. A man needs to understandtime isnt endless. At fortythree you can still start a proper family.
And the flat? The car?
The flat is in Toms name; we funded the deposit. The car is his too. Shell only get what she earns herself.
Margaret let out a cruel laugh. And thats peanuts. A damned librarian.
You think hell agree?
Of course. Im his mother; I know how to talk to him. The key is to frame it right. Youre unhappy, son, suffering with that whats her name
Imogen.
Right. Time to get rid of the dead weight!
Imogen stood there, stunned. Dead weight. Fifteen years, and I was dead weight.
And if he refuses? He wont. Tom has always listened to me. Hell listen now too.
Bags rustled, dishes clanged.
All right, bedtime. Big day tomorrow.
Imogen rushed to the bathroom, locked the door, sat on the toilet lid and covered her face with her hands.
Dead weight. A barren cow.
For fifteen years shed triedcooking for holidays, giving gifts, enduring hints and reproaches. Now they were planning to dispose of her like old furniture.
And Tom would obey. Of course he would. When had he ever disobeyed his mother?
She returned to the bedroom. Tom was still snoring. She lay down, pulled the blanket over herself and waited for morning.
At seven she got up, dressed, packed her things. Tom woke to the rustling.
Immy, why so early?
Im going home.
What? We were supposed to stay until evening.
I want to go home. Now.
Tom sat up, rubbed his eyes.
What happened?
Nothing. I just want to go home.
And my parents? Theyll be upset.
Your parents. Imogen grabbed her bag.
Tell them I had a headache.
Ill go with you.
No. Stay. Spend time with your parents.
She left the room, slipped on her jacket in the hallway and called a cab.
Immy, where are you off to? Margaret poked her head out of the kitchen. Breakfast is ready.
Im going home. Thank you for the hospitality.
But why so early?
Imogen met her mothers painted lips and surprised eyes. I have things to do at home.
The cab arrived ten minutes later. Imogen slipped into the back seat and closed her eyes.
At home she brewed a strong cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table. The flat was unusually quiet. Usually my parents returned in the evening, dined, and went straight to bed.
But it was Saturday, eleven oclock, and I was alone.
The phone rang. Tom.
Immy, did you get home okay?
I did.
Whats going on? Mum says you were acting odd.
Odd. Imogen smirked.
Everythings fine. How are your parents?
Theyre fine Listen, Ill come over tonight. Well talk.
Alright.
She hung up and looked around the flat. Wed chosen the wallpaper together, bought the furniture together. Only the deposit had come from my parents, so by their logic the flat wasnt really mine.
She opened the wardrobe, took out a folder with the marriage certificate and the lease. Both names were on everything.
Another lie from the old hag.
On Monday she took a day off and visited a solicitora young woman in jeans and a sweater.
Want to file for divorce?
Yes.
Any children?
No.
Do you expect a property dispute?
She thought. Possibly.
Then it will go through court. Well file a petition; youll be summoned for a hearing. If your husband doesnt agree, there will be several hearings.
And if he agrees?
Itll be quicker. About six weeks.
Imogen filled out the forms, paid the court fee, and felt as if a heavy pack had been lifted from her shoulders.
That evening Tom arrived at eight, looking tired and annoyed.
What a day Mums been nagging me nonstop. She says you shouted at her.
I didnt shout.
Then what? Why did you bolt like that?
Imogen set a bowl of soup in front of him.
Tom, do you love me?
He hesitated.
Whats with the questions?
Im just curious. Do you love me?
Of course I do. Fifteen years together.
Thats not an answer. You can live fifteen years out of habit.
Tom set down his spoon.
Immy, whats happening? Youve been… different these past two days.
Answer the question.
Well I love you. So what?
What would you say if your parents suggested we get divorced?
Toms face fell. He lowered his eyes.
Thats nonsense. Why would they?
And if they did?
They wont.
Tom, Im askingwhat would YOU say?
A long pause. Tom crumpled the napkin in his hands.
Immy, why are we talking like this? Were fine.
Fine isnt an answer.
I dont know! He pushed back from the table. Im fed up with these questions. Two days ago everything was fine, and now what happened?
Imogen stood as well.
Nothing happened. I just realised something.
Realised what?
That Ive been a fool for fifteen years.
She went to the bedroom, retrieved the folder, returned to the kitchen and laid the divorce petition on the table.
Tom read it, his face turning pale.
Are you out of your mind?
On the contrary. For the first time in a long while Im thinking clearly.
Because of what? Because of my mother? She didnt mean anything by it!
I know. She didnt mean anything. She just thinks Im dead weight.
Tom froze.
How did you
I overheard your familys strategy meeting. At night. In the kitchen.
Its not what I think
What is it then?
He was silent, turning the petition over in his hands.
Say something, Imogen said, sitting opposite him.
Tom placed the petition on the table.
Mom really did talk about kids. That there isnt much time.
And did she also talk about dead weight?
Immy, shes old. She says stupid things sometimes.
And what did you say?
Tom rubbed his forehead. I didnt say anything.
Exactly. As always.
Imogen stood, poured herself tea. Her hands were steady. She hadnt expected hysteria or tearsonly calm.
For fifteen years I waited for you to finally stand up to them, to tell your mother Im your wife, not a temporary lodger.
Theyre used to being in charge
And youre used to obeying. And you made me obey.
Tom leapt up.
I didnt make anyone obey! I just hate conflict.
Conflict? Imogen laughed. Its called defending your wife. But you preferred that I just endure.
So what now? You cant change the past.
Nothing needs changing. Its already done.
Tom grabbed the petition. I wont sign this!
You dont have to. The court will grant the divorce.
Immy, think! Where will you go? What will you do?
I dont know. But Ill do it without the three of you.
He paced the kitchen, gesturing wildly.
This is madness! To destroy a family over a silly old womans words!
Family? Imogen set her cup down. What family, Tom? Where do you see a family?
We we live together
We live like flatmates in a shared house. You work, I work. We meet in the evenings, watch TV. On weekends we go to your parents, where I pretend to be grateful that they tolerate me.
Tom sat down.
And whats wrong with that? Its a normal life.
Normal for you. Im tired of being nobody.
The phone rang. It was Margaret.
Dont pick up, Tom begged.
Imogen answered. Hello.
Immy, dear! Is Tom home? I wanted to see how things are.
Things are fine. Im divorcing your son.
Silence. Then, What? What are you saying?
What you wanted to hear. Im getting rid of myself for you.
Immy, I dont understand
You will. Say hello to Arthur.
She hung up. Tom stared at her, horrified.
Why did you tell her?
Why hide it? Let her be happy.
Half an hour later Margaret burst into the flat without knocking.
Whats going on? Tom, explain this at once!
Mum, not now
Immy! She turned to me. What are you up to? Have you lost your mind?
Imogen sat calmly at the table. On the contrary. Ive come to my senses.
Over what? Did Tom mistreat you?
Tom ignored me. And you were planning to get rid of me.
Margaret flushed. Who told you that?
You did. Last night. In the kitchen.
You were eavesdropping?
I wanted a drink of water. And I heard you calling me dead weight.
Margaret glanced between us. Immy, you misunderstood. I worry about Tomhes unhappy
Enough, Tom said suddenly. Enough lying. Yes, you wanted us to divorce. And yes, I listened and kept quiet. Like always.
Tom!
And now Immy has decided for herself. And she did the right thing.
Tom looked at his mother in surprise. For the first time in fifteen years he told her the truth.
But its too late, she added.
Tom nodded. I understand.
Margaret darted between us. Youre both crazy! Immy, I apologise if I said something wrong!
Thank you. But the decision is made.
A month later the court finalized the divorce. The flat was split; Immy sold her share to Tom. The money bought her a studio in a different neighbourhood.
The new flat was small but bright. She placed flowers on the windowsill and hung her pictures.
For the first time in years she did what she wanted. She watched the films she liked, ate when she pleased, and no one criticised her choices.
Tom called in the first weeks, begging her to come back, promising to talk to his parents. She answered politely, then the calls stopped.
Friends were stunned: how could she leave a welloff husband? Immys answer was simplemoney never replaces respect.
At fortyone she started a new life, free of a silent fatherinlaw, a snide motherinlaw, and a wishywashy husband.
Hard? Yes. Lonely? Sometimes.
But for the first time in many years Immy wasnt dead weightshe was herself. And that was worth any difficulty.
