**Diary Entry 15th October**
“You can always go back to your village,” my husband said when I lost my job.
“Alice, why so quiet? Your soups getting cold.” John tapped his spoon against the bowl, eyeing me with irritation.
I slowly looked up from my phone. Id spent all day calling contacts, searching for workany workbut the answer was the same everywhere: no vacancies, recession, layoffs.
“Sorry, I was distracted.” I picked up my spoon and tasted the beef stew Id made specially for himhis favourite, with carrots and peas. Now, it all felt pointless.
“Whats on your mind?” He blew on his hot soup, glancing at me. “Still thinking about work?”
“What else would I be thinking about?” I pushed my bowl away. “Emily says theyre letting people go at her office too. Sarah from accountings been jobless for three months.”
“Oh, stop it.” He waved me off. “Youll find something. Theres no rush.”
“John, Im forty-three. Who hires at my age? They want young graduates with computer skills. What do I have? A lifetime behind a shop counter.”
“And whats wrong with that? Honest work.” He finished his soup and reached for bread. “Speaking ofthis breads stale. When did you buy it?”
I didnt answer. It was two days old. Id been cutting corners since the supermarket let me go. His construction wages barely covered billswhen they came on time.
“Why not visit your sister in London?” he suggested suddenly. “Stay a week or two. Clear your head. Ill manage.”
Helen, my younger sister, worked for some big firm. We hardly spoke, except at Christmas.
“What for? Shes got her own life. And we cant afford train tickets.”
“Well manage. Listen” He stood by the window. “Maybe you should go stay with your mum. In the countryside. At least theres homegrown potatoes, fresh milk. You wont starve.”
I froze. Mum lived in Little Welling, sixty miles away. I hadnt been back in yearsnot since Uncle Bills funeral. The village was dying: just pensioners left.
“Youre serious? The countryside? What about you?”
“What about me? Ive got work. I cant drop everything.”
“For now, youre the only one earning,” I muttered.
“Bloody hell, must you twist my words?” He turned sharply. “Im not sending you away forever! Stay a month or two. Better than moping here.”
“Moping?” I stood, clearing the table. “Who cleans? Who cooks? Who queued at the GP for your back pain?”
“Well, thats a given,” he shrugged. “I didnt mean” He scratched his head. “Look, if you want, go back to your village. Its peaceful. No job stress.”
His words stung like a slap. *Back to your village.* As if this hadnt been my home for twenty years. As if I didnt belong here.
“My village?” I repeated slowly. “Is this not my house? Have I been a guest here all this time?”
“Alice, come on” He faltered at my tone. “I didnt mean it like that.”
“You meant it exactly like that. Unemployed wife, dead weight. Better ship her off.”
“Dont be daft!” He flopped onto the sofa, turning on the TV. “Im knackered, and youre picking fights.”
I washed up in silence. His words echoed. *Back to your village.* Casual. Relieved, even.
That night, he fell asleep in front of the telly. I lay awake, remembering our early days. Twenty-three, new to the city, working at a corner shop. He was the stock boyyoung, handsome, sweet. Six months of flowers, cinema dates. After we married, we rented, then got a mortgage. I became supervisor, then manager.
And now? He was bundling me off like unwanted clutter.
“Mum? Whyre you calling so late?” My daughter Lucy sounded half-asleep.
“Sorry, love. Just checking in. Hows Mark?”
“Fine. Whats wrong? You sound odd.”
“Nothing. Just tired.” I almost told her about Johns wordsbut why burden her?
“Visit soon?” she asked.
“Maybe. Sleep well.”
Next morning, John brought me tea in bed, kissed my cheek.
“Sorry about yesterday. I only want whats best.”
“I know,” I said tightly.
“Spoke to the lads. Daves wife says her office needs a clerk. Fancy it?”
“Im not a clerk.”
“You could learn. Take a course.”
“With what money?”
“Well manage.”
But job ads crushed me daily: *”Sales assistant wanted, under 30.” “Must know Excel.” “No applicants over 40.”*
I rang my old colleague, Maggie.
“Alice! Found anything?”
“No. You?”
“Worse. Two more sacked last week. Rumours were closing.”
I hung up, watching young mums chat outside. Life moved on. I was left behind.
“Im visiting Mum,” I told John at dinner.
“How long?” He didnt look up.
“A week. Maybe more.”
“Good. Ill fix the shed.”
“The shed? Youve said that for months.”
“Exactly. Be quicker without you nagging.”
*Nagging.* Another barb.
Packing took minutesjeans, jumpers, a coat. He walked me to the bus stop.
“Call when you arrive.”
“I will.”
“Say hi to your mum. Ill visit soon.”
I nodded, though we both knew he wouldnt.
The bus rolled through fields, hedgerows, sleepy hamlets. The farther from the city, the lighter I felt. Maybe he was right. Maybe I needed this.
“Alice!” Mum hugged me on the doorstep. “You shouldve warned me! Id have made pie!”
“Last-minute decision.”
She studied me. Margaret Hayes missed nothing.
“Wheres John?”
“Busy with work.”
“I see,” she said gently.
The cottage was unchangedfloral wallpaper, creaky floors, the old stove. Only smaller than I remembered. It smelt of hay and woodsmoke.
“Make yourself at home. Ill roast a chicken.”
“Dont fuss. Im not hungry.”
“Not hungry? Youre skin and bone. Does John not feed you?”
“He does. Im just… tired.”
She stroked my hair. “Talk when youre ready.”
For days, I rested. Helped in the garden, visited neighbours. Empty houses stood like graves.
“Remember Betty Fletcher?” Mum asked over tea.
“Of course. Why?”
“Went to live with her son in Leeds. He put her in a home. Too busy for her.”
I shivered.
“Her cottage?”
“Sold. Son needed money.”
That evening, I met Mrs. Wilkins, my old teacher, knitting on her porch.
“Alice! How youve grown! Still remember your recitals*Half a pound of tuppenny rice…*”
“You havent changed.”
“Dont fib! Nearly eighty. Children are in London. Visit once a year, if that.”
“Why not move to them?”
“This is home,” she said simply.
Walking back, I thought of her, of Betty, of Mum. All once young, needed. Now alone with memories.
“Mum, ever thought of moving to town?” I asked later.
“In winter, yes. But where? Your place? What if John minds?”
“He wouldnt.”
“Best not test it.”
I bit back arguments. *Back to your village* haunted me. I feared Mum hearing those words from me one day.
On day four, John called.
“Hows your mum?”
“Fine.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Not sure.”
“What? What about the house? What about me?”
“Youll manage. You said so.”
“Alice, I didnt mean”
“What *did* you mean?”
Silence.
“Stay awhile. But hurry back. I miss you.”
“Miss me,” I repeated after hanging up.
“John?” Mum asked.
“Yes.”
“Does he?”
“Do I miss him?” I realisedI didnt. For the first time in years, I felt calm. No chores, no complaints.
“I dont know.”
“Was your father ever cruel?” I asked suddenly.
“Never. He respected me.”
That night, Mrs. Wilkins said something that stuck:
“We raised our children to take, not give. We sacrificedthey expect it. Never consider we might want things too.”
Id given everythingto parents, husband, daughter. And when I became inconvenient, I was dismissed.
“Mum, what if I stayed?”
“Here?”
“Yes. Helped you.”
“And John?”
“Let him cope. He said he could.”
She hesitated. “Is this what you want? Or just pride?”
“I dont know. But here… Im not unwanted.”
“Country lifes hard, love. Lonely. Think carefully.”
Two days later, John arrived, shifting by the gate.
“Alice. Time to come home.”
“No.”
“Dont be childish! Theres bills, laundry”
“*Your* laundry.”
“Were a family!”
“Family?” I laughed bitterly. “Was it family when you packed me off?”
“I didnt *pack you off*! I suggested a break!”
“*Back to your village* sounds like packing off.”
He flushed. “I messed up. But I want you back.”
“And if Im still jobless? Will you send me away again?”
“No.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I searched his faceand knew I didnt believe him. Something between us had broken.
“If *you* lost your job, would I tell you to leave?”
“Thats different.”
“Why?”
“Because Im the breadwinner.”
“And Im what? Your support? Needed until Im a burden?”
“Stop twisting my words!”
“Then why send me away?”
He had no answer.
“Fine, I was wrong. Lets go home.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I need time. To think. About us. About me.”
He left next morning, baffled. The wife who always yielded had grown a spine.
“Think carefully,” Mum said as the bus disappeared. “Maybe hes truly sorry.”
“Maybe. But Im not ready. I need to remember who I am without him.”
“And work?”
“The village school needs a cleaner. Pays poor, but well manage. Ill help with the garden.”
“Of course.”
I hugged her, resting my head on her shoulder. For the first time in decades, I was home. Truly home.
**Lesson:** Respect isnt conditional. If someone treats your presence like an option, sometimes the bravest thing is choosing yourself.
