Its not a marriage, its a tenancy, he snapped at me.
Where have you taken my shirt? Victors voice boomed through the flat. I hung it on the stool yesterday!
Ethel was at the stove, stirring porridge, not even glancing my way. Steam rose from the pot, gathering in tiny drops on the extractor fan. Outside, the rain hammered the windows, turning the glass into a foggy grey pane.
Your shirts in the wash. It was dirty, she replied, flatly.
Dirty? I only wore it once! Victor stormed into the kitchen, face flushed, hair a mess. Ive got a meeting in an hour and youve decided to launder my clothes?
Victor, there was a coffee stain. I couldnt just leave it, Ethel turned, her eyes weary. Take the other one.
There isnt a decent one! All the rest are crumpled! Do you even iron anything? He flung open the wardrobe, yanking shirts out and dumping them onto the floor.
Ethel clenched the ladle until the knuckles on her fingers whitened. She counted silently to ten. One, two, three
And what do you do all day, anyway? Victor kept pulling at a wrinkled white shirt. Sit around the house and do nothing! No order, no proper meals!
Porridge on the stove. Meatballs in the fridge, just need heating, she whispered.
Porridge! Meatballs! Im forty and you treat me like a toddler! Victor snapped, buttoning his shirt, tugging at the collar.
Ethel turned back to the burner. A lump rose in her throat, her eyes stung, but she didnt cry. Shed learned long ago not to let tears fall in front of him.
Victor slammed the door shut, the bang rattling the china cabinet. Ethel was left alone in the kitchen. She turned off the hob, covered the porridge with a lid. No one needed her. Victor left without breakfast, angry. She didnt eat either; her stomach knotted into a tight knot.
She sat at the table, wrapped her hands around a mug of cooling tea. Outside the rain rustled against the panes, grey drops streaming down like little rivers. October was cold, wet, bleak.
Ethel and Victor had been together for eight years. Theyd met at the office she was a secretary, he a sales manager. Hed seemed a prince back then: tall, confident, a firm handshake. He courted her with restaurant dates and flowers. At thirtytwo shed never been married, her parents were gone and shed lived alone in a tiny rented room. Then him, with all that attention.
Six months later Victor proposed. She said yes without hesitation. The wedding was modest, just close friends. He rented a twobedroom flat and they moved in together. The first year was happy. Victor was attentive, caring. Ethel tried to be the perfect wife cooking, cleaning, ironing, greeting him after work.
Then things shifted. Victor started coming home late, looking sour and irritable. He complained about work, about his boss, about not having enough clients. Ethel tried to be supportive, but he brushed her off. He began picking fights over trivial things the soup being too salty, a shirt not ironed properly, the house being too noisy when he wanted peace.
Ethel put up with it, telling herself it was a rough patch. But months went by and the situation worst. Victor grew colder, distant. They barely spoke, only exchanging necessities. Hed eat in silence, then retreat to the TV or his phone.
She asked what was wrong; he said she was imagining things, that he was just tired. One day he added, If youre bored, go get a job.
Ethel had quit work after the wedding. Victor had told her, Why bother with an office? Stay home, rest. I can provide for both of us. So she settled into a routine of housework, reading, walks in the park. It suited her. When Victor eventually suggested she return to work, she felt lost. The job market had moved on, and at thirtyfour with a gap in her résumé, nothing seemed to fit.
She sent out a few CVs, but replies were scarce. Two interviews ended with polite rejections. She gave up, and Victor never raised the subject again.
Now it was another morning, another argument over a shirt. Ethel finished her tea, started cleaning the kitchen washing the pot, wiping the hob, clearing the table. Her hands moved automatically while her mind whirred: what had she done wrong? Why was Victor treating her like this? Had he stopped loving her, or never loved her at all?
Her phone buzzed. A text from her old friend Milly: Ethel, fancy a coffee? She hesitated, then replied, Sure, three at the station?
Milly was the only friend shed kept since school. They met rarely; Milly had a family, kids, a fulltime job, but they still found moments for each other.
At the café near the tube, Milly arrived, breathless, drenched from the rain, coat halfzipped. Sorry Im late! The traffic was a nightmare, she said, sliding into the seat opposite Ethel. You look not great.
Ethel forced a smile. Just tired.
From staying at home, I guess, Milly said, ordering a cappuccino. Victor thinks youre a lazy housewife again.
Its my husband, Ethel whispered. I love him.
Milly leaned forward. Do you love him back? Whens the last time he said something kind, gave you a hug, asked about your day?
Ethel thought. She couldnt recall. It had been months, maybe a year. I dont know. Maybe Im to blame, she admitted.
Stop blaming yourself, Milly said, squeezing her hand. Youre a good, caring woman. Any man would be lucky to have you. Victor just isnt up to the job.
Ethel pulled her hand away. Dont say that.
Fine, I wont, Milly said, sighing. But think about whether you want to keep living on tiptoe, pleasing someone who only finds fault.
They chatted for another hour, but the words stuck like splinters. That night Victor came home past midnight. The flat was silent except for the clatter of his shoes on the kitchen floor. He headed to the bedroom, stripped off his coat.
Victor, have you eaten? Ethel asked quietly.
Did, he muttered without turning.
How did the meeting go?
Fine.
Can we talk? Ethel sat up, switched on the bedside lamp.
What about? Victor pulled on his pyjamas, his face drawn and irritated.
Us. I feel weve drifted apart, she began, choosing her words carefully.
Its fine. Youre imagining things, he replied, lying on his side and facing the wall.
No, Im not! You dont even listen to me! Her voice trembled.
Ethel, Im exhausted. Lets discuss it tomorrow, he yawned.
No, now! It matters to me! She reached for his shoulder.
He sat up abruptly, anger flashing. What do you want to hear? That I love you? That everythings perfect? Fine, I love you, everythings perfect! Now leave me to sleep.
You dont love me, she whispered. Is that true?
Victor stared at the ceiling, then said coldly, Youre not my wife, youre a lodger. Thats the whole truth.
The words hit her like a slap. What? she managed.
You hear me. You live here, eat my food, use my money. Whats the point? You cook poorly, clean halfheartedly, you have no children, you dont want a job. Just a lodger. His tone was as casual as talking about the weather.
Ethel couldnt believe her ears. After eight years, after saying I do, he reduced her to a tenant.
Victor, how can you say that? Im your wife! tears broke free.
On paper, yes. In reality, youre just a tenant paying rent with my money, he said, pulling the blanket over himself. Good night.
She sat there, knees drawn to her chest, shaking with sobs. How could one moment erase eight years of love, care, hopes?
She got up, left the bedroom, and walked to the kitchen, collapsing onto a stool, crying until the tears ran dry. When morning came, she made a decision: she would no longer be a lodger in her own marriage. If Victor saw her as a tenant, she didnt belong there.
Victor woke and headed for the kitchen, only to find Ethel already dressed, a suitcase by the door.
Where are you going? he asked, surprised.
Im moving out. Since you call me a lodger, I have no reason to stay, she replied evenly.
Where will you go? You have no one, he protested.
To Millys. She offered a room until I find somewhere else, Ethel said, picking up her bag.
Ethel, dont overreact. I said it in the heat of the moment, Victor pleaded, stepping toward her.
No. You said what you think, and its right. I was just a lodger, but I wont be any longer, she opened the door.
Ethel, wait! Are you serious? his voice wavered.
Absolutely, she walked out into the hallway, closed the flats door behind her.
She went down to the street, hailed a cab, hands shaking as she dialed Millys number. Milly, Im leaving Victors. Can I stay with you? she asked, voice cracking.
Of course! Come straight away, Milly answered.
Milly welcomed her with a warm hug, led her to a spare room, brewed strong tea, and listened as Ethel poured out the whole story. What a scoundrel! Milly exclaimed. You did the right thing, love.
Now what do I do? Ethel asked, clutching the mug.
Well think it through together. Rest first, then youll get back on your feet. Stay here as long as you need, Milly said, wrapping an arm around her.
Ethel spent a week at Millys. Victor called a few times, begging her to return, claiming hed overreacted. She didnt answer. Milly helped her secure a job as a receptionist at a small dental practice. The pay was modest, but enough to start anew. The routine, the colleagues, the steady work made her feel alive again.
Within a month she rented a modest onebedroom flat in a shared house, with its own kitchen and bathroom. Milly helped move in, bringing a few pieces of furniture. She bought fresh bedding, hung curtains, and for the first time in years felt truly at home not a guest, not a lodger, but the owner of her own life.
Word reached her that Victor was seeing a twentysomething colleague from his office. It hurt, but more than that it felt like a release. Shed made the right choice.
Six months later she filed for divorce. Victor didnt contest; he signed the papers. There was little to split the flat was rented, there was hardly any joint assets.
Ethel rose through the dental practice, becoming senior administrator, with a decent salary and a onebedroom flat of her own, adorned with fresh flowers on the windowsill and paintings on the walls. It was her sanctuary.
Milly once remarked, Ethel, youve got a glow about you. You look younger! It was true; she felt lighter, freer, no longer tiptoeing around anyones expectations.
One afternoon a new patient walked in a man in his midforties, bespectacled, with a friendly smile. He signed in, chatted with Ethel at the reception about treatments and fees, clearly interested. He left his card: Simon Clarke call if you have any questions.
Ethel tucked the card into her coat pocket, pondering whether to call. She wasnt ready for a new relationship yet; the wound from the divorce was still fresh.
A few days later Simon returned for his appointment, then lingered, asking if shed like to meet for coffee after work. She hesitated, but his hopeful look won her over.
They met at a café, sipped coffee, and talked. Simon, an engineer, was divorced, childfree, living alone. Ethel shared her own story openly. He listened, nodding.
I get it, he said. My ex treated me like an ATM. After we split, it felt like I got a new lease on life.
Ethel smiled. I feel the same.
They kept meeting, casually at first walks, movies, lunches. Simon was attentive but never pushy. Gradually, a genuine relationship blossomed. He introduced her to his friends, and she brought him to Millys. Everyone cheered.
Ethel no longer feared speaking her mind. She knew her worth and what she wanted. If anything went awry, she could handle it shed already done that.
One day, by chance, she spotted Victor on the high street, arm in arm with his young girlfriend, laughing. He glanced at her, looked embarrassed, gave a small nod. Ethel smiled back, kept walking. No bitterness, just a past chapter closed.
Now her life was new: work, friends, Simon, and herself finally whole.
Thank you for reading.
