**Thursday, 18th March**
Margaret finally lost it today. “Get out of my house!” she shouted, brandishing the rolling pin like a weapon. “Thirty years I tolerated your nights out, and now you’re carrying on with some girl!”
I flattened myself against the fridge, dodging. “Maggie, listen… that’s not true! Who told you such rubbish?”
“Not true?” Her voice hit a shriek. “Are the photos also lies? Or you spending your whole salary on her?”
She slammed the rolling pin onto the tiles and snatched her phone. The screen lit up – Jessica, that girl, barely twenty-five, hugging me outside a Knightsbridge café. Then another photo snagged in my gut: us kissing.
“Neighbour Dorothy sent them yesterday,” Margaret hissed. “Saw you by chance in the centre. ‘By chance’!”
My head dropped. My shirt was creased, grey hair tousled. At fifty-eight, I felt ancient and pathetic.
“Maggie, I can explain—”
“Don’t bother!” She grabbed a jar of raspberry jam off the shelf and hurled it. It shattered against the floral wallpaper, sticky red dripping down. “Pack your things and run to your pretty little fling!”
The hall phone rang. Margaret wiped tears on her dressing gown sleeve and answered.
“Hello?” she rasped, voice thick.
“Mum? It’s Sophie.” Our daughter sounded exhausted. “Can I come over? Had another row with Ben. Can’t stand being home.”
Margaret glanced at me, still flattened against the fridge. She sighed. “Of course, love. Just… Dad won’t be here.”
Silence crackled down the line. “Where is he?”
“Later. Just come.”
I shuffled to the bedroom, my old suitcase dusty under the bed. Hands trembling. How had it all slipped away? Six months ago, I was content. Husband. Father. Now? Jessica happened. Met her when I refurbished her office; she worked in accounts. Fragile, blonde, sea-green eyes. Spoke so softly. Around her, I felt decades younger – needed, vital. Started with chats, then lingering past work hours. Soon, meeting her was the only thing that mattered.
“Arthur, what *are* you doing?” Margaret stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, face swollen and red.
“Packing,” I mumbled.
“Going to *her*?”
I hesitated. Jessica had a small flat, but moving never seriously crossed my mind. “Not sure yet.”
Her bitter laugh cut. “‘Not sure’. But you knew when you slept with her? Knew when you used our savings for her gifts?”
“Maggie, I never meant—”
“Never meant!” She entered, sinking onto the bed edge. “Thirty years married, Arthur! *Thirty*. Remember how shy you were? Barely held my hand.” Her whisper made the words sting worse. “Remember when Sophie was born? You paced that hospital corridor like a caged animal. And when the midwife said ‘girl’, you wept.” She paused. “Remember your heart scare? Who sat up nights, fetching pills, taking your temperature? Who stayed in hospital when they admitted you after that attack?”
“Maggie, stop—”
“I won’t!” She turned, staring hard. “I deserve my say. And I say you’re a bloody idiot, Arthur Thomas. Trading your family for a girl your daughter’s age.”
What could I say? That I’d fallen? That Jessica made me feel alive? That thirty years of routine had suffocated me?
The front door banged. Quick footsteps. “Mum? I’m here!” Sophie called.
Margaret swiped her eyes and stood. “Coming, love!” She lingered at the door. “Be gone by morning. Leave the keys on the hall table.”
Alone. Muffled voices leaked through the wall. Sophie questioning, Margaret giving short replies. Then crying – Sophie’s? Maggie’s? Both. I zipped the case and walked out. They huddled on the sofa, arms entwined. Sophie’s tear-swollen eyes met mine.
“Dad… is it true? You’re leaving us?”
I halted, case in hand. Her look held pure disbelief, like seeing a stranger.
“Sophie, it’s complicated—”
“No, Dad. It’s simple,” she cut in. “Either you love this family, or you don’t. There’s no ‘but’.”
She stood. “My marriage is cracking, and who do I turn to? *My parents*. Because I thought yours was perfect. Find out you’ve been living a bloody double life for half a year!”
“Darling, don’t upset yourself,” Margaret murmured, pulling her close. “Dad made his choice.”
I set the case down. “Sophie, forgive me. I never meant to hurt you.”
“But you did,” she whispered. “Every single day. Lied. Cheated. Spent *our* money on her.”
“*Our* money?” I frowned. “*I* earned it!”
“You earned it!” Sophie flared. “While Mum ran this house for thirty years! Cooked, cleaned, raised me! Think that wasn’t work?”
Her words hit like stones. Margaret’s constant care – effortless, invisible, taken for granted.
“Go, Arthur,” Margaret said, utterly weary. “Stop torturing everyone, including yourself.”
I grabbed the case. At the door, I turned. “Maggie… if you need anything—”
“We won’t.”
The latch clicked shut behind me. Silence pressed from the flat. Downstairs, I hailed a taxi. Dialled Jessica.
“Arthur?” Surprise coloured her tone. “Everything alright?”
“Can I come over? Maggie knows.”
A pause. “Alright. Come up. Though… my friend Emma’s here.”
Jessica looked flustered when she opened the door. Emma, young and curious, soon made excuses to leave. Over tea, I spilled it: the photos, the fight, Sophie. Jessica listened quietly.
“So what now?” she asked.
“Dunno. Maybe stay here until I sort something?”
She traced the lace tablecloth. “Arthur… are you sure about divorcing?”
I stared. “Meaning?”
“Maybe… try patching things up? Tell her it was a lapse?”
I was stunned. “What about *us*?”
“What *are* we?” She met my gaze. “Arthur, I never asked you to ditch your family. We had fun, but I knew it would end. You’ve got a grown daughter, a wife who gave you her life. I’ve time ahead to find my own happiness.”
The pragmatic woman before me wasn’t the shy girl I remembered. “Perhaps you’re right,” I conceded slowly. “Worth trying to
The sofa arm felt unforgiving beneath my neck, yet the faint scent of Maggie’s Earl Grey drifting from the kitchen felt like the first fragile stitch in the shattered fabric of our lives.