You don’t get to talk to me like that! Victor Thompson slammed his fist on the table, causing the half-finished cup of tea to jump and spill over, dark liquid spreading across the light-colored cloth. “What’s gotten into you? You think I’ve never had enough of your cheeky ways?” Clara straightened, arms crossed, casting him a look that could cut through stone.
“What cheeky ways? You think I’m unreasonable for expecting my wife to be here when I come home from work, instead of gallivanting about?” Victor dabbed at the table with a napkin, only making the mess worse. “I’m not your maid, your nanny, or your cook, Clara! When was the last time you asked me how I was feeling? When did you even take a proper interest?” She spun on her heel, tearing out a hair clip as she walked, her silvering hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.
Victor froze. Thirty years of spats had never ended like this. Clara never raised her voice, never stubbornly refused to listen. What was this?
“Clara, for heaven’s sake!” he trudged after her. “What’s going on?”
“I’m tired, that’s all,” she replied, dragging an old suitcase down from the attic—same one they’d packed for Brighton when they were young.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” His heart thudded faster.
“To Manchester. With Ellie. Today.” He couldn’t wrap his head around it. “Ellie’s in Manchester? Now? But what about me? Who’ll cook, who’ll do the laundry?”
She snorted, still arranging her clothes. “The Thompsons are moving in with Mrs. Baker. She promised to pop in for meals and tidy up. Left a note on the counter with the laundromat details. You know, the one up the road?”
“You’re mad! I’ll not have some stranger feeding me!” He crumpled the paper. “And the laundromat! Rotten nonsense!”
“I’m no one’s servant,” she said coolly. “Ellie’s been begging me to visit. Time I went.”
“For how long?” He sensed the lump forming in his throat.
“Don’t know. Depends, I s’pose.” She shouldered the suitcase and opened the door. “Taxi’s waiting, Vic. Ta-ta!”
The door shut, the lift hummed, and silence consumed the flat. The first days without Clara passed in a blur. Mrs. Baker came by, made dull meals, and cleaned, but the flat felt emptier still. He called, but she didn’t answer. When he phoned Ellie, her tone was clipped.
“Pop, she’s fine, she’s with me,” Ellie replied. “She’s not talking, though.”
“Give her the phone!”
“Not going to happen. She needs space, alright?”
“Space? After thirty years of everything?” His voice climbed. “It’s been *fine*!”
“Fine? Really? Do you even know what you did all those years?” Ellie snapped. “Clara was your servant, not your wife. Give her time, Pop. She needs to live for herself, not just for you.”
“How much time?” He was losing it.
“As long as it takes.” The line went dead.
Victor slumped on the sofa, hands over his face. What had he done? He’d been there for her—no drinking, no fooling about, paid the bills. What more did she want?
Weeks passed. He pined, thinned, and Mrs. Baker gave him sympathetic looks. One day, she said, “Why not write her? Proper letters used to work, didn’t they?”
At night, he scrawled a note: *”Clara, don’t get me wrong. I’m lost without you. The meals taste flat, the flat feels empty. Please come back. Vic.”*
Her reply came weeks later: *”Vic, I didn’t see it either. Waking up one morning and realizing I’d forgotten who I was. All those years cooking, cleaning, while your world kept spinning. I’ve joined an art class in Manchester, Vic. Talent, says my teacher! Swam in the pool every morning. Felt twenty again. Don’t know if I’m coming back. I’m alive out here.”*
Victor read it twice. Tucked it in a drawer.
He’d forgotten the girl she once was—art museums, postcards of Monet, her eyes aglow when she spoke of painting. He’d buried her under chores.
Another letter followed: *”Clara, forgive me. I never saw it. I thought marriage meant this… routine. Me working, you keeping the home. But I let you lose yourself. How can I fix it?”*
Her reply: *”Start with yourself, Vic. Find what you want *you* to be, not just the man in the tailored suits. Then, maybe we can find each other again.”*
He wandered the parks instead of sitting glued to the telly. Sat in an art gallery by accident, drawn to a painting of wildflowers in a clay vase. A man with a twinkle said, “That’s mine. Anyone can start, as long as they want to.”
By October, Victor signed up for the classes. He wrote Clara: *”I’m learning to paint. Obnoxious, I know, but it’s Thorn’s course. My first proper green in decades.”*
She replied with a chuckle.
Three months later, he flew to Manchester without a word. Found her in Ellie’s flat, the same vase on the table, but now filled with fresh blossoms.
“Vic?” She blinked.
“Brought you this,” he said, pressing a bouquet into her hands. “I found me. Now I want to find us. If you’ll let me.”
Clara’s eyes softened. “Not coming back. Not yet.”
“But you’ll allow me to visit?”
“Of course.” She smiled. “Funny, isn’t it? I left without saying goodbye, thinking it was the end. Maybe it’s just a beginning. For both of us.”
He took her hand. “A new beginning? Doesn’t sound so bad.”
She held it back.
Sometimes, leaving without a goodbye is the best way to remember what you never had.