— You won’t dare treat me like this! — Victor Thompson slammed his fist on the table, sending his untouched tea cup toppling over. The dark liquid spilled across the white tablecloth.
— What has gotten into you? Do you think I’ll tolerate this nonsense for the rest of my life? Eleanor crossed her arms, her icy gaze sweeping her husband.
— What nonsense? That I expect my wife to be home when I return from work, instead of God knows where? Victor tried to blot the stain with a napkin but only smudged it further.
— To you, I’m a housekeeper, a nursemaid, a cook, but never a wife. When was the last time you asked how I was feeling? Or what I wanted? Eleanor turned sharply toward the hallway, yanking the clip from her silver hair.
For thirty-five years, they’d had their arguments, but never like this. Eleanor had always kept her voice hushed, yielding. Never shouted. Never… disappeared.
— Ellie, what’s come over you? Victor hurried after her.
— Nothing. I’m just tired. She pulled down the old suitcase from the attic, the one they’d packed for their Scarborough holiday two decades ago.
— Where are you going? Victor’s pulse thundered.
— To Emily’s. She began folding clothes into the suitcase.
— To Manchester? Now? You’ve gone mad! Who will cook, do the laundry, tidy the flat?
Eleanor snorted, ignoring his outburst. Victor paced the bedroom, pacing like a caged animal.
— Ellie, stop this nonsense. Talk sense. He finally said when the suitcase was nearly packed.
— Talk? She paused, her voice quiet. It’s too late, Vic. I tried talking for thirty-five years. Did you ever truly listen?
Victor looked down, unable to meet her eyes.
— I’ve arranged for Mrs. Thompson, our neighbor, to cook your meals and tidy the place. She left the keys here, and I’ve left her the money. Take this. She handed him a slip of paper with a launderette’s address.
— What absurdity… Victor crumpled the note. I won’t be fed by some stranger! This launderette nonsense is preposterous!
— And I won’t be your maid, she replied calmly. Emily’s offered me a stay. I’ve decided to visit.
— For how long? His voice cracked.
— As long as it takes. She shrugged, then pulled on her coat and stepped into the hallway.
Taxi! she called without looking back. Goodbye, Vic.
The door slammed. Victor stayed in the silent flat, the elevator humming as his wife vanished.
The first days were a haze. Mrs. Thompson came and cooked, but the food felt flat, the flat empty. He dialled Ellie’s number—he never used her mobile—again and again, left on voicemail. Then called Emily.
— Dad, she’s fine. Everything’s okay. Emily’s voice was clipped.
— Let me speak to your mother.
— She doesn’t want to.
— She is my wife!
— Please, Dad. She needs time. People don’t understand, do they? With her?
— What nonsense was she on about disappearing? It was fine until now!
— Fine? Emily snapped. Have you ever thought, Dad, that maybe your ‘fine’ life wasn’t so fine for Mum?
— What’s wrong with us? Victor’s voice rose.
— Let her go. Emily hung up.
Victor collapsed on the sofa, head in hands. He’d never been a drunkard, never neglected his duty. Provided for the family, brought the wage home. What did she want?!
By the second week, he’d lost weight, looked gaunt. Mrs. Thompson left extra brandy in the sherry glass. One afternoon, she said,
— Why don’t you write her a letter, sir? Phone’s no good.
— Letter? Victor blinked.
— Paper, pen. It used to be what folk did. Tell her what you miss… how you feel. Women like that.
That night, he scrawled:
“Ellie, I’m lost without you. The food’s bland. The flat feels emptier than a Chekhov play. Please come back. Vic.”
He posted it to Emily.
A week later, Ellie’s reply arrived:
“Vic, I didn’t realize until one morning I woke up and saw my life as a museum exhibit—stale, arranged, but not living. For thirty-five years, I filled a man’s life but forgot my own. I’ve re-enrolled on art classes at the community college here. The tutor says I’ve got potential. I’m swimming again, too—fresh air, clean water, and I feel twenty years younger. I don’t know if I’m coming back. I’ve found myself here.”
Victor read it thrice. Something thawed in his chest. He remembered younger Ellie—paint-splattered curtains from her student days, her eyes alive with talk of canvas and brush. When had that light died? When had he?
He wrote again:
“Ellie, forgive me. I treated marriage like a domestic equation—your job is to care, mine to command. I was a fool. How can I make it right?”
Her reply came swiftly:
“Vic, time lost can’t be reclaimed. But if you truly want to try, start with yourself. Ask—what do *you* want? Find your *own* passion, and maybe we’ll find each other again.”
He smoked by the window, watching bricks of Manchester’s twilight. “Find yourself,” she’d said. What did that mean without a job, a routine, a clear-cut ‘rule book’?
On a Sunday, he wandered into Whitworth Park. The air was crisp, leaves crunching underfoot. A pop-up art fair caught his eye. He bought a ticket.
A painting of wildflowers in a rustic vase arrested him. It stirred a memory—Ellie’s grandmother’s glaze-honey jar, the bouquet he once brought her.
— Like it? A man with a neat beard leaned over.
— Yes.
— That’s my work. I teach at the adult art school. Never too late to begin.
— Never too late, Vic echoed, then: May I enrol?
The man beamed, passing a card.
That evening, he wrote:
“I’ve signed up for art classes. You were right. The instructor says it’s never too late.”
Her reply was swift:
“I’m so proud, Vic. What’s your first piece look like?”
Their letters grew frequent. He described his first canvas, the ache of learning—“like being a beginner at chess again.” She wrote of new friends, of teaching her grandmother to paint. They began discovering each other anew.
Three months later, he booked a train to Manchester. No notice given. Arrived early, tracking the address Emily had given him.
Ellie opened the door, her hair loose, a brush in her hand.
— Vic? Her voice wavered.
He held out a bouquet of daisies. “I found my path. Now I want to find us. If you’ll still have me.”
She stared, tears glinting.
— Come in.
They sat in the kitchen, a kettle boiling. Victor spoke of his canvas, of swimming at the local pool—“I float like a brick, but I try!”—of the life he’d abandoned.
— You know, Ellie, I’ve been half-alive all these years. Routine, and demands. Forgive me.
She studied him. “I’m not coming back to London. Not yet. But… you can visit. Write. Let’s see if the man I loved still exists inside you.”
He squeezed her hand. “That’s all I ask.”
Sometimes, parting without a farewell isn’t an ending. It’s a turning back to the beginning—a chance to find who you were, and who you might still become.