— What do you think you’re doing? I’ve spent my whole life for you… and you?
—I? Tell me, please, what am I doing? — Margaret Thompson crossed her arms. — Thirty years of tolerating your moods, your endless «I’m tired» and «I need a rest.» Do you know how much I’ve done for you and your career? Have you ever asked me how I am? When was the last time you asked what I was feeling?
— Why does that matter now? — he exploded. — I’m talking about the situation! You promised to look after the grandkids, but you rushed off to your choir. What did I do then? Cancel an important meeting?
— Maybe you should have. Put the family first once in a while! — Her voice quivered. — And I didn’t «rush» to the choir. I told you about it a week ago. But as always, you didn’t listen.
Thomas sighed, turned to the window. Over three decades of marriage, they’d perfected arguing in loud tones without a real blowup — a weird compromise between pent-up frustration and a refusal to destroy what they’d built.
— What are you staring at out there? — she snapped. — Another excuse?
— Back off, — he grumbled, shrugging off an invisible weight. — Your voice is giving me a headache.
Margaret stood in silence, watching his back. Tall, still trim with broad shoulders and salt-and-pepper at his temples — that was how she’d loved him thirty years ago. That’s how he remained, though more wrinkles had crept in, and his temper had grown unbearable.
— You know what? — she whispered. — I think we both need a bit of space from each other.
Thomas spun around.
— What does that mean?
But Margaret was already at the door. He heard the bedroom door slam, then the familiar clink of drawers from her dresser.
*Packing?* — the thought flickered. *Come on, it’s Margaret. Where would she go?*
Confident in the fleeting nature of a woman’s anger, he returned to his newspaper. «She’ll moan and calm down,» he thought, reading about the rising pension age.
Half an hour passed. The noise in the bedroom faded. He felt sure the storm had passed. Yet his confidence wavered when he heard the tap of heels and the jingle of keys in the hallway. Thomas looked up from the paper and saw Margaret with a small suitcase.
— Where are you going? — he asked, voice wavering.
— To Lucy’s, — she replied sharply, naming her long-time friend. — I’ll stay there a few days. Maybe longer. Not sure yet.
— Stop being dramatic. — He put the paper down. — We had an argument. It happens.
— It’s not just an argument, Tom. — She exhaled. — I’m just tired. So tired. Of the routine, the neglect, of living like roommates instead of husband and wife.
— Nonsense. — He tried to brush it off. — What roommates? We share the same bed!
— And that’s all that remains, — she sighed. — Sleeping in the same bed. Without even talking before bed.
Thomas was taken aback. He hadn’t seen her like this — calm, resolute, saying hard truths without yelling or tears.
— Margaret, let’s talk. — He stepped toward her. — Sit down, sort this out…
— No, Tom. — She shook her head. — First, I need time alone. Figure myself out. Then we’ll decide what next.
— What next? — Panic crept into his voice. — We’re man and wife! We have a daughter, a granddaughter…
— Who you hardly see because you’re always busy, — she reminded softly. — I don’t want to carry everything alone anymore.
She turned toward the door. For the first time in years, Thomas noticed her drooping shoulders, the slump in her once-proud head. He felt a real fear grip him.
— Margaret, don’t go. — He almost pleaded. — Let’s talk. I understand now, truly. I’ll pay more attention to you, to the family…
— No, Tom. — She shook her head. — You’re scared now, so you say that. But in a week, it’ll all fall back into place. I need time.
She exited, closing the door gently. Thomas stood in the hallway, disbelieving. For years, his wife had never simply left — no screaming, no threats, no promise to return for supper.
He approached the window and saw her getting into a taxi. Without turning back, without a wave — just closing the door and watching the car drive off, taking her into the unknown.
*She’ll return,* he thought, stepping away. *Where else would she go? We built our whole life together.*
But deep down, a flicker of unease stirred. Margaret was too calm, too determined. As if she’d truly made her mind up.
The evening stretched endlessly. Thomas turned on the TV, but couldn’t focus. Thoughts kept circling back to their morning conversation. Had he really been so unaware? When was the last time they’d done something together? Talked honestly, not about chores but about their feelings?
The more he thought, the clearer it became — Margaret was right. They had become roommates. He hadn’t noticed how their life turned into a cold routine, stripped of warmth and joy.
Eating alone felt unbearably lonely. He boiled pasta, poked it with a fork, and put the plate aside. No appetite. He picked up his phone and dialled her number. The long ring, then her voice:
— Hello, Tom.
— How are you? — he asked, trying to sound relaxed.
— Fine, — she replied. — It’s cozy at Lucy’s.
— Maybe you’ll come back? — he ventured. — Talk, calmly, without shouting…
— No. — Firm. — I need time. I said that.
— How long? — Frustration crept in. — A week? A month?
— I don’t know, Tom. — A sigh. — Until I understand what I really want.
— And what do you want?! — He couldn’t hold it in. — Should I crawl on my knees?
— See? — Weariness in her voice. — You’re reducing it to demands. No, I don’t want you crawling. I want to know if there’s anything between us beyond habit.
Thomas wanted to retaliate but found no words. The line clicked — she’d hung up.
The night was restless. The large bed felt foreign without her warmth. He tossed and turned, adjusting his pillow, but sleep eluded him. Memories swirled — their first meeting at a university party, their quiet wedding, the birth of their daughter. When had it all changed? When had they stopped being a single unit and become strangers under one roof?
Morning found him exhausted and irritable, driving to work. He couldn’t focus. Thoughts kept drifting to Margaret — what she was doing, thinking, if she’d return home.
At lunch, he called his daughter.
— Dad? — Ophelia’s voice held surprise. He rarely called midday. — Something happen?
— No, — he lied. — Just… how are you? How’s Ksenia?
— We’re fine, — she replied cautiously. — What’s with you and Mum?
— Why, what about us? — He tensed.
— Maybe the fact she packed up and left for Aunt Lucy’s says something? — she hinted.
— She’s already told you, — he muttered.
— Of course. — Ophelia sighed. — Dad, what happened?
— Nothing special! — He snapped. — We had an argument, as usual. And suddenly she pack up and left. Says she’s tired, needs to think. Think about what in her age? Just live calmly, like normal people!
— In her age? — she repeated. — Dad, it’s not like Mum’s a hundred. She’s fifty-five, full of energy. You act like an old crone.
— I didn’t mean that — He blushed. — Just… why does she always play these little games? Complaining about attention, about heart-to-heart talks…
— Listen, — steel in her voice, familiar to him — just like his late wife in her youth. — Mum has put up with your neglect for thirty years. Realize, she’s sacrificed everything for the family. Gave up her studies when I was born, turned down her promotion when you got that job in Manchester. And what did she get in return? A tired husband who can’t even remember her birthday.
— That’s not true! — He protested. — I always remember…
— When was it? — she pushed.
He hesitated. Some time in autumn… or late summer?
— See? — Disappointment. — September 17th, Dad. And you forgot again. Like last year. And the year before.
— I’ve got a lot of work. — He mumbled. — Don’t expect me to remember every date…
— Mum remembers. — She cut him off. — She never forgot yours, mine, or Ksenia’s. Always made something special, bought gifts. You? When was the last time you gave her flowers for no reason?
Thomas fell silent. No arguments left.
— Dad, — her voice softened. — If you really want her back, you’ll have to try. She deserves better. And I’m on her side.
The call left him even worse. He returned home early, but the empty flat felt gloomy. He turned on the TV, tried to watch football, but without her usual grumbling («Your bloody football again! Eyes like square from this TV!»), it all felt hollow.
The next day, he acted. Bought a bouquet of her favourite lilies and drove to Lucy’s.
Lucy, the host, a tall woman with a short cut and sharp eyes, answered the door.
— Hello, Tom. — She studied him. — Come in. But she’s not here.
— She’s not? — He stumbled. — Where is she?
— Gone out in the morning. Said she’d be back by evening.
— Can I wait? — He shifted awkwardly, flowers in hand.
— Sure. — She nodded. — Come to the kitchen, tea?
Over tea, Lucy watched him carefully.
— Know something? — She finally said. — Margaret’s here the third day. And all this time, I listen to stories about your marriage. What struck me? She doesn’t rage at you. Doesn’t hate. Just tired.
— Tired of what? — He frowned. — She’s got it all — flat, car, a mink coat…
— Who needs that mink coat when there’s no love? — She smiled. — Margaret told me how you met. The letters you wrote in the army, the poems you’d read. Then… then life began. And the more it moved forward, the less room there was for romance, tenderness, attention…
— What romance at our age? — He snapped. — Adults, not kids!
— Does love have an age? — She challenged. — Does tenderness become unnecessary when you’re past fifty?
Thomas wanted to reply, but the front door clicked. Moments later, Margaret glided in — in a new dress, elegant hair, light makeup on her face.
— Tom? — She paused, surprised. — What are you doing here?
— Waiting for you. — He stood, offering the flowers. — For you.
— Thank you. — She took them. — But why?
— Just because. — He shrugged. — Without reason.
Margaret studied him, eyes skeptical.
— What’s going on?
— Nothing. — He reddened. — Just… I thought about what you said. And… you’re right. We’ve become strangers. I want to fix it. Can we talk? Alone?
She exchanged glances with Lucy.
— I’ll go shopping. — Lucy tactfully left.
When they were alone, Thomas fumbled for words. Margaret silently put the lilies in a vase, avoiding his gaze.
— You look lovely today. — He blurted. — New dress?
— Yes. — A brief look. — Bought yesterday.
— It suits you. — A pause. — Margaret, I want you back home.
— Why? — She sat across from him. — To continue as before?
— No. — He shook his head. — I’ll try to change. Pay more attention to you, to the family…
— You’ve said this before, — she sighed. — What changed?
— I’ve realized how much I miss you. Home without you is just walls and furniture.
Margaret looked at him, eyes searching.
— Tom, I don’t want to be just a convenient part of your life. I want to be the loved woman. Understand the difference?
— I do. — He nodded. — And I’ll do everything to make you feel loved. Every day.
— Words, Tom. — A sad smile. — Just words.
— Then let me prove it. — He stood. — Go somewhere with me now. A restaurant, a park, the theatre — wherever you like.
— Right now? — Surprise. — What about your work? You never miss a day…
— Work be damned. — He waved his hand. — You’re more important.
A glimmer of hope lit in her eyes.
— Fine. — She paused. — That little restaurant by the riverbank. Remember? Where we celebrated our first anniversary.
— I do. — He lied, smiled. — Let’s go.
The restaurant had changed, but the river view remained the same. They sat by the window, and Margaret spoke about her choir — the new songs, the upcoming concert. Her eyes sparkled, animated words. Thomas suddenly realized he hadn’t seen her like this — passionate, full of life — in years.
— I didn’t know you enjoyed singing so much, — he said after her pause.
— Because you never asked. — No reproach. — For the two years I’ve gone to the choir, you’ve never asked what we were doing. Or come to a concert.
— I’m sorry. — Sincere. — I was inattentive. But now it’ll change. I promise.
— We’ll see. — A smile, but doubt lingered in her eyes.
They walked along the river, hands linked, like newlyweds. Though Margaret didn’t say she’d return home, Thomas felt the ice starting to thaw.
That evening, he walked her to Lucy’s door.
— Thank you for today. — She stood by the door.
— You’re welcome. — He added unexpectedly, — I remember how we met. You in a blue dress at the university party. Thought, so beautiful, probably already taken…
— You remember. — Surprised. — I thought you’d forgotten.
— I forgot many things. — He admitted. — Not that. I’ve never forgotten how beautiful you look in blue.
He leaned in and kissed her — not like the recent years — perfunctory, habitual. But tender, like in their youth — a kiss that dared to cherish a miracle.
— Tomorrow? — He whispered.
— Tomorrow. — She nodded, and in her eyes, the same woman in blue returned.
Each day that week, Thomas did something special for her — flowers, the theatre, midday calls. With each day, the ice in her eyes melted more.
By the next week, Margaret called herself.
— I’ve packed. — Direct. — Can you pick me up?
— I’ll be there in twenty minutes. — He couldn’t hide his joy.
On the way, he bought roses. When she got in the car, he handed them.
— I’m so happy you’re coming back, — he said, meeting her gaze. — I promise, everything will be different.
— I know. — She smiled, touched his cheek. — Otherwise, I wouldn’t have returned.
At home, unpacking her things, Thomas found a crumpled paper in her suitcase.
— What’s this? — He unfolded it.
— A list. — She took it. — All the things I wanted to change in our life. All the dreams I had but was too scared to say. But, — she smiled, — it seems it’s no longer needed. You’re doing everything right.
— I love you. — He embraced her. — I always have. I just… forgot to say it.
— Don’t forget again. — She nestled close. — Never.
They slept entangled that night, like newlyweds. As he drifted off, Thomas thought about the near-loss, the second chance fate had given him.
Morning brought a call from Ophelia.
— Dad, have you seen Mum? — Her voice was anxious. — I’ve called, she’s not picking up…
— I have. — He smiled at the sleeping woman. — She’s home. With me.
— Home? — Surprise. — You’ve made up?
— Yes. — He chuckled. — And you know what I realized? Sometimes you have to lose something to understand its value. She left without a word… but she returned. And now, I’ll do everything to make sure she never wants to leave again.