Anna stands by the window, watching the rain-soaked streets of Manchester. “We need some time apart,” her husband James’ words still echo in her ears like distant thunder. On the windowsill, a mug of peppermint tea grows cold—her fourth that evening. An old habit, brewing tea when her nerves are frayed.
“We need some time apart,” he’d said, as casually as discussing the weather or the gas bill. Just as matter-of-factly as when he’d remark, “You’ve oversalted the soup,” or “When will you finally clear those magazines off the windowsill?”
The old television hums in the background, bought on their first wedding anniversary. They’d argued in the shop—she wanted a smaller one, he insisted on the “prestige” of a big screen. Now it just drones, like their life: monotonous, familiar, joyless. Anna adjusts the collar of her grey jumper—as drab as most of her wardrobe.
Fourteen years. His morning coffee at exactly seven, no sugar, a dash of milk. Shirts ironed stiff. Socks neatly folded. Fish and chips every Friday—because “tradition.”
She remembers how they met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He’d walked over, smiling: “The girl in the green dress—may I have this dance?” Back then, she still wore bright colours and laughed freely, unafraid of being too loud.
“Annie, are you listening?” James’ voice snaps her back. “I need space. Time to think.”
She nods, eyeing a hairline crack in the wallpaper—thin, almost invisible. Five years they’d talked about redecorating, but he always had excuses: no money, no time, “let’s wait till after the holidays.”
“I’ll rent a flat closer to town,” he continues, tapping his fingers on the table. “I’ll swing by for my things. Maybe… this’ll do us good?”
“Us.” She notes the word. Always “us,” “we,” yet the decisions were his alone.
“Fine,” her voice is steady.
“Fine?” He frowns, as if expecting tears, shouts—anything but this. “Just… fine?”
“Yes.” She sips the cold tea. “When are you moving?”
He hesitates, studying her with unfamiliar surprise. Then shrugs. “Saturday. The estate agent’s found a few places.”
“So, he’s been planning this,” she thinks but doesn’t say.
That evening, packing his things, she stumbles upon fragments of their shared life. A tie gifted on their tenth anniversary. Cufflinks from his mother. A folder of documents. An old notebook. Inside, a list of her “flaws” in his neat handwriting: “daydreams too much, doesn’t watch her figure, can’t cook fish properly…”
She’d found it months ago accidentally. Cried until dawn. Then woke and made his favourite omelette—”crispy at the edges.”
Now, folding his shirts into boxes, she feels an odd relief. With each jumper packed, the air in the flat seems lighter, the weight in her chest easing.
“I’ll pop by Tuesday for my coat,” James says at the door, clutching his suitcase. “And don’t forget to water the fern. Mum adores it.”
She nods. The fern—a gift from his mother. Anna loathes it: bulky, sticky leaves, always shedding dust. But she waters it, wipes it, moves it—just as instructed.
“And… don’t mope,” he adds with that patronising smile. “Find a hobby. Yoga, maybe. Or knitting.”
The door shuts. His cologne lingers—sharp, cedar-heavy. The same one she bought him yearly because “why fix what isn’t broken?”
Anna exhales, leaning against the wall. Inside, she’s hollow. Not hurt, not scared—just hollow. And quiet. Unbelievably quiet.
She flicks on the living-room light, pausing by the bookshelf. The kitchen clock ticks, but now it sounds different—not grating, just marking time. Her time.
The first week, she sleeps. Comes home from work, collapses on the sofa, sleeps till morning. As if her body’s finally allowed to stop, to escape the endless race of meeting others’ expectations.
On Friday, her friend Emily calls.
“Annie, you’ve vanished! Fancy a coffee?”
“Can’t,” Anna starts, then stops. Why can’t she? No one’s waiting to ask, “Where’ve you been?” or “Coffee again? Now you reek of it.”
An hour later, she’s in a cosy café, warming her hands around a latte. Emily chats about her new job while Anna eyes a towering dessert—creamy, berry-topped, utterly “unhealthy.”
“You seem… tired,” Emily notes. “But calm?”
Anna shrugs. “James moved out. Wants space.”
“And how are you?”
“Strange. Weightless. Like turbulence—scary but thrilling.”
At home, she notices the silence—not oppressive, but cosy. No grumbling over her shopping, no sighs at her open laptop, no demands to “tell me about your day” just to interrupt with his own stories.
Saturday, she wakes at eleven. Not at six to make the “proper breakfast.” Just eleven—because she wants to. Brews cheap coffee (the “sludge” James despised) and steps onto the balcony.
Spring has seized Manchester. The courtyard buzzes with bright jackets, kids’ bikes, laughter. A guitar strums nearby.
The council calls.
“Mrs. Carter? About your kitchen socket. The electrician can pop round.”
Before, she’d say, “I’ll ask my husband.” Now, without thinking: “Send him in.”
The wiry man in a worn jacket fixes it swiftly. “Wiring’s shot. Needs replacing.”
“How… replace it?”
He blinks. “Easy. Sorted now.”
For an hour, she watches, passes tools, asks questions. It’s not that hard. Just no one ever explained—”not women’s work.”
Evening brings a text from James: “Coming tomorrow for my jacket. Checking in on you.”
She doesn’t reply.
Morning brings an urge: move. Not in a gym under stares, but just walk, breathe, live. Online, an ad pops up: “Nordic walking group.”
“Why not?” she thinks, eyeing smiling photos. James would scoff: “Only retirees do that.” But he’s not here.
In the hall, she bumps into the fern—glossy-leaved, hulking. His mother’s gift. “For cosiness,” Margaret had said pointedly. How many hours had Anna wasted wiping those leaves, shifting the pot “just so”?
She grabs it, carries it to the landing. Let someone take it—his mother, the neighbours. Another chain snaps inside.
That evening, she studies the mirror. When did she start slouching? Speaking in whispers? Last dyed her hair the colour she wanted, not “natural blonde”?
She digs out a box—auburn, fiery. Her university shade, back when she’d first met James.
Two hours later, a different woman grins back—timid but real.
James arrives as she’s drying her hair. Freezes in the doorway.
“What circus is this?”
“I like it,” she says evenly.
“But you always—”
“That was then. When I feared disappointing you.”
He huffs, strides to the fridge. “No proper food? Just these… smoothies?”
“That’s what I like.”
He eyes her warily. “Annie, you’re acting odd. Maybe see a doctor?”
And she realises: no more explaining. Justifying. Shrinking.
Manchester’s spring blooms, and Anna with it. After work, she hurries to the park—where the walking group waits. At first, she fumbles, but soon finds her rhythm. Turns out, the right technique makes walking an art.
Routes lengthen, breath deepens. Her body adapts; her mind clears. The group’s a mix: artist Claire, programmer Mark, retiree Dorothy. No prying, no unsought advice. Just walking, chatting, admiring chestnut trees.
After, she takes new routes home, explores backstreets, discovers cafés. One serves elderflower tea—her childhood favourite, abandoned when James called it “too fancy.”
The doorbell rings as she sorts new photos—park snapshots from her walks. James stands there, clutching red roses. Always red.
“Hi,” he steps in uninvited. “Place looks… different.”
She follows his gaze. Yes, different. Heavy drapes swapped for airy linen. A corner holds her walking poles. Framed photos dot the walls.
“I’m coming back,” he says, offering the roses. “These months showed me—family matters. I’ll… be better.”
She studies the roses. Once, they’d quickened her pulse. Now, she sees only thorns and blooms like stop signs.
“No,” she says.
“What d’you mean ‘no’?” He scowls. “Annie, quit the drama. I know you’ve missed me. Look at this place—a mess—”She closes the door gently, turns to the mirror, and smiles at the woman staring back—finally free to walk her own path, wherever it may lead.
