Ellie, were starving! Stop lying on the sofa! a disgruntled voice shouted from above the pillow.
Her head cracked like dry twigs, her throat burned, her nose was a sealed tunnel. When she tried to rise, her limbs felt as light as cottonfilled clouds. No wonder the flu had settled in.
All week the sun had hammered the city of Manchester, then, as evening fell, the sky turned to a cold drizzle that turned to snow. Spring was playing tricks. Taxis vanished like ghosts in the wet, so she was forced to catch a bus from the office. She waited half an hour for a coach that arrived already bursting at the seams. She slipped inside like a sigh, then trudged a long, slick distance from the stop.
She had begged her husband, Victor Jameson, to fetch her on his way.
Ellie, Artie and I stopped at my mothers. Well be late, Victor said, as if nothing were amiss.
As always.
She trudged home, drenched, shivering, the clock on the mantel flashing 8a.m. on a Saturday.
Victor, bring the thermometer, please! she croaked.
Whats wrong? Youre ill? Victor blinked, surprised. And breakfast?
Do we have to fend for ourselves? she asked, halflaughing.
What do you mean ourselves? Victor stammered. And Artie?
The boy is ten now! And youre a grown man. Make some scrambled eggs, let him help. I taught him to cook; hes a big lad now.
You taught him to cook? Victor gasped. Whats the point? He spends all day glued to his phone, does nothing.
She shrugged. Are you crazy? Men arent meant to cook; thats a womans business.
His face flushed. Fine, well go to my parents then. If youre not up for us, well be there tomorrow night.
Victor and his mother fled in a hurried car, leaving Ellie to crawl to the kitchen, flip the kettle on, and stare at the silent night.
*Why did it come to this?* she whispered to the empty cupboards. *When did the moment slip when Victor could have cooked for us both, when caring was a twoway street? When did the household chores turn into my sole burden?*
The digital thermometer beeped: 39.2°C. She swallowed a spoonful of tablets and slipped back into a dreamfilled sleep.
A buzzing phone jolted her awake.
Ellie, why arent you answering? I expect your morning call, her mother, Victoria Jameson, complained.
Mom, Im a bit under the weather. I took medicine and went back to sleep, Ellie rasped.
Oh, a little! And wheres Victor? At his mothers again?
We left with Artie so we wouldnt catch anything.
Do you really believe that? So we dont catch anything Make sure you dont have to wash the dishes yourself, or youll end up doing everything!
Mom Ellie tried to protest, but the words dissolved into the steam of the kettle.
Dont whine! I have a right to be angry. I married you, not a slave! Did you check your temperature?
Higher this morning, a bit better now, but Im weak.
Lie down! Father will fetch you. Dont suffer alone.
The call ended. Ellie rose, washed her face, gathered her laptop and a few essentials, and waited for her fathers arrival.
He burst in, clutching his chest as if a phantom heart had leapt from his ribs.
Whats wrong, dad? she gasped.
Its you! I thought Id found my death, but youre still here, pale as a ghost!
Dad, why scare me? she smiled weakly. Shall we go?
Lets go. Hold my arm; the wind might carry you away. He escorted her to the car, murmuring, Youre thin, emaciated, as if a slave. Mothers right, you look well, you look tired.
She said nothing; exhaustion wrapped her like a blanket.
At their parents house the warmth was tangible, the food comforting, the laughter echoing. Victoria Jameson tended to Ellie, and by evening the fever eased.
Ellie called Victor, hoping to tell him she wouldnt be home. He answered with a lazy drawl.
Hey love, I cant bring you any tablets. Ive had a few pints with my dad. Saturday, you knowfootball.
His mother, a sharptongued woman named Cynthia Hart, barged in with a tirade about womens duties, mens laziness, and how a wife should never let a husband starve.
Later, an angry text arrived from Victor:
Ellie, can you send £50? Im short till payday. Spent it on Arties gear, paid for his clubs.
Ellie typed back, All the bills and groceries are on me, arent that normal?
Victor snapped, Its my flat, send it now! Im at the shop.
I have no moneyI spent it on medicine, she replied, the lie a thin veil.
Then ask your mother, Victor huffed.
Ask your mother, Cynthia echoed.
Ellie sighed, Dont, Mum. I dont need it.
The evening turned into a storm of angry messages from Victor and his mother, each accusation sharper than the last. Ellie silenced her phone, the silence swelling like a dark lake.
Sunday morning, the family sat down for breakfast. Victor called again.
Were staying with Mom. She loves us, unlike you. Youre a cuckoo, not a mother.
His voice cracked like broken glass.
Lovely, muttered Igor Semenov, Victors brother, peering over the table. What do you think, Ellie?
I see only divorce, she whispered, eyes on a wilted omelette speckled with parsley.
The thought felt both terrifying and freeing.
Later, Victors father stormed in, slamming a new set of house keys into Ellies hand.
Take these. Ive changed the locks on your flat, packed Victors and Arties things, and taken them to the inlaws. Stay here for a while, and dont answer the phone. Its safer.
In the kitchen, Victoria hummed, satisfied. She and Victors father had long dreamed of this moment, yet they never forced Ellie to confront it herself.
Ellie filed for divorce that very afternoon. The courtroom buzzed with accusations: Youre a fool, youve destroyed the family, Cuckoo, Ungrateful, Neither mother nor wife.
Despite the chorus of blame, a strange peace settled over her. For the first time in years, she felt light.
The divorce was swiftno children, no shared assets, no lingering ties. A year later, Victor, now living with his mother, decided it was cheaper to claim his son than to pay maintenance. He never asked Ellie for advice, never warned her. He forgot that his boy needed clothes, school fees, a homeall the things Ellie had once managed.
The court, orchestrated by Victors own machinations, tried to sort the mess, but the scales tipped in Ellies favor.
Victor and his son now lived under Victorias watchful eye, learning to wash dishes and mop floors. Three men, one roofan absurd balance.
Ellie, at twentyseven, bought herself a small hatchback, a bright red car that glistened in the rain, a promise she would never be caught ill in a storm again.
What now? After a harsh divorce, she chose the simplest, boldest creed: love yourself.
