Anna stood by the window, watching the rain-slicked streets of Manchester. “We need some time apart,” her husband James’s words still echoed in her ears like distant thunder. On the windowsill, her fourth mug of peppermint tea had gone cold—an old habit when her nerves were frayed.
“We need some time apart,” he’d repeated, as casually as discussing the weather or the gas bill. The same tone he used for remarks like, “You’ve overdone the roast,” or “When will you clear these magazines off the coffee table?”
The old TV hummed in the background, bought on their first wedding anniversary. They’d argued in the shop—she wanted something compact, he insisted on a “proper” big screen. Now it just droned, much like their life: monotonous, predictable, joyless. Anna adjusted the collar of her grey jumper—dull, like most of her wardrobe.
Fourteen years. His morning coffee at 7:00 sharp, no sugar, a splash of milk. Shirts crisply ironed. Socks folded just so. Sunday roast every week—because “tradition.”
She remembered how they’d met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He’d approached her, smiling. “Girl in the green dress, may I have this dance?” Back then, she wore bright colours and laughed without holding back.
“Annie, are you listening?” James’s voice snapped her back. “I need space. Time to think.”
She nodded, tracing a hairline crack in the wallpaper—five years of promising to redecorate. He always had an excuse: no money, no time, “after the holidays.”
“I’ll rent a flat closer to town,” he continued, drumming his fingers on the table. “I’ll come by for my things. Maybe… this’ll be good for us?”
*Us.* She noted the word. Always “us,” “we,” yet the decisions were his alone.
“Alright,” she said, her voice steady.
“Alright?” He frowned, expecting tears, shouts—anything but this. “Just… alright?”
“Yes.” She sipped the cold tea. “When are you moving?”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “Saturday. The agent’s found a few places.”
*So he’s planned this for a while*, she thought but didn’t say.
That evening, packing his things, she unearthed fragments of their shared life. A tie from their tenth anniversary. Cufflinks from his mother. A notebook. Inside, a list titled *Her Flaws* in his neat handwriting: *”Too dreamy, doesn’t mind her figure, can’t cook fish right…”*
She’d stumbled upon it months ago and cried till dawn. The next morning, she’d made his favourite omelette—”crispy edges, just how he likes it.”
Now, folding his shirts into boxes, she felt an odd relief. With each item packed, the air in the flat seemed lighter.
“I’ll pop by Tuesday for my coat,” James said at the door, suitcase in hand. “And water the fern—Mum adores it.”
She nodded. The fern—a gift from her mother-in-law. Anna loathed it: bulky, sticky leaves, always shedding dust. But she’d watered it, wiped it, moved it—just as asked.
“Don’t mope,” he added with that patronising smile. “Take up yoga. Or knitting.”
The door clicked shut. His cologne lingered—sharp, woody. The same one she’d gifted him yearly because “why fix what isn’t broken?”
Anna exhaled, leaning against the wall. Empty. Not sad, not scared—just empty. And quiet. Blissfully quiet.
The first week, she slept. Came home from work, collapsed on the sofa, slept till morning. As if her body finally had permission to stop.
On Friday, her friend Emma rang. “Annie, you’ve vanished! Fancy Costa?”
“Can’t,” Anna started, then paused. Why couldn’t she? No one would demand, “Where’ve you been?” or gripe about coffee breath.
An hour later, she sat in a cosy café, cradling a latte. Emma chatted about her new job while Anna devoured a berry pavlova—utterly pointless by “clean eating” standards.
“You look… tired,” Emma observed. “But calm?”
Anna shrugged. “James moved out. Wants space.”
“And you?”
“Strange. Like weightlessness. You know, turbulence—scary but thrilling.”
At home, the silence felt cosy. No complaints about her shopping, no sighs over her laptop, no demands to “share your day” only to be interrupted.
Saturday, she woke at eleven. Not at six to make “a proper breakfast.” Just eleven—because she could. She brewed cheap instant coffee (the kind James called “dishwater”) and stepped onto the balcony.
Spring had seized Manchester. The courtyard buzzed with bright jackets, kids’ bikes, laughter. A guitar strummed somewhere.
The council rang. “Ms. Carter? You reported a faulty socket. The electrician’s free.”
Before, she’d have said, “I’ll ask my husband.” Now, without hesitation: “Send him in.”
The older handyman frowned at the wiring. “This is dodgy. Needs replacing.”
“Just… replace it?”
He blinked. “Easy. Done in a jiffy.”
She watched, passing tools, asking questions. It wasn’t rocket science. Just something “not for the ladies.”
James texted: *”Coming tomorrow for my jacket. See how you’re coping.”*
She didn’t reply.
Morning brought a sudden urge to move. Not the gym with its sidelong glances—just walking, breathing, *living.* An ad popped up: *”Nordic walking group.”*
*Why not?* She eyed the grinning faces. James would’ve scoffed: “For old dears.” But he wasn’t here.
In the hallway, the fern loomed—glossy, oppressive. Her mother-in-law’s “cosy touch.” How many hours had she wasted tending it?
She hauled it onto the landing. *Take it, whoever.* Something inside snapped.
That evening, she studied the mirror. When had she started slouching? Whispering? Last dyed her hair *her* colour, not “natural blonde”?
She dug out a box—auburn, fiery. The shade she’d worn at university, when they’d met.
Two hours later, another woman smiled back—tentative, real.
James arrived as she admired it. He froze. “What’s this circus?”
“I like it,” she said calmly.
“But you always—”
“That was *your* always. Not mine.”
He scoffed, riffled through the fridge. “No proper food? Just these… smoothie things?”
“They’re what I like.”
He eyed her warily. “Annie, you’re odd. Seen a doctor?”
And she *knew*—no more explaining. Pleasing. Compromising.
Spring deepened, and Anna bloomed with it. After work, she hurried to the park, where the walking group waited. Awkward at first, she soon found her stride. Proper technique turned walking into poetry.
Routes grew longer, breaths deeper. Her body remembered motion; her mind, clarity. The group was a mix—Liz the artist, Dave the coder, Mrs. Wilkins from number 12. No prying, no advice. Just steps, chatter, admiration for the chestnut trees.
Afternoons, she explored new routes, tucked-away cafés. One served elderflower tea—a childhood love, abandoned when James deemed it “too whimsical.”
The doorbell chimed as she sorted park photos. James stood there, red roses in hand—*always* red.
“Hi,” he stepped in uninvited. “Place looks… different.”
She followed his gaze. Lighter curtains. Walking poles in the corner. Her framed photos.
“I’m back,” he thrust the roses at her. “This time apart… showed me what matters. Family. I’ll do better.”
She studied the roses. Once, they’d quickened her pulse. Now, just thorns and red stop signs.
“No,” she said.
“*No?*” He scowled. “Annie, drop the act. You’ve missed me. Look at this place—a mess!”
“A mess?” She raised a brow. “I’d say *lived-in.*”
“Don’t be daft.” He prowled the kitchen. “Where’re my steak pies? What’s this—protein bars?”
“Mine. For walks.”
“*Walks?*” He turned. “God, those poles. Get a proper hobby. Bake off?”
She saw him clearly then—the smirk, the stance, the *my way* certainty. How had she missed it?
“Funny thing,” she said softly. “When you left, I thought I’d crumble. Instead… I grew.”
“Rubbish,” he sneered. “*Grew?* You’re alone—”
“I’m not.” She smiled. “I’m with *me.* First time in ages.”
HeShe closed the door behind him, picked up her walking poles, and stepped into the rain—her own rhythm, her own path, her own life.