**The Silence That Speaks**
Susan stood by the window, watching the rain drizzle over Manchester’s streets. “We need some time apart,” her husband James’s words echoed in her mind, like distant thunder. A mug of chamomile tea cooled on the sill—her fifth that evening. A habit of brewing tea when the world felt too heavy.
He had said it so casually, like he was discussing the weather or the electric bill. Same tone as “Dinner’s bland” or “When will you clear your books off the table?”
The old fan in the lounge hummed, bought in their first year of marriage. Back then, they’d argued—she wanted something quiet, he insisted on “something sturdy.” Now it just droned on, monotonous as their life together. Susan adjusted the collar of her grey jumper—faded, like half her wardrobe.
Fifteen years. His black coffee at 7:10 sharp, no sugar, a dash of lemon. Shirts ironed to perfection. Ties sorted by shade. Roast every Sunday—”tradition.”
She remembered their first meeting at a mate’s party. He’d smiled, said, “Lady in the red dress, care to dance?” Back then, she loved bright colours and loud laughter.
“Susan, you listening?” James’s voice snapped her back. “I need space. Time to think.”
She nodded, studying the frayed edge of the rug. Six years they’d talked of replacing it. Always an excuse: wages late, holidays coming, “let’s wait till autumn.”
“I’ll rent a flat in town,” he said, tapping the table. “Come by for my things. Maybe it’ll do us good.”
*Us.* She caught the word. Always “us,” “we,” yet the decisions were his alone.
“Fine,” she said, voice steadier than expected.
“Fine?” He frowned, clearly braced for tears, shouts—anything but this. “Just… fine?”
“Yes,” she sipped the cold tea. “When do you move?”
He faltered. “Sunday. Estate agent’s sorted a place.”
*So he’s planned this.* She stayed quiet.
That evening, packing his things, she unearthed fragments of their past. A scarf from their eighth anniversary. Cufflinks from his dad. A notebook. Inside, a list of her “flaws” in his neat script: *”Overthinks, lets herself go, can’t iron shirts right…”*
She’d found it months ago, cried till dawn. Then made his favourite eggs—”crispy at the edges.”
Now, folding his jumpers, she felt relief. The air lightened with each box.
“I’ll come Thursday for the suits,” James said at the door, suitcase in hand. “And don’t forget to water the orchid. Mum adores it.”
She nodded. The orchid—his mother’s gift. Susan loathed the fussy thing, petals always dropping. But she’d watered it, fertilised it, followed the instructions. Watching James check his pockets—wallet, keys, phone—she thought only of the orchid.
“Don’t mope,” he added, that patronising smile. “Take up knitting. Or yoga.”
The door shut. His cologne lingered—sharp bergamot, the one she’d gifted yearly because “why change what works?”
Susan exhaled, leaning against the wall. Empty. Not sad, not scared—just empty. And quiet. A freeing quiet.
She flicked on the bedroom light, paused at the bookshelf. The kitchen clock ticked, but it sounded different now—not oppressive, just marking time. *Her* time.
The first week, she slept. Came home from work, dropped onto the sofa, slept till morning. Like her body finally had permission to rest.
On Friday, her mate Emma rang: “Sue, where’ve you been? Fancy a cuppa?”
“Can’t,” she began—then stopped. *Why not?* No one waited to ask “Where were you?” or “Coffee again?”
An hour later, she sat in a café, warming her hands on a mocha. Emma chatted about work while Susan savoured a pointless, raspberry-filled dessert—once deemed “too sugary.”
“You look… worn out,” Emma noted. “But… peaceful?”
Susan shrugged. “James moved out. Wants space.”
“And you?”
“Strange. Like zero gravity. Turbulence on a plane—scary, but thrilling.”
At home, silence wrapped around her—warm, not heavy. No gripes about her spending, no sighs over her laptop, no demands for “How was your day?” just to interrupt with his own tales.
Saturday, she woke at ten. Not seven for his “proper breakfast.” Just ten—because she could. Brewed cheap coffee (the “swill” he’d sneered at) and stepped onto the balcony.
Spring had seized Manchester. Kids’ scooters zipped below, laughter ringing. A violin played somewhere.
The landlord called: “Susan? You reported a dodgy switch. Electrician’s free.”
Once, she’d say, “I’ll ask my husband.” Now: “Send him up.”
The grizzled electrician fixed it fast: “Wiring’s knackered. Needs replacing.”
“How… do we fix it?”
He blinked. “Easy. I’ll sort it.”
She watched, passing tools, asking questions. Simple. No one had ever explained before—”not women’s work.”
James texted that evening: “Getting my shoes tomorrow. See how you’re coping.”
She didn’t reply.
Morning brought a urge: to *move*. Not the gym with its mirrors and stares—just walking, breathing. An ad popped up: *”Nordic walking—try it!”*
*Why not?* She eyed the grinning people with poles. James would’ve scoffed: “For pensioners.” But he wasn’t here.
In the hall, she passed the orchid—glossy-leaved, fussy. His mother’s gift. “For cosiness,” she’d said pointedly. How many hours had Susan wasted tending it?
She carried it to the stairwell. Let someone take it—his mum, the neighbours. Another weight lifted.
That evening, she studied the mirror. When had she started slouching? Whispering? Last dyed her hair her *own* shade, not “neutral chestnut”?
She dug out a box—deep cherry, shimmering. Her uni colour, back when she’d first met James.
Two hours later, a stranger smiled back: tentative, real.
James arrived as she admired it. He froze. “What’s this?”
“I like it.”
“But you always—”
“That was *then*. When I feared disappointing you.”
He scoffed, marched to the fridge. “No proper food? Just yoghurts?”
“They’re what *I* like.”
He frowned. “You’re off. Need therapy?”
Then it hit her: no more justifying. Explaining. Shrinking.
Spring deepened, and so did Susan. After work, she raced to the park—to the group with walking poles. Awkward at first, then addictive. The rhythm turned steps into art.
Routes lengthened, breaths deepened. Her body remembered motion; her mind, clarity. The group was mixed: a designer, an engineer, a retired teacher. No prying, no advice—just walking, chatting, admiring blossom-dusted maples.
After, she’d detour, discovering hidden cafés. One served pear tea—her youthful favourite, abandoned when James declared it “cloying.”
The doorbell rang as she sorted photos—park snapshots from her walks. James stood there, holding roses. Red, as always.
“Hi,” he stepped in unasked. “You’ve… changed things.”
She followed his gaze. Yes. Heavy curtains swapped for airy linen. A pole stand in the corner. Her photos in simple frames.
“I’m coming back,” he thrust the roses at her. “These months showed me—family’s what matters. I’ll… do better.”
She eyed the blooms. Once, they’d stirred her. Now she saw only thorns.
“No,” she said.
“No?” He stiffened. “Susan, enough. I see you’ve missed me. This place is a tip—”
“A tip?” She raised a brow. “Feels brighter to me.”
“Come off it,” he peered into the fridge. “Where’s my steak pies? What’s this—protein bars?”
“Mine. For walks.”
“Walks?” He turned. “Oh, the poles. Susan, get a hobby. Baking, maybe?”
She studied him—the smirk, the posture, the *certainty*. How had she missed it?
“Funny,” she said softly. “When you left, I thought I’d crumble. Instead… I bloomed.”
“What rubbish?” He scowled. “You’re alone, wifeless—”
“Not alone,” she smiled. “With *myself*. First time in years.”
He stepped closer. “Stop this. Is it Emma? Or that bloke next door?”
“No,” she shook her head. “I figured it out.She stepped out into the rain, her bright blue umbrella unfurling like a promise.