55th birthday
I rose earlier than usual on my 55th birthday. The kitchen smelled of freshly brewed tea and a sponge cake I had baked the day before, hoping to mark the occasion with David Collins.
I imagined a quiet, cosy celebration perhaps a dinner for two, perhaps a call from the children. When I walked into the sittingroom, I found him by the suitcase, buckling the strap.
What on earth are you doing? I asked, halfasleep in my nightgown, a mug of tea in hand. He gave me a strangely calm look.
Im leaving. I need something more, he said, as if he were talking about a weekend trip rather than stepping out of my life.
I sat down, not sure whether Id set the mug on the table or knocked it onto the carpet. The words something more kept looping in my head, as if everything wed builtyears, holidays, renovations, the kidswere merely a pause on his road to the real thing.
I watched him pack the last shirt. He told me hed chosen this day to put a full stop on it. A new year for you, a new year for me, he added, and I felt something crack inside me. Instead of candles on the cake, I got a knife in the back.
When he walked out, the flat fell into an unnatural silence. The kitchen clock ticked louder than ever, each minute stretching out forever. My daughter called with birthday wishes, and I forced a smile, telling her dad had gone out. I couldnt yet say hed gone.
The next days I drifted around the house like a ghost, waiting for him to return, to claim it was a joke, to say hed lost his way. He never called. His socialmedia feed was full of new pictures mountains, a bike, a grin at the camera. He looked like a man who had just won his freedom, while I felt the ground slip from beneath me.
At first I filled the emptiness mechanically work, grocery runs, television. I avoided friends, fearing their questions. Even a stroll through the neighbourhood felt like a public display: Oh, shes the one he left. His words about something to experience kept echoing, as if our whole marriage had been too dull, too predictable to stay.
After a few weeks something shifted. Perhaps anger, perhaps survival instinct. I realised that if he was hunting for his something more, I could look for mine too. Not in new romances or exotic trips, but in the things Id shelved for years because there was never time or it wasnt for me.
I enrolled in a painting class. Id always liked to doodle, never taking it seriously. The first session was like opening a window in a stuffy room strangers, palettes, the smell of coffee during the break. I felt that I could still create, still be thrilled by something. I also started walking more, exploring corners of York Id never noticed.
One afternoon, by chance, I ran into David at the market. Instead of a surge of anger, I felt an odd calm. I didnt shout, didnt demand explanations. He wore the same jacket hed left in on my birthday, but now he seemed smaller, less certain. He asked how I was. I said I was fine, and that was true.
Walking home, I realised the most brutal thing hed done was also a gift. He shattered the illusion that our life would stay the same, and in doing so gave me the shove I needed to step out of the rut Id been stuck in for years.
Now, when I look at my paintings or chat with the new friends Ive made, I know that my something more began on my 55th birthday. I hadnt planned it. I didnt want it. It happened anyway. And now its my turn to decide what Ill experience next without waiting for anyone to pack a suitcase.