“Where do you think you’re going? Who’s going to make us dinner?” hissed the furious husband.

Kirsten set her cup down on the table and said calmly,

“I’m leaving, Liam.”

Silence filled the room. Even the TV, which usually droned in the background, seemed to hush, sensing the tension. Liam turned slowly, as if in slow motion.

“Have you lost your mind? Who’s going to cook?” he spat, his voice shaking, staring at her as if she’d just announced the end of the world.

She stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a folder of documents. Everything was inside—copies of her qualifications, proof of her new job, and most importantly, the lease for the flat she’d rented for six months. In another part of town. In another life. In another version of herself.

His words hung in the air like dust. He wore an old T-shirt, scratched his heel with his foot, and clutched the remote. Just another evening, like hundreds before over the last decade. Except for Kirsten, it was the last.

Once, they’d ridden the top bunks of a train from Manchester to London, laughing, eating pasties from a station kiosk. Liam told jokes, brushing her fingers when he passed her tea. Kirsten had laughed freely—they were on holiday, the first in ages, while the kids stayed with her mother.

She’d gazed out the window and thought, *This is freedom.* The train rattled rhythmically, like her heartbeat, and for a moment, anything seemed possible.

“Remember when we snuck out of the office party and went to the park?” he’d asked.

“Of course. You said you’d marry me even if I snored and got fat,” she’d smiled.

“I said *if*, not *when*,” he’d winked. Back then, it had felt like a joke.

Now, five years later, those words felt like a slap.

The kitchen smelled of burnt porridge. The hob was greasy, their son’s socks under the stool, a tower of unwashed dishes in the sink.

“Kirsten, when are you doing the washing up?” he shouted from the living room. “There’s not even a clean spoon left!”

Silently, she wiped her hands on her apron, pulled out a plastic container labelled *Liam’s Lunch Tomorrow*, and placed it in the fridge. Like always. Only this time—for the last time.

She remembered their flight to Brighton. She’d sat by the window while Liam buried himself in his tablet, binge-watching a series the whole way. The clouds below had looked like cotton candy. He hadn’t said a word for two hours.

“Look how pretty it is,” she’d murmured.

“Yeah,” he’d grunted, eyes glued to the screen.

On the third day, he’d gone to play pool with the bloke from the room next door—”Dave from downstairs”—and didn’t come back till dawn.

Late that night, Kirsten had stood by the washing machine, folding laundry while laughter blared from the telly—Liam watching some game show where people screamed, jumped, and lost thousands. She listened to that laughter and felt something sharp twist inside her, growing worse by the day.

“I’ve never done anything wrong by you,” he’d said once when she tried to talk. “I don’t hit you, I don’t cheat. Some women have it much worse. You’re lucky.”

*Lucky.*

The word burned in her memory. She couldn’t forget the time she’d had flu, fever spiking, and he’d left paracetamol on the windowsill before disappearing to watch football. Then yelled from the kitchen:

“Kirsten, you didn’t make soup. What am I supposed to eat?”

Shivering under the duvet, she’d stared at the ceiling, wondering when she’d stopped being herself. When she’d become just a function—cook, clean, endure.

Once, she’d caught her reflection and barely recognised the tired, hollow-eyed woman staring back. Inside, only an echo: *You have to. You have to. You have to…*

That night, she dug out an old notebook, its soft cover filled with poems in handwriting that belonged to someone else—someone who still dreamed. She’d cried then, quietly, not from pain but shock at the person she’d once been.

The next morning, she applied for a receptionist job at a private clinic. Not her dream, but it got her out. Fixed hours. People. A wage in *her* account.

Now, facing Liam, she spoke truth—not for him, but for herself.

“You’ll be nothing to us,” he muttered. “Everything will fall apart without you. The kids—”

“The kids are grown,” she said softly. “And they’ve learnt to live like you—expecting everything handed to them. I won’t let our daughter think that’s normal.”

He fell silent, and for the first time, something like fear flickered in his eyes. Not of losing her—of losing the comfort she’d provided.

“Where will you go?” he rasped.

“Somewhere no one asks me who’ll cook.”

Kirsten walked to the hall, slipped on her coat, and picked up the suitcase packed days before. In the front pocket—a pen the kids had given her. She ran her fingers over it. Then stepped out.

Outside smelled of rain-washed pavement, fresh bread from the bakery down the road, and freedom.

Her first night, she slept on an airbed in the empty flat, under a faded racecar blanket from when her son was small. Bare walls, a bare bulb. But the silence was deeper than home’s—no demands, no expectations.

She woke naturally for the first time in years—no alarm, no clattering dishes, no blaring football. Just quiet. Pale light filtered through discount-bin curtains. It was almost happiness.

At work, they’d given her a dated computer and warm smiles—genuine ones. The team was a mix, but kind. She fumbled schedules and phone numbers, but colleagues patiently helped, left tea on her desk, even the odd chocolate bar. She didn’t know their names yet, but she felt her old shell cracking—the life where she’d been invisible.

A month passed. Liam didn’t call. Her daughter texted: *Mum, I’m with you. Just need time.* Her son stayed silent, used to her always being there. Kirsten didn’t blame them. They had their own hurt. But now, she had her own truth.

One day, returning from the market with potatoes, salt, onions—simple things, but now just for her—she found an envelope at the door. No stamp, no name. Inside, a photo: her and Liam with the kids, fifteen years back. Kirsten in a sundress, hugging their son, Liam stiff beside her like he’d never relaxed even then.

She studied her younger self—hopeful, trusting. Carefully folded the photo twice. Tucked it away. Not in the bin, but in memory. Let it stay, undisturbed.

Spring arrived suddenly. Changes at work—promotion to front desk, her own locker key, holiday dates. For the first time in years, she felt trusted.

One evening, she stayed late. The air was crisp. A barista in a pink hoodie handed out free coffees—some promo.

“Milk?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” she said, then laughed. Just because. Because no one asked, *Who’s going to make dinner?*

Walking home with a paper cup in hand, she felt light. Not a dirty spoon in sight.