Martine Was Done Being The Unpaid Servant

When Martine had imagined retirement, she’d pictured two mugs of tea on the patio, each cradled in familiar hands. She’d seen mornings with newspapers spread between them, afternoons with little projects tackled side by side, evenings with a glass of wine and a comfortable silence in front of the fire.

It wasn’t supposed to look like this.

She kicked the front door closed with her heel and dropped her bag in the hallway, her shoulders aching from a day of back-to-back meetings. The living room door was ajar. She could hear the TV—some loud, brash quiz show she hated.

“Hi love,” David called, not taking his eyes off the screen. He was slouched on the sofa, remote resting on his belly, slippers half hanging off his feet.

Martine peeled off her coat slowly. The hallway mirror met her with a pale, pinched face. Her lipstick had worn away hours ago, and her hair, once neatly pinned, was now listing to one side like a defeated flag.

“Hi,” she replied, stepping into the living room.

The curtains were half drawn despite the late-afternoon light. A mug sat on the coffee table in a ring of dried brown stain. A plate with toast crumbs balanced precariously on the arm of the chair. A pile of DIY magazines lay spread out on the floor where they’d been for days.

Martine’s eyes flicked to the corner where the plaster was still cracked from last winter’s leak.

She swallowed. “Did the builder call back?” she asked. “About the quote for the plastering?”

David blinked, as though waking from a nap he hadn’t admitted to. “Eh? Oh. I forgot. I’ll ring them tomorrow.”

“You said that yesterday,” she said carefully.

“Yeah but I will,” he replied, attention already sliding back to the TV. “It’s on my list.”

Martine looked around. The vacuum cleaner sat in the doorway, cord tangled, as if it had died halfway through a job nobody had bothered to finish. Dust shimmered in the slanting light. The mantlepiece was cluttered with birthday cards from two months back and a thin film of dull grey.

She inhaled slowly through her nose. “Have you… done anything today?” The words slipped out before she could smooth them.

He frowned, finally turning his head. “I had a busy morning. Went to B&Q to look at paint colours for the back bedroom. And I tidied up some stuff in the garage.”

She thought of the garage, where “tidying up” meant creating new, less intelligible piles.

“And the laundry?” Martine asked.

“Oh, I left it. Didn’t want to mix up your things.” He smiled, as if this were a kindness.

She pressed her thumb and forefinger together so tightly her nails dug into the skin. “David, the basket was overflowing when I left this morning.”

“Well, you’re better at sorting it all. You’ve got a system,” he said. “I’d only do it wrong.”

He must have seen something in her face then, because he laughed lightly. “Alright, don’t look at me like that. I’ll do it tomorrow. Promise.”

Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

Martine looked at the TV, then at David’s worn dressing gown. It was three in the afternoon and he was still in it.

“I’m going to put a wash on now,” she murmured, knowing that if she didn’t, she’d have nothing clean for work.

David gave a vague nod. “There’s a good lass.”

The phrase, once affectionate, landed like a stone in her stomach.

They had been together ten years. Both on their second marriages, both older and supposedly wiser. When they’d first met, Martine had been drawn to David’s humour, his easy charm. He’d been a teacher then, full of stories about students and staffroom politics. Retirement had shimmered in the distance, a shared dream.

“We’ll get the house sorted then,” he would say. “No point doing everything before we’re both free. We’ll tackle it together. Something to look forward to.”

Martine had believed him. She’d believed in the “later” he’d dangled like a promise.

Now David was “officially retired”—as he liked to phrase it, with the pride of a boy who’d earned a badge—while she still rose at six, showered, dressed, commuted. In three years, she’d join him, she reminded herself. Three short years.

But six months into his freedom, the house looked worse, not better. The skirting board in the hallway still had a missing section from when the plumber had needed access. The spare room’s wallpaper still peeled at the corners. The kitchen cupboards still slammed with that irritating loose hinge.

What had changed instead was David.

Or perhaps, she thought darkly, he hadn’t changed at all. Perhaps she was only seeing him clearly now.

The turning point came on a Wednesday.

It had been an especially bad day at the office—two staff off sick, an audit dumped on her desk, and a client who’d shouted at her for ten minutes straight over the phone. She drove home with her jaw clenched, radio off, the winter sky already dimming.

As she pulled into their driveway, Martine noticed the recycling bin still overflowing, the lid propped open with a cardboard box. The collection had been that morning.

She parked carefully, a hollow thump echoing through her chest.

Inside, the house greeted her with the familiar stale smell of supermarket pizza and something chemical—paint, she realized, too late.

“Mart!” David’s voice floated from upstairs. “Mind the tray!”

She stepped into the hallway and froze. White paint spattered the floorboards like bird droppings. The tray sat at a crooked angle by the stairs, the roller half-submerged. A streak of paint smeared the banister.

“David!” she called, her voice high. “What are you doing?”

“Doing the stairs,” he shouted back. “I decided today’s the day. Looks good, doesn’t it?”

She looked up. The wall halfway up the stairs was a patchwork of old beige and new white, with visible roller lines and missed patches. Specks dotted the carpet.

“Why didn’t you put dust sheets down?” she asked, taking the first step with exaggerated care.

He appeared at the top, hair fluffed, an old t-shirt streaked with paint that made him look like he’d been in a minor skirmish. “I couldn’t find them. Anyway, it’s only a bit. We can clean it up later.”

“We?” she repeated. Her heart had transformed into something hot and sharp in her chest.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll help.” He grinned, leaning on the roller.

She looked at the clock in the hallway. Half past six. “David, I’m exhausted. I’ve just come in from work. I haven’t even sat down.”

“Oh.” He blinked, as if he’d forgotten she existed when not in his eyeline. “Well… we’ll do it after dinner then. I’m starving. What’s for tea?”

She actually laughed. A short, incredulous sound. “What’s for tea?”

He frowned. “Yeah. I didn’t take anything out the freezer. Thought you’d decide.”

Martine carefully descended the step she’d just taken and planted herself in the hall, the paint smell closing around her. “So let me get this straight,” she said slowly. “You’ve spent today… what, painting half the stairs without any preparation, creating more mess… and you didn’t think, at any point, to put a wash on, or tidy the kitchen, or maybe—just maybe—sort dinner?”

He shifted his weight. “I’ve been busy, Mart. I’ve done loads.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Counted to three. “Busy at home,” she said, “is not the same as busy at work. You know that, don’t you? You’ve been on your feet all day? Had people depending on you? Deadlines? That knot in your stomach every time the phone rings?”

He rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

“No,” she said, opening her eyes again, voice firmer now. “We don’t ‘go’ anywhere. I come home every day to this, David. Every day. You sitting, or half-doing something, and me picking up the pieces.”

He stared at her, genuinely baffled. “But you like things done a certain way,” he protested. “You always have. I’m just keeping out of your way, letting you get on with your systems. It’s how we’ve always worked.”

“Yes,” she snapped. “When we were both working. When you were tired as well and it felt fair to share things out a bit. But now you’re not working anymore and nothing has changed. Except there’s more mess.”

“Retirement’s not a holiday, you know,” he muttered.

“It looks a lot like one from where I’m standing.”

Silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous.

David’s jaw tightened. “So what do you want me to do, Martine? Give me a list like I’m a child? You’ve always been better at this stuff. I’m not good at housework.”

Martine heard the words, and something inside her gave way, like a rotten floorboard finally splitting.

“I am not ‘good’ at housework,” she said slowly. “I’ve just… done it. Because it needed doing. Because if I didn’t, no one else would. That doesn’t make it mine. It doesn’t mean I enjoy it. It doesn’t mean I want to come home after nine hours at the office and start another shift here.”

She could see, in the way his eyes flickered, that he was torn between defence and unease. But his pride chose its path.

“You’re overreacting,” he said. “You’re tired. Sit down, I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

The offer, so small and belated, made her want to cry and scream at once.

“No,” she said. Her voice surprised even her. It had a clean, hard edge she hadn’t heard in a long time. “I don’t want tea. I want a partner.”

And she turned away, walked carefully around the paint tray, and went straight out the front door.

She drove without really deciding where to go. The Tesco car park was a safe, anonymous place to park up and let the adrenaline ebb.

In the dim light, Martine sat with her hands on the steering wheel, heart pounding. Rage and sadness tangled inside her like two cats fighting.

Was she overreacting?

Images flicked through her mind: David snoring in his chair at eleven in the morning. Crusty plates left by the sink “to soak” for hours. The overflowing bin. The laundry basket. The vacuum abandoned mid-hall. The “DIY projects” that filmed every surface in dust but never seemed to be completed.

And in all of them, she saw herself: tidying, cleaning, planning meals, paying bills, booking appointments. The invisible load that had slowly become her second job.

She thought of the younger women at work, laughing in the kitchen about partners who “helped out” at home. Martine had always smiled, made a wry comment, but inside she’d felt a flicker of unease.

Helped out. As if the house were the woman’s responsibility and the man was doing her a favour.

No more, she thought suddenly. The words arrived in her head with a finality that made her sit up straighter. No more.

She pulled her phone from her bag with shaking hands. She opened her contacts and scrolled blindly until she reached “Lena”.

Her sister answered on the second ring. “Marti? Everything okay?”

The sound of her big sister’s voice almost undid her. “Not really,” Martine said. “Can you… talk?”

Ten minutes later, she was perched at Lena’s kitchen table, a mug of tea between her hands and a plate of biscuits she hadn’t asked for but welcomed anyway.

Lena listened, eyes sharp, as Martine recounted the months of simmering resentment, today’s argument, the half-painted stairs.

“And you’re still working full time,” Lena said when she’d finished. “While he plays at decorating and daytime telly?”

“Yes,” Martine replied. The word tasted of defeat.

“Have you properly told him how you feel?” Lena asked.

“I tried,” Martine said. “He thinks I’m being dramatic.”

Lena snorted. “Classic. Look, Marti, you’ve fallen into a role. The Good Wife. The fixer. But it’s not 1950. You do not have to spend the next three years being his maid just because he’s retired first.”

“What choice do I have?” Martine whispered.

“You always have a choice,” Lena said firmly. “You can decide what you will and won’t do. You can stop enabling it. If he wants to live like a student, he can wash his own bloody dishes.”

Martine gave a weak laugh. “He’ll just leave them.”

“Then let him,” Lena replied. “Let it get uncomfortable. For him. Not just for you. You’ve been absorbing all the discomfort so he doesn’t have to.”

The phrase settled in Martine’s mind like a seed falling into soil.

You’ve been absorbing all the discomfort.

She thought of the countless times she’d sighed and cleaned something because it irritated her more than it did him. Because it was easier to do it than to argue. Because she was tired.

“What if he doesn’t change?” she asked quietly.

“Then you decide.” Lena’s voice softened. “Do you want to spend your retirement like this? Cleaning up after a man who sees you as convenient rather than as an equal? Or do you want something different?”

Martine stared into her tea. For years, she’d avoided that question. Now it rose up, impatient and insistent.

“I want something different,” she admitted. Her throat tightened as she said it.

“Then things have to change,” Lena said. “And not just him. You, too. You have to stop doing what you’ve always done.”

Martine nodded slowly. “No more,” she murmured again, this time aloud.

The next morning, Martine woke earlier than usual. She lay in bed for a moment, listening to David’s breathing beside her. It was strange to watch him sleep without immediately thinking of what she had to do that day, what she had to get done before work.

Instead, she thought of what she would no longer do.

She showered and dressed as normal. But instead of padding around the house quietly, she pulled out a pen and a pad of paper from the kitchen drawer.

She wrote at the top in neat, capital letters: THINGS I WILL NO LONGER DO ALONE.

Underneath, she listed:

• Weekly cleaning (floors, bathroom, dusting)
• Laundry (washing, drying, folding)
• All meal planning, shopping, and cooking
• Managing all bills and household admin
• Clearing up after your DIY projects
• Taking sole responsibility for “later” jobs

She stared at the list for a long moment. Then she wrote, underneath:

IF WE LIVE TOGETHER, WE SHARE THE WORK.

At seven, David shuffled in, yawning, drawn by the smell of toast. He wore the same greying dressing gown.

“Mornin’,” he said, scratching his chest. “Sleep alright?”

“Yes,” Martine replied. Her voice was calm. She was surprised by how calm.

His eyes fell on the paper. “What’s this? Some kind of job list?”

“Yes,” she said. “Sit down. We need to talk.”

He hesitated, wary. “If this is about yesterday—”

“It is,” she said. “And it’s about much more than yesterday. Sit, please, David.”

Something in her tone must have reached him; he sank into the chair opposite, eyebrows raised.

Martine slid the paper across the table.

“I am not your maid,” she said quietly. “I am not your mother, or your personal assistant, or your housekeeper. I am your wife. Your partner.”

He glanced at the list, his mouth twisting. “This looks serious.”

“It is,” she said. “You retired six months ago. I’m happy for you. I am. You worked hard. You deserve to enjoy your time. But so do I. And right now, my days are nine hours at work and then another three running this house while you… dab paint on walls and watch TV.”

“That’s not fair,” he muttered.

“It’s true,” she said. “And I’ve let it happen. I’ve let it happen because I’m tired and it felt easier. Because I didn’t want to nag. Because I thought, ‘In three years, it’ll be different.’ But do you know what I realized yesterday?” She leaned forward. “In three years, if nothing changes, I’ll just be like this, but older and more resentful.”

He flinched slightly at the word.

“So,” she continued. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m not doing this alone anymore. We are going to split the housework and the mental load. Properly. And if you won’t, then I am not going to carry on like this. I will not spend my retirement being miserable.”

David stared at the list, then back at her. “Are you… threatening to leave?” he asked, half incredulous.

She hadn’t consciously formed the thought. But as he said the words, she realized the answer.

“I’m saying,” Martine said carefully, “that I will not stay in a situation that makes me feel used. I love you, but I love myself too. And I will not spend the rest of my life cleaning up after someone who doesn’t respect me enough to share the burden.”

Silence fell like a curtain. The ticking clock sounded suddenly loud.

He swallowed. “It’s not that I don’t respect you. I just… I’m not good at this stuff. You know that.”

She nodded slowly. “Then you can learn. You learned to be a teacher. You learned to drive, remember? You learned to use that bloody streaming box when it meant watching sports in HD. You can learn to run a household.”

He looked away, jaw working. “It’s embarrassing,” he said quietly. “I’m sixty-eight, Mart. I should know this stuff already. Asking you how the washing machine works… it makes me feel stupid.”

Her anger softened, just a little. She hadn’t expected that.

“It’s more embarrassing,” she said gently, “to let your wife exhaust herself while you pretend you’re incapable. You’re not helpless, David. You’re scared. There’s a difference.”

His shoulders slumped.

“I’m going to make some changes too,” Martine went on. “I’m cutting my hours to four days a week. I’ve already booked a meeting with HR. I want a day for myself.”

He looked alarmed. “Can we afford that?”

“We can,” she replied. “But if it means fewer meals out or buying less junk, so be it. My health comes first.”

He exhaled. “You could have talked to me.”

“I’m talking now,” she said. “And I’m hiring a cleaner once a fortnight. Out of our joint account. That’s non-negotiable.”

“A cleaner?” he echoed, as if she’d suggested a live-in butler.

“Yes. Because even with both of us trying, I don’t want all my free time to be scrubbing toilets.”

He shook his head, bewildered. “You’re really serious about this.”

“David,” she said. “If nothing changes, I will start making plans to live separately. I’m not saying that to be dramatic. I’m saying it because I need you to understand that this is not a phase or a mood. This is me drawing a line.”

He stared at her, eyes glistening in a way she hadn’t seen before. “I don’t want to lose you,” he said hoarsely.

“Then don’t,” she replied simply. “Change with me.”

Change, as it turned out, was not a single decision but a thousand small choices.

Martine began with herself. It felt strange, after decades of putting other people first, to put her own needs on the calendar like important appointments.

She dropped one workday, as promised, despite the pang in her chest at the reduced income. On that first free Friday, she woke at seven out of habit, then forced herself back to sleep until eight-thirty. She had breakfast slowly, at the table, with the good marmalade and a book that wasn’t about self-improvement or home maintenance.

David hovered uncertainly. “Do you want me to do anything today?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “You’re in charge of dinner. Completely. That includes deciding what to cook, checking what we have, going to the shop, cooking it, and cleaning up afterwards.”

He looked like she’d asked him to build a shed from toothpicks. “All of that?”

“Yes,” she repeated. “I’m going to a pottery class this afternoon.”

“Pottery?” he echoed, as if this were a radical act.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “I used to love it when I was younger. I called the community centre—there’s a class on Fridays. I’m giving it a go.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Right,” he said. “Pottery. And I’ll… do dinner.”

The class was held in a bright room that smelled of clay and coffee. Martine had almost turned around at the door, feeling silly and exposed, but the teacher’s warm grin and the gentle murmur of conversation drew her in.

For two hours, she lost herself in the feeling of cool earth yielding beneath her hands. Her bowl wobbled and her mug’s handle was slightly crooked, but she didn’t care. She hadn’t done something purely for pleasure in years.

When she walked back into the house, cheeks flushed from the cold and from a sense of fragile exhilaration, she stopped dead.

The kitchen was… different.

The surfaces were mostly clear. The sink held a manageable number of dishes. A pot simmered on the hob, and something that smelled delicious wafted through the air.

David appeared from behind the fridge door, holding a bag of carrots. Flour dusted his t-shirt.

“You’re back earlier than I thought,” he said. “Don’t come in yet, it’s not ready.”

She ignored him and stepped closer to peer into the pot. “Is that… a stew?”

“Beef bourguignon,” he said proudly. “Well. A sort of version of it. I watched a video. Don’t look at the bin; I had a bit of a disaster with the first attempt.”

Martine glanced instinctively at the bin. A blackened pot sat on the floor beside it, soaking.

She looked back at him. “You did all this?”

“Yes,” he said. “You were right. It’s not that hard. Just… needs thinking about.”

Something unclenched in her chest. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“Don’t thank me,” he replied gruffly. “It’s my job too.”

But it wasn’t a fairy-tale transformation. There were relapses, friction, and occasional tears.

One Sunday, Martine walked into the bathroom to find the sink ringed with shaving foam and tiny hairs. She stared at it, then at David’s retreating back as he sauntered downstairs.

“David!” she called. “Can you come back here for a moment?”

He jogged halfway up the stairs, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

She pointed to the mess. “What’s this?”

He glanced at it, shrugged. “I was going to clean it later.”

“No,” she said calmly. “You’re going to clean it now. Because the person who makes the mess cleans it up. That’s the rule, remember?”

He huffed. “I’ve got the match on in five minutes.”

“Then you should have left time to clean up,” she replied.

They stared at each other. A month ago, she would have rolled up her sleeves and cleaned it herself, muttering under her breath. Now she simply waited.

With a mutter, he picked up the cloth.

Later, when she passed the bathroom and saw the gleaming sink, she felt a small flare of victory. Not over him, she realized, but over the old pattern.

There were bigger arguments too. One evening, when Martine had her feet up, reading, David approached with a familiar guilty look.

“The lads are going away next month,” he said. “Walking in the Lakes. Just a long weekend.”

“That sounds nice,” she said, wary.

“Yeah. Thing is, I said I’d go. Only… the money’s a bit tight this month with the cleaner and that. And you cutting your hours.”

She closed her book. “What are you asking, David?”

He shifted. “Could you maybe… cover a bit more of the bills this month? Just this once. I’ll make it up.”

The old Martine would have sighed and agreed, then fretted privately over the bank balance. Instead, she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’m not going to subsidize your holiday while I cut my hours to protect my health.”

His cheeks flushed. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s perfectly fair,” she said. “If you want to go, find the money. Sell some of the old junk in the garage. Cut back on something else. Or wait until we’ve planned for it together.”

He stared at her, then turned away, muttering. “You’ve changed, Martine. You’re so hard these days.”

The words hurt. But she held her ground.

That night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The part of her that had learned to keep the peace, to smooth things over, whined in protest. She nearly turned to him to say, “Alright, I’ll sort it, just this once.”

But then she remembered standing at the top of the stairs, the smell of paint and exhaustion pressing in on her, and she stayed quiet.

Three days later, he came to her with a grin. “Sold the old guitar and that box of train sets,” he said. “Got enough for the trip.”

She smiled. “Good. I hope you have a wonderful time.”

He kissed her cheek. “I’m trying, you know,” he murmured. “Trying to get my head around this new… way of doing things.”

“I know,” she said. “I see it.”

As Martine stepped back from doing everything, she discovered unexpected pockets of time and energy. At first, she didn’t trust them. She’d catch herself hovering in the kitchen, hands empty, feeling vaguely guilty.

“What are you doing?” she’d ask herself.

Waiting for something to fall apart, came the answer.

So she started filling those pockets with things that made her feel like more than a worker and a wife.

Fridays became her day. Pottery, a book club at the library, a swim at the local pool. Sometimes she just sat in a café with a notebook, writing little scenes and memories. She hadn’t written anything for herself since she was a teenager.

One evening, when David asked what she was scribbling, she surprised herself by telling him. “I don’t know. Maybe a story. Maybe just… thoughts.”

“You’ve always been good with words,” he said. “You should do something with that.”

She looked at him, startled. It had been a long time since he’d said something about her that wasn’t to do with dinner or laundry.

“Maybe I will,” she replied.

They began having proper conversations again. Not just about what needed fixing or who would cook, but about their days, their worries, their hopes for those still-mythical “twilight years.”

“I thought retirement would feel like winning a prize,” David admitted one night, staring into his glass of wine. “But the first few months… I just felt lost. Like I’d stepped off a cliff and didn’t know how to land. The telly and the DIY were… distractions. Things I understood.”

She listened, remembering Lena’s words about absorbing discomfort.

“I didn’t know how to be useful anymore,” he said. “At work, people needed me. At home… it felt like you had it all under control. I didn’t want to get in the way and mess it up.”

“You’d have been more useful messing it up at first and learning,” she replied. “Instead of leaving me to drown quietly while you stayed comfortable.”

He winced. “I’m sorry,” he said, and she heard real remorse.

“I’m sorry too,” she said. “For not telling you earlier. For just picking up the slack until I couldn’t anymore.”

They sat in silence for a while, the TV muted for once, the lamplight soft.

“What do you want from the next ten years?” she asked him suddenly.

He blinked. “That’s a big question.”

“Yes,” she said. “But it’s time we ask it. We’ve been living as if retirement is just… a long weekend. We need more than that.”

He thought for a long while. “I want to feel useful,” he said finally. “I want us to travel a bit, if we can. See the bits of the country we’ve always talked about. Maybe even Europe. I want… I want to laugh more, like we used to.”

She smiled. “I want those things too,” she said. “And I want to feel equal. I don’t want our old age to be me with a mop and you with a remote.”

He chuckled ruefully. “Fair enough.”

“So,” she said. “Let’s plan it. Together. Trips, projects, how we share things. Not just let life happen to us.”

They spread paper on the coffee table. They wrote “Next 3 Years” at the top of one page, “Retired Together” at the top of another. They listed places they wanted to visit: Whitby, the Scottish Highlands, maybe a river cruise if they saved. They wrote down home projects with realistic timelines, not just “later”.

And under “Daily Life”, Martine insisted on writing, in bold: SHARED RESPONSIBILITY. NO MORE MARTINE AS DEFAULT.

David laughed, but then nodded. “Got it,” he said. “You’re my partner, not my staff.”

The cleaner started the next week. A sturdy woman named Priya with a no-nonsense manner and a kind smile. She blitzed through the house in two hours, doing the deep clean that Martine had been too tired to tackle for months.

As Martine watched her scrub the grout, she felt a twinge of guilt. Outsourcing this… was it indulgent?

Then she imagined herself on her knees doing the same thing after a long workday and shook her head. No. This was what not being a martyr looked like.

“I like your husband,” Priya said as she left. “He tried to help and I told him off. ‘You’re paying me, go sit down,’ I said.”

Martine grinned. “Oh, don’t encourage him too much,” she said. “He’s just learning that this is his job too.”

Priya laughed. “Good. Men my age expect their wives to do everything. I tell them, ‘No maid here.’”

After she left, Martine ran a hand along the gleaming banister—the one David had sanded and repainted properly, this time with dust sheets. He’d done it while she was at work, following instructions from a website. The finish was smooth under her fingers.

Looks like you, she thought, unexpected tears pricking her eyes. Worn in some places, mended in others, but still solid.

Later, when she thanked him, he shrugged. “Took me a while to admit it, but you were right,” he said. “About a lot of things. I took you for granted. I thought… you’d just keep doing what you always did.”

“I thought that too,” she said. “Until I realized I didn’t have to.”

It wasn’t that their life became perfect. There were still annoyances, mismatched expectations, moments where Martine felt the old resentment stir like a ghost.

But she had changed a fundamental thing: she no longer accepted that her time and energy were less valuable just because she wasn’t yet retired. She no longer rushed automatically to fill every gap.

When David forgot to take the recycling out one Tuesday, she noticed. And then she deliberately did nothing. When he came back in, swore, and dashed out in his slippers as the lorry trundled off, she hid a smile behind her mug.

“I’m an idiot,” he said, breathless, returning with the empty bin.

“Yes,” she said mildly. “But a learning idiot.”

They began to talk openly with friends, too. At a dinner party one night, when another woman joked that her husband “helps out with the dishes,” Martine smiled and said, “We don’t say ‘helps out’ in our house anymore. It’s his home too. We both do our share.”

David, to his credit, nodded. “Took me far too long to get that into my thick skull,” he said cheerfully. “Retirement scrambled my brains for a while.”

The other women at the table glanced between them, expressions thoughtful.

Afterwards, as they walked home under the streetlights, David said, “You know, I used to feel… a bit emasculated, the idea of being seen with a dishcloth. Silly, isn’t it?”

“Very,” she said. “But understandable. You were brought up that way.”

He slid his hand into hers. “Now I feel more like a grown man doing my share,” he said. “Rather than a sulky teenager.”

She squeezed his hand. “I like this version of you.”

“Me too,” he said.

Three years later, on the day Martine finally retired, a small crowd from the office stood outside the building, waving and cheering as she stepped out. She held a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a box of knick-knacks in the other. Her manager hugged her, eyes damp.

“What are you going to do with all your free time?” someone called.

She laughed. “Whatever I want,” she said. “For a start.”

David was waiting by the car, leaning against it in a shirt she liked, hair combed, eyes shining.

“Ready?” he asked, opening the door for her.

She slid into the passenger seat, balancing the flowers on her lap. “As I’ll ever be.”

On the drive home, she watched the familiar streets roll by, the late-afternoon light soft on the terraced houses and small shops. Once, she’d imagined this moment with dread—entering a life where she’d be expected to step seamlessly from one full-time job into another.

Now, the dread was gone. There were plans in place, expectations named, boundaries drawn.

“Do you remember,” she said suddenly, “how it was the first six months you retired? Before we… talked.”

He winced. “Hard to forget. I was a right pillock.”

“You were frightened,” she said. “Of being useless. And I was frightened of being stuck. We both acted badly in our fear.”

He nodded. “You changed everything when you said no,” he said quietly. “When you said you wouldn’t do it anymore.”

“I changed my part,” she corrected. “You had to decide whether to change yours.”

He smiled. “Best decision I ever made. Well. Second best.”

“What was the first?”

“Asking you to marry me,” he replied, without hesitation.

She snorted. “You’re a charmer.”

“It’s part of my rehabilitation,” he said solemnly.

They pulled into their driveway. The recycling bin was neatly tucked back in place. The front garden David had painstakingly cleared that spring was now filled with flowers they’d chosen together.

Inside, a banner hung slightly crooked across the living room: HAPPY RETIREMENT MARTINE! The coffee table held a cake, slightly lopsided but clearly homemade.

She laughed, hand at her mouth. “You did all this?”

“Lena helped with the banner,” he admitted. “I did the rest.”

She set the flowers down and turned to him. “I’m proud of us, you know,” she said.

He tilted his head. “For surviving your career?”

“For rewriting the script,” she said. “For not doing what everyone expected us to do.”

He nodded slowly. “Me, too,” he said. “You could have just carried on. Got more and more bitter. Left quietly one day. Instead, you scared the life out of me and made me grow up.”

She laughed. “You were already grown up, David.”

“Not where it counted,” he replied.

They cut the cake. They toasted with cheap champagne. They talked, again, about the trips they’d take now that both of them were free. But this time, the talk was different. It wasn’t wistful or vague. It was anchored in the practical, shared partnership they’d built.

“We’ll book that Whitby cottage next week,” he said, licking icing off his thumb. “I’ve already checked the prices. We can go midweek now—cheaper.”

“And you’ll handle the packing list,” she said. “Because I am not carrying the mental load of remembering your socks.”

He put a hand on his heart. “I solemnly swear to pack my own socks.”

Martine leaned back on the sofa, cake plate balanced on her knee. For the first time in a long time, she felt… spacious. As if her life had room for her in it now. Not just as a worker or carer, but as a person with wants and needs and stubborn, non-negotiable limits.

There would still be days when she had to remind him. Days when old habits tugged at her. But the foundations had shifted.

She had refused, finally, to support the laziness that had slowly eroded her joy. In its place, she’d built something messier but truer: a partnership that acknowledged both their humanity, both their frailty, both their worth.

“Hey,” David said, nudging her gently. “What’re you thinking?”

She looked at him, at the man she’d nearly lost to his own inertia and her own exhaustion.

“I’m thinking,” she said slowly, “that I’m glad I changed my life before it was too late.”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “I’m glad you did too,” he said. “Because you changed mine with it.”

She clinked her glass against his. “To the next chapter,” she said.

“To the next chapter,” he echoed.

And for the first time, Martine believed that chapter would belong to her too.