The Bitter Truth Behind the Door
Oliver woke up early in his flat on the outskirts of Manchester, deciding to treat himself to a hot breakfast. He pulled some sausages and a couple of eggs from the fridge and reached for the salt in the cupboard, only to find the jar empty. With a heavy sigh, he decided to pop over to his neighbour’s to borrow a pinch. Slipping on his slippers, he stepped into the dimly lit hallway and knocked on the door across from his. A moment later, it swung open.
“Morning, Paul. You wouldn’t have a bit of salt to spare, would you?” Oliver asked, trying to sound casual.
“Course, give us a sec!” Paul replied cheerfully before disappearing into the kitchen.
Suddenly, a muffled conversation drifted from inside the flat. Oliver couldn’t help but eavesdrop, and his heart froze at the sound of a familiar voice—one he never expected to hear there.
*
“Right, the kids are grown now—time to live for ourselves,” Oliver had declared to his wife, Margaret, over coffee a few weeks earlier.
“How d’you mean?” Margaret frowned, setting her mug down. “We’ve got grandkids on the way, work, retirement round the corner.”
“Every man for himself,” Oliver shot back, staring out the window.
“What’s got into you?” Margaret’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“I’m sick of it all! Your fry-ups, your Sunday roasts, those bloody pies you’re always baking. I just want peace, do what I like. Why’re you mixing dough again? I don’t want your pies!”
“Are you serious?” Her voice trembled. “Found yourself some young thing, have you?”
“Not yet, but there’ll be women who appreciate me, take care of me,” he retorted defiantly.
“And I don’t? Is that it?” Margaret clenched her fists.
“Well…” Oliver faltered, lost for words.
“Where’ll you go?” she asked, fighting back tears.
“You’re the one leaving,” he said coldly. “You’ve got your mum’s flat—you rent it out. This place is half mine, and Mum’s still alive, so her house isn’t coming to me.”
“The flat’s joint-owned,” Margaret argued. “A quarter’s mine, a quarter’s yours, the rest is the kids’. I could stay.”
“You’d better go,” Oliver snapped.
“After thirty years? You’re having a laugh!” Her voice shook with hurt.
“Enough drama! I’m off. Pack your things—you’ve got till tonight.”
Oliver grabbed his jacket and stormed out, leaving Margaret stunned. No tears—just shock. What had happened? They were both in their fifties, Oliver greying with a bit of a belly, but in his mind, he was still a young lad, dreaming of attention from pretty girls.
Margaret started packing. Her mum’s flat brought in decent rental income, but that wasn’t an option now. She decided not to tell the kids—her son and daughter would’ve gone spare. Though maybe they should know?
The smell of fresh dough filled the flat. Margaret eyed the mixing bowl—no sense wasting it. Just then, a knock came at the door.
“Margaret, is Oliver in?” Paul, the neighbour, asked.
“No, why?” She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Wanted to borrow his drill. Need to put a wardrobe together.”
“A wardrobe? Didn’t you just get new furniture?”
“Yeah, well, Sarah left and took everything to her mum’s. Came home to an empty flat. What’s with the suitcases? You leaving Oliver too?”
Margaret burst into tears.
“He’s kicked me out,” she choked out. “Said he’s sick of my cooking.”
“Sorry, bad timing,” Paul muttered awkwardly. “Why’re you baking, then? Leaving some for him?”
“Not bloody likely!” Margaret scoffed. “The dough was already made, so…”
“Let’s eat ’em!” Paul suggested. “Haven’t had breakfast—just coffee. I’ll help with your stuff after.”
“Alright then!” Margaret brightened. “Kettle’s on—force of habit.”
They sat at the table, drinking tea and sharing their woes. Paul confided he was already divorced, and his ex-wife Sarah was pushing to split their assets.
“I’ll file for divorce today too,” Margaret said firmly. “After how he’s treated me…”
“Don’t worry,” Paul reassured her. “I’ll sort a van—got a mate who drives. Help you load up.”
“Really? Thanks! Will it cost much?”
“Load off my mind—it’ll make up for all those pies!”
*
Margaret moved into her mum’s flat. Oliver came home that evening to nothing but the faint scent of pies. Hungry after a day out, he checked the fridge—just leftover sausages and eggs. No homemade shepherd’s pie, no Sunday roast. Margaret always cooked from scratch, never bothered with ready meals. Tea and biscuits, but that pie smell lingered.
Oliver flopped onto the sofa to distract himself with the telly—but the remote was gone. Then he realised—the telly itself was missing. His own fault—he’d told her to take what she wanted.
Scanning the flat, he saw Margaret had only taken her things. Even their wedding photo still hung in the bedroom.
“You’re all right,” he muttered at the picture.
Loneliness hit him in waves. Without the telly, the silence was unbearable. He dialled Margaret’s number.
“Marg, been thinking—you shouldn’t have left,” he started. “We could’ve lived like flatmates. And where’d those pies go? Could’ve left a few.”
“Got everything you need?” Her voice was icy.
“Well… yeah.”
“Then goodbye.”
“Not even crying?”
“Too busy.” The line went dead.
She had a new life to sort. The rental flat needed work after tenants, furniture replacing. She couldn’t face the old sofa and bought a mattress from the shop down the road. Exhausted, she fell asleep straight away.
Oliver tossed and turned all night. He’d wanted freedom—just hadn’t realised how empty it’d feel.
*
Margaret filed for divorce. Oliver begged her to come back, but she wouldn’t budge. The kids found out and tore into him.
“Dad, how could you? Wanted freedom? Well, where is it now?” his daughter fumed.
Oliver brought women home, but soon realised his share of the flat and his wages didn’t impress them. He’d never clocked how comfortable his life had been—thanks to Margaret and her rental income. Now money was tight. The women expected gifts, but none bothered looking after him.
Desperate, he tried to win Margaret back—but he was too late. In two years, she’d fixed up the flat, started renting it again, and even remarried. Her new husband? Paul, the neighbour from across the hall.
One day, heading to Margaret’s with flowers, Oliver ran into her and Paul at the doorstep. They were holding hands, glowing.
“Margaret? Paul? You…” Oliver stammered.
“That’s right, Oliver. We’re married now,” Margaret said calmly. “And your neighbours. Sorry, but you brought this on yourself.”
“The kids know?”
“Course they do. Oh, and I gave them my share of the flat. Goodbye.”
They disappeared into Paul’s flat, leaving Oliver standing there, clutching useless flowers. Nowhere to go. The freedom he’d dreamed of had turned into loneliness.