Broken Dreams: The Drama of Emily
Emily paced gloomily around the sitting room of their flat in Brighton, glancing repeatedly at her phone. Her husband was late—again—and her patience was wearing thin, stretched like a rubber band ready to snap.
“Where on earth is he?” she muttered, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The front door clicked open, and in shuffled Daniel, weary but wearing a guilty smile. In his hands was a modest bunch of daisies.
“These are for you,” he said, holding out the flowers. “Sorry, I was helping Mum.”
“Helping?” Emily’s voice trembled with frustration. “You couldn’t call? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Got caught up, forgot,” Daniel mumbled, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. “Look, we talked, and Mum and I made a decision.”
“A decision?” Emily froze, a chill running down her spine.
Daniel took a deep breath and began to speak. With every word, Emily’s face hardened into stone, her disbelief and anger growing.
She couldn’t remember the last time Daniel had been home for more than an hour. He left at dawn and stumbled in past midnight, long after she’d gone to bed—if he came home at all. Spring swept into town, and Daniel had turned into a different person. In winter, he’d hurry home, curl up under a blanket, and grumble at her suggestions for a walk. Now, he was practically a stranger, vanishing for days at a time.
His mother, Margaret, had rubbed Emily the wrong way from the start. At their first meeting, Emily sensed the older woman sizing her up with a cool, appraising look, as if inspecting secondhand furniture. Over dinner, Margaret spoke only to Daniel, ignoring Emily completely. She pitied Daniel’s father, Henry—a worn-out man who spoke to his wife timidly, flinching at her sharp words.
Even then, Emily knew: living under the same roof as that family would be a nightmare. Thankfully, she had her own flat, and after the wedding, Daniel moved in with her. Margaret hadn’t objected—in fact, she’d practically packed her son’s bags herself, as if relieved to be rid of him.
For the housewarming, Margaret made a brief appearance: surveyed the flat with a critical eye, sipped her tea, and left. A year into their marriage, Emily had little to boast about—but nothing to complain about either. Life was ordinary: work, home, the occasional holiday. Her parents lived in another city, always inviting her to visit, but she cherished her independence. Here, she had her job, her friends, her home, and a husband. She thought she was doing alright. Daniel was uncomplicated; they lived modestly but comfortably.
Sometimes they helped Margaret if she asked—once a month, they might treat themselves to a café meal, making plans and dreaming of the future. Emily longed for children, but Daniel dodged the topic. Dreaming was easy; raising a child was another matter entirely. Daniel, meanwhile, fantasised about a car. Emily agreed it’d be useful—but expensive. She refused to take out a loan or ask family for money. They’d have to scrimp and save for years, and even then, it’d only be a battered old banger.
Daniel’s excuses were always the same:
“Just helping Mum. The allotment season’s started—she’s there every day, and I go with her. She needs the support.”
“And what about me?” Emily exploded. “How many times have I asked you to fix the leaky tap? The balcony door’s hanging off its hinges!”
“Oh, come on, Em, it’s my mum!” he’d brush her off.
These clashes grew more frequent. Emily was tired of being a “weekend wife”—when she even got that. Even on Saturdays, Daniel vanished to his parents’. She was glad Margaret never invited her to the allotment, but sometimes she wondered—why?
Once, at Margaret’s, Emily tried her pickled courgettes. They were so delicious she polished off half the jar.
“Did you make these yourself?” she marvelled.
“Of course,” Margaret replied smugly. “Slaving away all spring and summer so we’ve got proper food in winter.”
“My mum never preserves anything—I’d forgotten how good homemade tastes,” Emily hinted, hoping for a jar to take home.
Margaret ignored it.
“Strange family you’ve got. Who *doesn’t* make preserves? I bottle everything—beans, tomatoes, jam. Hard work, but come winter, our table’s full. Lazy people eat out of tins.” She gave Emily a pointed look.
Emily never brought it up again. On the way home, she bought a jar of courgettes, fried some potatoes, and ate alone.
That evening, Daniel was late—again. Seething, Emily paced the room, phone in a death grip. She was sick of dining solo, sick of waiting like a loyal spaniel. The door opened, and she braced herself to unleash her fury. Daniel walked in with daisies, flashing a sheepish smile.
“Sorry, Em,” he said, offering the flowers.
Silently, Emily arranged them in a vase, hoping for a romantic evening. But Daniel flopped into his chair, gave her a sly look, and dropped the bombshell:
“Mum and I talked. Why keep this flat? Let’s sell it and buy something cheaper.”
Emily went numb. Oblivious, Daniel ploughed on:
“You’re always moaning I’m never home. If we sell, we’ll get a smaller place on the outskirts, use the leftover for a car. And we’ll be closer to Mum’s allotment—easier than dragging her on the train and hiking three miles!”
Emily stared at him, a storm building in her chest. What kind of husband was he? An accessory to his mother! She bit back a scream, forcing out:
“Darling, are you hungry?”
“Nope, ate at Mum’s. Her roast chicken tonight—perfection.” Daniel sighed dreamily.
Something inside Emily snapped. This man would never be a husband—or a father.
“Listen,” she said, voice icy. “Sell the allotment and buy a car. Then you won’t need to chauffeur Mum, and you might actually come home.”
“*What?*” Daniel gasped. “Mum would never agree! Where would we go in summer? Well, *I* would—Dad hates the allotment.”
“Fine. Here’s another idea,” Emily straightened, trembling with resolve. “Pack your things and move back with Mummy and Daddy. Tomorrow, we file for divorce. I’m going out. When I’m back, you’d better be gone.”
Daniel nodded dumbly. Emily grabbed her coat and left. She sat in a café till closing, replaying their life together. Was this the right choice? But it felt inevitable—Daniel would never change. Returning home, she found the flat empty.
The next morning, the doorbell rang. There stood Daniel—and Margaret. Emily froze, staring at this “delegation.”
“Right, sort it out, quick!” Margaret barked. “Honestly, like children!”
Daniel shifted awkwardly, eyes darting between them.
“Dan, leave us,” Margaret ordered. He slunk out, shutting the door behind him. “Emily, please—take him back. Keep the flat if you want, just… I can’t take it anymore! He follows me *everywhere*!” She waved a hand, bitterness creeping into her voice.
Emily burst out laughing.
“Sorry, Margaret, but I don’t want him either. I tried—but I don’t need a husband who’s basically a lapdog.”
Margaret opened her mouth—then just nodded and left. On the stairs, her voice carried:
“Stop trailing after me, Dan, for heaven’s sake!”
Emily shut the door, exhaled, and felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She was free.
