Broken Dreams: The Drama of Emily
Emily paces gloomily across the living room of their flat in Manchester, casting frequent glances at her phone. Her husband is late again, and her patience is wearing thin, like a stretched thread.
“Where on earth is he?” she mutters, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles whiten.
The front door clicks open, and Daniel steps out of the hallway, weary but flashing a guilty smile. In his hands, he holds a modest bunch of daisies.
“These are for you,” he offers. “Sorry, I got held up helping Mum.”
“Held up?” Emily flares up, her voice trembling with hurt. “Couldn’t you call? I’ve been going out of my mind worrying!”
“Got caught up, forgot,” Daniel mumbles, fidgeting with the edge of his jacket. “Mum needed a hand, and then… Listen, we talked and decided something.”
“Decided what?” Emily freezes, a chill running down her spine.
Daniel takes a deep breath and begins speaking. Emily listens, her face hardening with each word in disbelief and fury.
She can’t remember the last time Daniel spent more than an hour at home. He leaves at dawn and returns past midnight, long after she’s asleep—if he comes back at all. Spring has swept into the city, and Daniel seems like a different man. In winter, he’d hurry home, wrap himself in a blanket, and grumble at her suggestions to go for a walk. Now he vanishes for days on end.
Daniel’s mother, Margaret, had repelled Emily from the start. When they first met, Emily felt Margaret’s cold, appraising stare, as if sizing up merchandise. At dinner, Margaret spoke only to her son, ignoring her daughter-in-law. Emily pitied Daniel’s father, Thomas, who looked worn out, speaking to his wife timidly, as if afraid of her temper, flinching at her sharp words.
Even then, Emily knew: living under the same roof with in-laws like that would be a nightmare. Thankfully, she had her own flat, and after the wedding, Daniel moved in with her. Margaret didn’t object—she even helped him pack, as if relieved to have him out of the house.
For their housewarming, Margaret dropped by briefly: scanned the flat with a critical eye, sipped her tea, and left. A year into their marriage, Emily had little to boast or complain about. Life was ordinary—home, work, occasional celebrations. Her parents lived in another town, inviting her to visit, but she treasured her independence. Here, she had a job, friends, a home, and a husband. She thought she was managing married life well enough. Daniel was undemanding; they lived modestly but comfortably.
Sometimes they helped Margaret if she asked. Once a month, they’d eat out, making plans and dreaming of the future. Emily longed for children, but Daniel stayed silent. She knew dreaming was easy—raising a child was another matter. Daniel, meanwhile, fantasised about a car. Emily agreed it would be useful but expensive—she refused to take a loan or ask family for help. Even saving most of their wages would only buy them a used car.
Daniel explained his absences simply:
“Mum needs help. Gardening season’s started, and she’s at the allotment every day. I’ve got to support her.”
“And what about supporting me?” Emily snaps. “How many times have I asked you to fix the tap or the balcony door?”
“Em, don’t compare—she’s my mum!” he brushes her off.
These arguments grew more frequent. Emily was tired of being a “weekend wife,” and not even reliably that—Daniel often left for his parents’ on Saturdays. She was glad Margaret never invited her to the allotment, but sometimes she wondered why.
Once, at Margaret’s, Emily tried pickled courgettes—so delicious she ate half the jar.
“Did you make these?” she marvelled.
“Of course,” Margaret said proudly. “I work all spring and summer so we’ve got homemade in winter.”
“My mum never preserves things—I’d forgotten how good it tastes,” Emily hinted, hoping for a jar to take home.
Margaret ignored it.
“Strange family, yours. Fancy not preserving—I bottle everything each year. Hard work, but worth it. Lazy folk always have empty cupboards,” she added, with a pointed look.
Emily never brought it up again. On the way home, she bought a jar of courgettes, fried potatoes, and ate alone.
That evening, Daniel was late again. Fuming, Emily paced, clutching her phone. She was sick of dining alone, of waiting like a loyal dog. The door opened, and she braced to unleash her anger. Daniel walked in with daisies, smiling sheepishly.
“Sorry, Em,” he said, offering the flowers.
Silently, she put them in a vase, hoping for a romantic evening. But Daniel slumped into his chair, gave her a sly look, and began:
“Mum and I talked. Why keep this flat? Let’s sell it and buy somewhere cheaper.”
Emily went numb. Oblivious, Daniel ploughed on:
“You’re always upset I’m never home. If we sell, we’ll get a smaller place on the outskirts, use the difference for a car. And we’d be closer to Mum’s allotment—easier than the train and a three-mile walk.”
Emily stared, 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?”
“No, ate at Mum’s. Her roast chicken was amazing,” he sighed dreamily.
Something inside Emily snapped. This man would never be a husband or father.
“Here’s an idea,” she said icily. “Sell the allotment and buy the car. Then you won’t need to chauffeur Mum, and you’ll be home more.”
“What? Mum would never agree! Where would we—well, I—go in summer? Dad hates the allotment.”
“Then another plan,” Emily straightened, her voice steady with resolve. “Pack your things and move in with your parents. Tomorrow, we file for divorce. I’m leaving to cool off. When I return, you’d better be gone.”
Daniel nodded dazedly. Emily grabbed her coat and left. She sat in a café till closing, replaying their life. Had she done the right thing? It felt unavoidable—Daniel would never change. Returning home, she found him gone.
The next morning, the doorbell rang. Daniel and Margaret stood there. Emily stiffened, staring at this “delegation.”
“Right, make up, quick!” Margaret ordered. “Honestly, like children.”
Daniel shifted awkwardly, eyes darting between them.
“Dan, leave us,” Margaret said. He obeyed, shutting the door. “Emily, please take him back. Don’t sell the flat if you don’t want to, but I can’t have him underfoot anymore!” Her voice cracked with frustration.
Emily burst into laughter.
“Sorry, Margaret, but I don’t want him either. I’ve tried to understand, to accept him—but I can’t. I don’t need a husband who’s a lapdog.”
Margaret opened her mouth, then nodded and left. On the stairs, her voice rang out:
“Stop following me, Dan—enough!”
Emily closed the door, exhaled, and felt a weight lift. She was free.
