The Broomstick
Victor walked into the house as usual, tossed his keys onto the side table, and headed straight to the kitchen. Emma stood by the stove, stirring pumpkin porridge—their children’s favourite. He didn’t even greet her.
“Where’s the broom?” he muttered over his shoulder, voice sharp with icy irritation.
“What broom?” Emma turned, bewildered.
“The ordinary one. For mopping. The house is a mess—completely neglected!” His tone was mocking. Without waiting for an answer, he strode out.
Emma stood frozen, staring after him. It didn’t make sense. What had happened to the man who once called her Emmy, who used to scrub dishes for her without complaint?
Not long ago, things had been different. Victor would come home, shrug off his suit jacket, and grab the vacuum first thing. He never split chores into “men’s” or “women’s”—he just did them. With care. After dinner, he’d pull her close, insisting she rest while he cleaned up.
They had laughed often—parties, cinema trips, evenings with friends. Then came their daughter, and Victor had beamed with pride. Two years later, their son arrived. Everyone admired them—the perfect couple, golden children, an envy-worthy marriage.
“You’re so lucky, Emmy,” her friends would sigh. “Husbands like that don’t exist anymore.”
She had believed their love was unshakable.
But then, slowly, everything changed. Victor came home tense, exhausted. The warmth vanished.
“Why is everything upside down?” he’d snap. “I work all day—couldn’t you at least make dinner? What were you even doing?”
She tried to explain—how their son had smeared porridge everywhere, how their daughter had chased him, how she’d scrubbed walls and laundry for hours. But Victor didn’t listen. He was angry. Tired. A stranger.
Once, as she chopped onions, she wondered—were her tears from the sting, or the ache in her chest?
“Mum warned me,” she whispered. “Love him, but don’t lose yourself. Give too much, and he’ll take it for granted.”
She had been certain they were made for each other. She used to understand him without words. Now? It all felt like an illusion.
And Victor took her silence as guilt, proof of her “failure.” He became the judge of their home. Emma felt her world crumbling.
Then, their guardian angel intervened.
A call came—a position Emma had been considered for had opened up. Better pay, better hours. The colleague had retired. If she accepted, the job was hers.
Her mother promised to help with the children. Emma, renewed, got a fresh haircut and wardrobe. No more self-erasure.
Meanwhile, Victor—lost his job. The company folded. He struggled to stay composed.
“I’ll manage the kids,” he said stiffly. “Working on my CV, checking listings. If needed, your mum can step in.”
Emma didn’t argue. She stayed steady. For the first time in years—calm, firm.
She spent two weeks settling into work. At home, things seemed fine. But a month later, she noticed—dust gathered, laundry piled up, the children grew restless. Victor snapped easily.
She observed quietly, then remarked, “You’ve let things slide. I’m working, bringing money in—yet the house is chaos.”
Her tone was gentle but firm. Not cruel—instructive. Victor deflated. He understood.
“Em… I was an idiot,” he admitted that evening. “Only now do I see how much you carried. The kids fought over a toy. While I broke it up, the porridge burned. Had to make scrambled eggs—Oliver refused to eat it. Then, while scrubbing the stove, Sophie spilled milk. And—of course—a video call for an interview. I answered, frantic, still in an apron.” He exhaled. “But… I got the job. Starting next week. Can your mum watch the kids?”
Emma nodded. Quiet relief settled in her eyes—the kind that comes when balance is restored.
Now she knew—he *understood*. He’d lived it. No more lectures about brooms. He’d appreciate her. Not because she forced him—but because he’d finally felt it.
That evening, they sat together, sipping tea. Sophie doodled at the table. Oliver stacked blocks.
Emma glanced at her husband. For the first time in years, she smiled.
He caught her gaze.
“Sorry I was blind,” he murmured. “Can I cook tomorrow?”
“You can,” she smirked. “But leave the broom alone. It’s my symbol of power now.”
They laughed. And for the first time in so long—it was *together*.
