The return was late—Emily had already made up her mind.
Andrew was gloomily twirling spaghetti on his fork. Emily watched him, trying not to let her worry show, but she couldn’t hold back.
“Is it not good, Andrew?”
He just scowled and kept eating without looking at her.
“I followed the recipe properly…”
“It’s fine,” he muttered.
“Then what’s wrong? What happened?”
Andrew tossed his fork down sharply, sighed loudly, and started pacing the kitchen.
“I’m sick of it all!” he burst out. “Life’s turned into a rut! Work, home, you in your dressing gown, porridge, the kid—it’s not living, it’s a prison sentence!”
Emily froze. His words stung worse than a slap. He kept going.
“Look at yourself! You used to be beautiful, now you’re just…”—he hesitated—“a tired housewife. Jack’s wife is incredible—still fits the gym in with the baby, makes extra cash, manages to look good!”
“They’ve got his mum helping, and you sleep in on weekends. I just don’t have the time,” Emily said quietly.
“There’s always an excuse with you! The truth is, you’ve just settled on my back and let yourself go. I need space. A break. I’m moving out. Alone. Don’t know for how long. Maybe forever.”
“What about Oliver?”
“I’ll pay what I owe. I’ll visit too. You won’t be left high and dry.”
Andrew stood up. Emily, snapping out of it, rushed to block his path.
“And what about *my* break? Am I not a person? Why do only *you* get to walk away?”
He stepped close, irritation in his voice.
“You’re the mother. End of. Stay with your child.”
With that, he left, heavy silence hanging behind him. Emily sat at the kitchen table, tears streaming. Her mind raced—how would she manage? Andrew had been distant, but at least he was *there*. Now the stability, the security—all crumbling.
He hadn’t even said goodbye to their son. It was obvious he’d gone straight to his bachelor flat.
The first night, Emily didn’t sleep a wink. But by morning, exhausted, she made a decision—she wouldn’t beg or humiliate herself. She’d manage alone.
And she did. Unexpectedly, life got *easier*. No more picking up after a man, catering to his moods, washing piles of laundry. Andrew sent money—she budgeted, but they got by.
The pain was just emotional. Especially when she saw photos of Andrew online, grinning at the camera with some woman. Her friend tried to console her: “You deserve better.” Then her mum came—took time off work just to help. No lectures, just silent support, though she’d clench her fists remembering her son-in-law.
With her mum around, Emily came back to life. She went to the salon, refreshed her wardrobe. Even started smiling again. Little gifts from her mum reminded her—she *deserved* happiness.
Andrew, true to his word, didn’t visit Oliver. Just flaunted his carefree life online. Emily waited, hoping he’d come to his senses, but day by day, she realised—he wasn’t a man, just a coward running from responsibility.
Three months later, a knock at the door. Andrew. With his bags. Puffed up like he’d won something.
“Hey, love! I’m back. What’s for dinner?”
Emily blocked the doorway.
“You don’t live here anymore.”
“What? I’m your husband!”
“Not anymore. I’ve filed for divorce. Expect a summons. You didn’t see Oliver like you promised. Your things are packed—I’ll help you carry them.”
Andrew exploded.
“I’ve got rights to see my son!”
“Of course. We’ll arrange visits through court. I’ll tell them how you forgot him for three months. And I’ll show them your party photos.”
He did see Oliver eventually. The boy just stared at him—no joy, no excitement.
Andrew had hoped this was just Emily teaching him a lesson. But she stood firm. Her mum’s support, her love for Oliver, knowing her own worth—it all made her stronger.
Now she and Oliver had a new life. And Andrew? Left with dishes *he* had to wash and shirts *no one* ironed. Some “break” he got.
