The kitchen smelled of frying beef burgers. Lucy expertly flipped them in the pan, timing them just right for that perfect golden crisp. Little Oliver murmured softly in his crib in the next room. The day had been exhausting—another sleepless night, endless laundry, cleaning, cooking, and yet more nappies. All on her own.
Then came the cry. That piercing wail that chills a mother’s heart.
“Tom, check on Oliver!” Lucy called, not turning around, hoping her husband would move.
Silence.
She dropped the spatula, left the pan on the stove, and rushed to the nursery. Scooped up her son, rocked him, soothed him. When she returned, the scent of burnt meat filled the air.
“Well, that’s dinner ruined. Thanks a lot, Tom,” she muttered bitterly.
Oliver started whimpering again. And Tom? Still glued to the telly, where his beloved football match played.
“Tom! I can’t do everything! Look after your son!” Lucy raised her voice. Just then, a triumphant roar erupted from the living room:
“GOOOOOOAL!”
The sudden shout set Oliver off again, wailing louder than before.
Lucy snatched him up, pressing him close, her exhaustion now drowned in simmering anger. Back in the kitchen, she sat at the table, eyes shut. Then she marched over to Tom.
“Tom, please. Take Oliver for a walk. I need to finish up here and just *breathe* for a moment.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” He waved her off without a glance.
“Right. That’s it.” Her voice was ice. “Enjoy your freedom, love. I’m leaving. Staying with Mum.”
She packed their things, bundled up Oliver. The neighbour helped with the pram on her way out. An hour later, Lucy stood at her childhood doorstep.
“Mum, Oliver and I are staying a while.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steel.
“Stay as long as you need,” her mother said. “Had a row, have you?”
“No. Just tired. You’re on holiday—help me out a bit, yeah?”
That evening, her phone buzzed. *Tom.*
“Lucy, where’ve you gone?” He sounded baffled.
“I told you when I left. Or was the match more important?”
“I didn’t hear anything—”
“That *is* the problem. You don’t hear. Me. Your son. Just yourself and that bloody football.”
“Here we go again,” he grumbled and hung up.
An hour later, another call:
“What about dinner? Why’s there nothing cooked?”
“Why didn’t you help? I didn’t *have* time. Know why? Because it’s all on me.”
“So when are you coming back?”
“Dunno. Maybe a month. Maybe two.”
“Why’d you even get married if you can’t leave your mum’s?!”
“*Why?*” Her voice sharpened. “To cook for you? Clean up after you? Listen to you bang on about football? Dream come true, that!”
“You want me doing *women’s* work? Not bloody likely! I’d sooner divorce than be some henpecked loser!”
“Fine. Go on, then. Divorce me.” She ended the call.
Her mother, listening from the next room, sighed. “So you *did* row.”
“Mum… I’m not his maid. I haven’t slept in weeks. I just asked for *help*. And he yells, ‘I’ll divorce you!’ Let him, then.”
“Lucy, don’t be hasty. He’s wrong, yes. But Oliver needs his dad too. Maybe it’s not over yet.”
A week passed. Another call.
“Lucy, I miss you… Come home,” Tom pleaded.
“I’ve only just started feeling human again. Thanks to *Mum*.”
“So you’re not coming back?” His tone hardened.
“I will. If you help. I’m not asking for nights. Just weekends. You’re his *father*.”
“Not a chance! I’m a bloke, not a nanny! Women’s work is for women!”
A month later, Oliver finally slept through the night. Lucy could breathe again. One Saturday, she told her mother,
“Mum, I’m going to see Tom. Try to patch things up. We’ll fetch Oliver together after.”
“About time, love. Give it one more go.”
Lucy arrived home. Her key still worked. She stepped inside, slipped off her shoes—then froze. A pair of women’s heels sat by the door.
Her stomach dropped.
She pushed open the bedroom door. There he was. With someone else.
She turned away, pale, silent.
“Lucy! Wait! This—this doesn’t mean anything! I only love *you*!” Tom scrambled after her.
She didn’t look back. Words meant nothing now.
She could’ve forgiven his laziness, his neglect, even his football obsession. But not *this*. Not with their son still breathing. Not in the home she’d hoped to return to.
Sometimes, all a woman wants is to be *heard*. Not for the shouting. For the quiet where her child sleeps soundly. For a home where she isn’t drowning alone. For a man who’ll hold his child—and his wife—without hesitation.
But if all he holds is a remote, not responsibility? Then don’t be surprised when she leaves. And doesn’t come back.
Even if the beef burgers don’t burn anymore.
