The kitchen smelled of sizzling pork chops. Emily flipped them deftly in the pan, chasing that perfect golden crisp. Little Oliver dozed softly in his cot in the next room. The day had been exhausting—sleepless nights, laundry, cleaning, cooking, more nappies. All of it alone.
Then—a wail. That particular cry that turns a mother’s blood to ice.
“James, come check on Oliver!” Emily called without turning, hoping for a response from her husband.
Silence.
She dropped the spatula, left the pan on the stove, and rushed to the bedroom. She scooped up her son, rocked him, soothed him. When she returned, the chops had burned. The bitter scent clung to the air.
“Well, that’s dinner ruined. Cheers, James,” she muttered.
The baby whimpered again. And James? Sat glued to the telly, where his beloved football match played.
“James! I can’t do everything! Look after your son!” she snapped, raising her voice. Just then, a roar erupted from the living room:
“GOOOOAL!”
Oliver shrieked louder.
Emily flew back to him, clutching him tight. Fatigue was gone—now she was all fire. She returned to the kitchen, sank into a chair, eyes closed. Then she marched to James.
“James, please. Take Oliver for a walk. I need to finish here, just… breathe.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” He waved her off without looking.
“Right. I’m done,” she said flatly. “Enjoy your freedom, *Darling*. I’m leaving. To Mum’s.”
She packed their things, bundled the baby. A neighbour helped with the pram on the way out. An hour later, she stood at her mother’s door.
“Mum, Oliver and I are staying. For a bit.” Her voice shook, but her eyes were steel.
“Stay as long as you need,” Mum said. “Did you two have a row?”
“No. I’m just tired. You’re on holiday—help me, yeah?”
That evening, the phone rang. *James.*
“Emily, where’ve you gone?” he asked, baffled.
“I told you when I left. Or was the match more important?”
“Didn’t hear a thing…” he mumbled.
“That’s your problem—you don’t *hear*. Me. Our son. Just yourself and a ball on a pitch.”
“Here we go again,” he grumbled, hanging up.
An hour later, another call:
“What about dinner? Why didn’t you cook?”
“Why didn’t you help? I didn’t have time. Know why? Because it’s *all* on me.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Don’t know. Maybe a month. Maybe two.”
“Why’d you even get married if you can’t leave your mum?!”
“Why?!” Her voice sharpened. “To cook for you? Clean up after you? Listen to you yammer about football? Dream come true, that!”
“You want me doing *women’s* work? Not bloody likely! I’d sooner divorce than be some henpecked fool!”
“Fine. Go on, then. Divorce me.” She ended the call.
Mum, listening nearby, sighed. “So you *did* row.”
“Mum… I’m not his maid. I’m exhausted. I just asked for help. And he shouts, ‘I’ll divorce you!’ Let him.”
“Emily, don’t be rash. He’s wrong, yes. But Oliver needs his dad. Maybe it’s not over.”
A week passed. Another call.
“Emily, I miss you… Come home,” James whined.
“I’m just starting to feel 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 man, not a nanny! Women’s work is for women!”
A month later, Oliver slept through the night. Emily finally breathed. One Saturday, she told Mum:
“Mum, I’m going to see James. Try to fix things. We’ll fetch Oliver after.”
“About time, love. Try again.”
Emily arrived home. Her key still worked. She stepped inside, slipped off her shoes. Then saw another woman’s heels in the hallway.
Her heart stopped.
She pushed open the bedroom door. There he was. Not alone.
She turned, pale.
“Emily! Wait! It’s nothing! I—I only love you!” James scrambled after her.
She didn’t look back. Those words meant nothing now.
She could’ve forgiven indifference, laziness, even his football obsession. But not this. Not with their son alive. Not in the home she’d hoped to return to.
Sometimes, all a woman needs is to be *seen*. Not for the noise, but for the quiet where her child sleeps safe. For a house where she isn’t drowning alone. For a man who’ll hold his child—and his wife—without flinching.
But if he’d rather hold a remote than responsibility? Then don’t complain when she leaves. And doesn’t come back.
Even if the pork chops never burn again.
