The Relentless Role
Emma first considered divorce just six months after her wedding. But the pregnancy test showed two lines, and the thought dissolved into waves of morning sickness.
She’d met Ian in a bar, dragged there by her old dance school friends—”just for one night of fun.” He was a confident man in expensive cufflinks, flipping through documents at the counter, and he seemed like someone from another world.
“You’re far too lovely to look so sad,” he said when she found herself alone—her friends had scurried off to touch up their makeup.
He kept talking, but Emma couldn’t recall the words later. All she remembered was his voice, rich and velvety, like aged whisky.
Ian was eight years older, with shares in his family’s home-cleaning business. Emma had stood out because she didn’t belong there—wide-eyed, delicate, and painfully out of place. Fragile, beautiful, and, as he soon learned, unassuming. She’d grown up poor, pouring her childhood into ballet before an injury forced her into coaching.
Young, naive, and penniless. Perfect wife material.
“I’ve found the girl who’ll give you those grandchildren you’ve been waiting for,” he told his mother that same night.
When Ian proposed three months later, Emma’s mother wept with joy.
“Finally, you’ll be taken care of!”
Her future mother-in-law, Patricia, inspected her like a prized mare.
“Lovely girl. We’ll take her.”
The groom’s family handled all the wedding arrangements.
“Do you mind a navy cake?” Patricia asked. “Our company colours.”
Emma smiled. “Of course, whatever you think best.”
Their honeymoon took them to the coast. On the plane, Ian warned,
“Mum worries if I’m out of touch too long. We’ll call twice a day—morning and night. Take notes or photos; she loves details.”
After they returned, Emma’s life in the family began.
“Mum wanted you to have this,” Ian said, sliding a leather-bound notebook toward her. “Our family traditions. Birthdays, anniversaries, weekends at the cottage…”
She flipped through:
*5 January – Aunt Margaret’s day. Flowers: white roses.
23 February – Uncle James’s birthday. Preferred gift: single malt.
First Sunday in June – family barbecue.
Every Sunday – family lunch. Dress code: smart casual.*
The schedule was rigid.
“Where do I fit in my own plans?” she asked hesitantly.
Ian chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Your plans *are* our plans, love.”
A week later, the reality set in.
“Where are you going?” Ian blocked the door.
“Massage course… We agreed.”
“No. Mum needs help at the shop today.”
“But I—”
“Emma.” He tilted her chin up gently. “We’re a family. This is our business. Do you want to be part of it?”
At Sunday lunch, Patricia announced:
“You’re leaving that fitness club. You did well yesterday, and we’re short a cashier.”
“But I—”
“You *do* want to be useful, don’t you?” Patricia arched a brow, then glanced at Ian. “Or not?”
He nodded silently, cutting into his steak. No discussion. Roles were set.
That night, lying in the bath, Emma thought not of divorce—but escape. She imagined telling her parents she’d made a terrible mistake, that she wouldn’t be a puppet.
“Have you lost your mind? You’d go back to nothing? He provides for you!” Her mother’s voice echoed before she even spoke.
Then came the two lines on the test. Emma stayed.
What else could she do?
***
By the birth of their second child, Emma had mastered Patricia’s roast recipe, stopped flinching at Ian’s late-night “meetings,” and perfected the radiant smile that answered “Everything’s fine!”
Only her childhood friend Lizzie saw through it.
Because she knew Emma bought two sets of skincare—one for Patricia’s scrutiny, one for herself. That she met Lizzie in secret, only with ironclad excuses. That even visiting her parents required permission. That “happy wife and mother” was a mask held up by sheer will.
“You’re suffocating! You hate that job! Your mother-in-law audits your till!” Lizzie snapped.
“It’s normal,” Emma shrugged.
“What about your massage courses? Working with people!”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Your Ian’s cheating left and right!”
It was true. She’d suspected, then caught him at Patricia’s anniversary party—adjusting his tie in the storeroom, a woman laughing, hair tousled.
“It’s meaningless,” Ian said later, handing her diamond earrings. “You’re a smart girl.”
Of course, she told Lizzie—the only one who knew her.
Emma sighed, spinning her teacup.
“I’ve no choice, Liz. It’s too late. The children…”
“They *see* this! You think they don’t notice you’re miserable? Mistakes don’t mean you’re trapped. Life’s too short to playact forever.”
“Maybe I’m just… ungrateful? The house, the money…”
“Normal?!” Lizzie leaned in. “You haven’t spoken freely in ten years! Who sobbed on the phone when he skipped your *fifth* birthday?”
Emma laughed sharply.
“His mother gave me a spa voucher. Said I ‘needed upkeep.’”
Lizzie grabbed her wrist.
“Move in with me. Tomorrow.”
“No.” Emma stood abruptly, chair clattering. “Just… no.”
That night, unpacking her bag, she found Lizzie’s note:
*”When you’re done being convenient—call. Always.”*
***
Five years later, Emma studied a new wrinkle in the mirror. Children shrieked behind her, Patricia’s call buzzed, the dog barked in the hall.
She realized, suddenly: she was gone. In her place—the dutiful wife, the perfect daughter-in-law, the devoted mother. But the Emma who dreamed of the stage, feared heights, adored strawberries and cream, who could inspire anyone in a gym—she no longer existed.
The day before, her daughter brought home a drawing: *My Family*.
“Grandma’s big, Dad’s got his watch, me and my brother… and you, Mum.”
Emma stared at the tiny figure in the corner.
“Why am I so… small?”
“Grandma says you’re always in the shadows. It means you’re modest!”
That night, she wept—properly, for the first time in years. She thought of Lizzie, who’d tried to pull her free. Of her lone therapy session, where she’d frozen at one question:
*”If you had one day just for yourself—what would you do?”*
She hadn’t known. And she never went back.
