“You’re not a piece of furniture, you’re my husband.”
—You bought the wrong bread again. I asked for the one without seeds, — Emily set the loaf on the table, barely glancing at James.
—It was the last one left, — he replied calmly. —Why are you making a fuss? It’s fine.
—Ollie gets a stomach ache afterwards. Easy for you to say—you’re not the one up half the night giving him medicine.
James closed his eyes for a second and exhaled slowly. He placed the shopping bags by the window and sat on the stool there, as if putting distance between himself and his family. He wanted to be closer, but couldn’t.
The doorbell rang—it was Charlotte, Emily’s sister, bearing gifts and a smile. Stepping into her sister’s home always felt like stepping into the same day on repeat: chores, warmth, the hum of family life. She craved it.
—Hello, family! Peace and quiet, I hope?
—Hardly. Almost done though, — Emily said, unpacking the bags. —Just homework, dinner, bath time. Oh, and ironing for tomorrow. Been on my feet since dawn.
—Knees not creaking yet? — Charlotte joked, slipping off her coat.
James just nodded in greeting and retreated to the bedroom. He’d long stopped trying to join in the women’s conversations.
—Same as always? — Charlotte murmured, eyeing her sister.
—What do you mean?
—You’re here alone again. James is in the next room, quieter than a mouse.
Emily rolled her eyes and waved her off.
—Don’t start. We’ve got… roles. I handle the house and kids, he works. Same as everyone else.
—I’m not talking about that. He’s been home for an hour and a half. Have you even spoken to him?
—I don’t have to lay out a romantic dinner every night, Charlotte. We have children.
The kitchen was small—a narrow table, chairs with frayed cushions, a peeling chopping board. A neatly written list of clubs and football practice schedules hung on the wall.
—Is this it? Kids mean no life of your own? — Charlotte asked.
Emily shrugged.
—I just don’t want them growing up like we did. Remember when Mum would leave us alone for hours? And Dad drinking while she worked herself to the bone? Not to mention the mess. I was scrubbing the loo before I was ten.
—I remember, — Charlotte sighed. —But I also remember us sprawled on the floor watching cartoons. When was the last time you did that with your boys?
Emily looked away. The answer was obvious.
—They need maths, English, and swimming, not cartoons.
—And what about James? Does he need nothing?
Emily frowned toward the hallway.
—He’s a grown man. He can tough it out for the family.
Charlotte fell silent, studying her sister—the purple shadows under her eyes, the messy bun, hands in constant motion: opening, closing, stirring, tidying.
—Do you love him? — she asked suddenly.
—Are you mad? Of course I do! Just… not now.
—”Not now” for over ten years. Since Max was born.
Ollie shuffled in, pyjama-clad and rumpled like a ruffled sparrow.
—Mum, Max’s book’s torn. He said I did it, but I didn’t!
—I’ll sort it.
Emily was up in an instant. Left alone, Charlotte didn’t have to wait long—James reappeared, as if he’d been waiting for Emily to leave before fetching water.
—Rough day? — Charlotte asked gently.
—It’s fine. Sometimes I think if I vanished, she wouldn’t even notice.
—She would. Maybe too late.
He shrugged, sighed, and turned away.
—I love them. But I’m just… furniture. Paycheque delivered, job done.
Charlotte had no reply. James didn’t expect one. He just walked back to the bedroom.
Emily never returned—stuck between a torn book, dusty windowsills, and haphazardly folded laundry.
The next morning began with a row by the coat rack. Emily insisted on bundling everyone up.
—Max, wear the hooded jacket.
—Mum, it’s boiling. We’re going to the shopping centre.
—And the walk there? Who’ll wipe your nose after?
Ollie wobbled by the door, socks over his shoes “for grip.” Emily barked—he flinched and fumbled with his laces. James waited in the car. He’d offered help. The answer was always the same: “I’ve got it.”
Inside the car, he tried:
—How about just us tomorrow? Cinema, maybe. Like we used to.
—Tomorrow? Who’ll watch the boys?
—They’re twelve and five. Max can make sandwiches.
—And burn the kitchen down. Seriously? They can’t even get dressed right.
At the shopping centre, the boys begged for fast food. Emily barred their way like a tollgate.
—Soup’s at home. Burgers mean stomach ache.
—Mum, it’s the weekend, — Max groaned.
—No discussion. This isn’t a democracy.
Twenty minutes later, Ollie whined from hunger. Max refused to try on clothes—Emily snapped. Loud. Sharp. The anger in her voice killed any urge he had to speak to her. He just shut down.
This wasn’t new. But today, James had had enough.
—Do you even hear yourself?
—Do you? — she rounded on him. —Or is it just your video games?
—I hear you ordering everyone about, day in, day out. Even when it’s pointless.
—Because if I don’t, everything falls apart!
—It already has, Emily.
They left early. James drove in silence. Emily stared out the window. The boys plugged in earphones—the tension was too much.
James didn’t park. Just stopped outside the house. He didn’t get out.
—Where are you going? — Emily asked, startled.
—I need to think. Alone. Don’t wait up.
—What? — panic and hurt tangled in her voice. —You’re leaving us?
—No. I just can’t breathe on your schedule anymore. I’m your husband, not a table.
She watched the car drive off, bewildered.
At home, Max shut himself in his room. Ollie glued himself to the computer. Emily went to the kitchen. She put the kettle on the hob but forgot to turn it on. A shopping list lay nearby—the scribbled words blurred, meaningless.
She realised: she was alone. “Now what?” pierced her thoughts.
No more plans.
Two weeks passed—silence, rare calls. James stayed with his parents, considering a flat. Emily cooked out of habit, ironed on schedule, wiped clean counters. The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Ollie asked on day three when Dad was coming back. Emily said “soon,” though she didn’t know. Max asked nothing. He stayed in his room, answered in monosyllables. Sometimes, Emily caught his wary look—waiting for her to snap again.
Charlotte visited on Saturday with shop-bought cake and oranges, though she knew Emily had overstocked the fridge in her stress.
—Have you eaten today? — Charlotte asked, sitting down.
—Yes. I… made mash and nuggets.
—That’s not an answer. Did *you* eat?
Emily shrugged awkwardly. She couldn’t remember.
—You look like the world’s ending tomorrow.
—I just… don’t know what to do with myself. Feels like something’s missing.
Charlotte poured tea and sliced cake, nudging food toward her sister.
—You forgot how to live for yourself. And for James. It’s just kids and endless “must-dos” you piled on yourself.
—I thought that’s how it’s meant to be. Caring, being there—
—James wanted you *with* him, not just *near* him. He’s not just a shopping trolley. He’s a person.
—I know… — Emily mumbled. —I just thought: hang on a bit, the boys will grow up, and things’ll settle.
She folded her hands on the table. No longer the sergeant-major in a skirt, just a woman running on empty. She reached for her phone but didn’t pick it up.
—I want to talk to him. Properly.
They met at a café. James wore a navy jumper and jeans Emily had bought him. Tired but focused, he’d clearly prepared—shaved, trimmed his hair, even wore clean socks.
—Hi, — he said, sitting down.
—Hi.
The silence tasted of unspoken “sorrys.”
—Let’s get to it, — Emily began. —I… didn’t see how you got lost in our life.
—Em… I tried hinting. You just kept looking away.
—She reached across the table and finally took his hand, knowing the road back wouldn’t be easy, but it was a start.
