“You’re my husband, not a piece of furniture.”
“You bought the wrong bread again. I asked for the one without seeds,” Emily said, dropping the loaf onto the table without even glancing at James.
“It was the last one left,” he replied calmly. “What’s the big deal? It’s fine bread.”
“Oliver gets a stomachache after eating this. Easy for you to say—you’re not the one up at night giving him medicine and looking after him.”
James closed his eyes for a second and exhaled slowly. He set the grocery bag by the window, as far as possible, and sat on the stool there, like he was keeping his distance from the family. He wanted to be close, but somehow couldn’t.
Aunt Charlotte rang the doorbell, carrying treats and a smile. In her sister’s house, she always got a sense of déjà vu—the same routines, but warm, family ones. She was drawn to that warmth.
“Hello, everyone. Peaceful and cosy in here?”
“Hardly. But we’re nearly done. Just homework, dinner, bath time, and ironing for tomorrow,” Emily answered, unpacking bags. “Been on my feet since morning—haven’t even sat down.”
“Knees not creaking yet?” Charlotte joked, shrugging off her coat.
James gave her a nod in greeting and disappeared into the bedroom. He’d long stopped trying to join the women’s chatter.
“Same as always?” Charlotte asked quietly, watching her sister.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re here on your own again. James is in the next room, silent as a mouse.”
Emily waved her off, rolling her eyes irritably.
“Don’t start. We just… divide responsibilities. I handle the house and kids; he works. Same as everyone else.”
“That’s not what I mean. He’s been home for an hour and a half. Have you even spoken to him once?”
“Oh, excuse me, I’m not obligated to organise a romantic dinner every night. We have children.”
The kitchen was cramped—a narrow table, chairs with threadbare cushions, a peeling chopping board. On the wall, a neatly written schedule of clubs and training sessions in Emily’s handwriting.
“For you, do children mean the end of personal life?” Charlotte asked.
Emily shrugged.
“I just don’t want them to have… you know, what we had. Remember how Mum left us alone for hours? And how Dad drank while she worked herself to the bone? Forget the mess—I couldn’t even use the loo until I started cleaning.”
“I remember,” Charlotte sighed. “But I also remember us sprawled on the floor watching cartoons. When was the last time you did that with the boys?”
Emily looked away, embarrassed. The answer was obvious.
“They need maths, English, and swimming lessons—not cartoons.”
“And James? Does he not need anything?”
Emily glanced toward the hallway, frowning.
“He’s a grown man. He can wait for the sake of the family.”
Charlotte fell silent, just watching her sister—dark circles under her eyes, hair tied in a messy bun, hands always moving—opening, closing, stirring, tidying.
“Do you love him?” Charlotte asked suddenly.
“Are you mad? Of course I do! Just… not the time for that now.”
“It’s been ‘not the time’ for over a decade. Since Henry was born.”
Oliver wandered in, pyjama-clad and rumpled like a little sparrow.
“Mum, Henry tore his book. He said it was me, but I didn’t touch it!”
“I’ll sort it.”
Emily stood abruptly and left. Charlotte stayed alone in the kitchen—but not for long. A few minutes later, James reappeared, as though waiting for his wife to leave so he could pour himself water.
“Tired?” Charlotte asked gently.
“It’s fine. Just… sometimes I think if I vanished, she wouldn’t notice,” James admitted quietly.
“She would. But maybe too late.”
He shrugged, sighed, and turned away.
“I love them. But I’m just… extra here. Like furniture. Bring home the money, then disappear.”
Charlotte had no reply, and James didn’t expect one. He just walked back to the bedroom.
Emily never came back. She got stuck between the torn book, dusty windowsills, and the messily folded laundry.
The next morning began not with coffee but with a row by the wardrobe. Emily, as usual, was bundling everyone up.
“Henry, wear that hooded jacket.”
“Mum, it’s too hot. We’re going to the shopping centre—it’s warm there.”
“And what about walking outside? Who’ll wipe your nose after?”
Oliver, the younger, fidgeted by the door, pulling socks over his boots for “better grip.” Emily snapped—he flinched and started changing. Meanwhile, James sat in the car. He’d offered to help, but the answer was always the same: “I’ll manage. Don’t interfere.”
In the car, he tried again:
“Listen, maybe tomorrow… just us two? Cinema, café. Remember how we used to?”
“Tomorrow? Who’ll look after the boys?” Emily’s voice shifted from surprise to irritation. “We can’t just leave them! They’re still little.”
“They’re twelve and five. Henry can make sandwiches.”
“Oh yes, and burn the kitchen down. Seriously, James? They can’t even put shoes on properly.”
At the shopping centre, the boys tried steering them toward the food court. Emily blocked their path with her arm like a barrier.
“Supper’s at home. Burgers will give you heartburn.”
“Mum, it’s the weekend,” Henry sighed. “We don’t do this every day.”
“I said no. Not up for discussion. This isn’t a democracy.”
Twenty minutes later, Oliver whined from hunger. Henry refused to try on clothes, so Emily snapped—loud, sharp, so tense it killed his urge to speak. He just dug his heels in.
This had happened before. But today, James couldn’t take it anymore.
“Do you even hear yourself?”
“Do you?” She turned, scowling. “Do you hear anything besides your games?”
“I hear you ordering everyone around, day and night. Always. Even when it’s pointless.”
“Because if I don’t, everything falls apart!”
“It already has, Emily.”
They left earlier than planned. James drove in silence; Emily stared out the window, turned away. The boys plugged in headphones—the tension was too thick.
James didn’t park, just stopped outside the house. He didn’t get out with them.
“Are you going somewhere else?” Emily asked, confused.
“I need to think. Be alone. Don’t wait up tonight.”
“What?!” Panic and hurt tangled in her voice. “You’re leaving us?”
“No. I just can’t breathe on a schedule anymore. I’m your husband, not a coat stand.”
She just stood there, watching the car drive off, bewildered.
At home, Henry went straight to his room. Oliver flopped in front of the PC. Emily headed to the kitchen. She put the kettle on the stove but didn’t turn it on, as if forgetting how. Beside it, the weekly shopping list. She stared but couldn’t focus—the words had lost all meaning.
Emily realised: she was alone now. “What now?” The thought pierced her, sharp with dread.
Now, there could be no more plans.
…Two weeks of silence and rare calls passed. James stayed with his parents, considering renting a flat. Emily cooked soups out of habit, ironed on schedule, wiped the table even when no one had eaten. The house grew quiet. Too quiet.
On day three, Oliver asked when Dad was coming back. Emily said “soon,” though she didn’t know. Henry never asked. He stayed in his room, answering questions with grunts. Sometimes Emily caught his wary look—like he was waiting for her to shout again.
Charlotte visited on Saturday evening. She brought a shop-bought pie and oranges, though she knew Emily had stockpiled the fridge nervously.
“Have you eaten today?” Charlotte asked, sitting down.
“Yes. I… made mash and fried some cutlets.”
“That’s not an answer. Did *you* eat?”
Emily shrugged awkwardly. She couldn’t remember.
“You look like the world’s ending tomorrow,” Charlotte said.
“It’s just… I don’t know what to do with myself now. Something’s missing.”
Charlotte poured tea and sliced the pie, pushing a piece toward her sister.
“You’ve forgotten how to live for yourself. And for your husband. It’s just the kids and all these ‘musts’ you’ve piled on yourself.”
“I thought that’s how it’s meant to be. That you care, you’re there…”
“James wanted you *with* him, not just nearby. He’s not just for grocery runs. He’s a person.”
“I know,” Emily murmured, eyes down. “But I thought—just hold on a little longer, the boys will grow up, and things will settle.”
Emily folded her hands onThe next morning, James arrived with a single suitcase and a tentative smile, and as Emily opened the door, she finally understood that love wasn’t just about duty, but about choosing each other every day.
