“Mum, you’re just sitting at home doing nothing!”
“Mum, come play cars with me—you promised!” Five-year-old Oliver piped up, peering into the kitchen for what felt like the hundredth time.
Emily glanced from her son to the towering pile of unwashed dishes, then to the chicken carcass patiently waiting its turn on the chopping board. She looked back at him. Oliver stared right back, arms crossed, waiting for an answer that wasn’t quite a question but definitely a demand.
“Ollie, just wait a little longer, okay? Mummy will be right there.” She said it softly—probably because she wasn’t entirely convinced “right there” would ever actually happen.
“You always say that and never come! I don’t want to play by myself!” he wailed before storming off to his room.
His shrieks woke baby Charlotte, who immediately announced her displeasure with a piercing cry. Emily sank into a chair, pressing her hands to her head as if trying to block out the noise. She closed her eyes for a single, blissful second.
…Emily had always wanted children, and she adored them. But right now? She’d trade it all for one silent, empty afternoon—no cleaning, no cooking, no nappies, no speech therapy appointments, no playground trips, no bedtime routines, no endless demands.
Of course, plenty of women lived like this, but most had grandparents nearby or husbands who helped. Emily’s situation was different. Her parents lived miles away, her mother-in-law was too busy with her own life to bother with grandchildren, and her husband, James, rarely walked through the door before the kids were already in bed. He’d eat, then slump in front of the telly or his computer. Actual help? None. And lately, their marriage had grown tense, brittle—something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.
“Mummeeee…” Charlotte’s sleepy voice drifted down the hall.
“Coming, love!” Emily called, forcing a smile as she hurried to the nursery.
After wrangling the kids, tidying up, and dragging Oliver to his speech therapy session, she managed a brief playground trip with Charlotte. By evening, she’d bathed them, fed them, and skipped dinner herself, settling for a hasty cup of tea. The chicken remained untouched. She’d just have to whip up some frozen dumplings for James instead.
He stomped in just before nine, already in one of his moods.
“I’m home! No welcome party?” he barked from the hallway.
“James, please don’t shout—Charlotte’s asleep,” Emily said, voice sickeningly sweet, as if tiptoeing around a landmine.
“Brilliant. Home sweet home. Dead silence the second I walk in,” he grumbled, vanishing into the bathroom.
She set the table—dumplings, a dollop of sour cream, some chopped parsley. Boiled the kettle, sliced bread.
“Em, did you bulk-buy these dumplings so I’d never see a proper meal again?” James sneered.
“Just one more night, love. I’ll do the chicken tomorrow, promise.”
“Last time. I’m not eating this rubbish again. We had them Monday, and now this?” He dug in without another word, never bothering to ask if she’d eaten at all.
“James, put your phone down for five minutes. How was work?”
“What’s there to say? I’m exhausted, and now you want to chat about it?” He didn’t even look up.
“Sounds lovely. I’ll go check on the kids.”
“Fine.”
She tucked them in, turned off the light, and returned to the kitchen.
“I’m off to bed,” James muttered, eyes still glued to his screen as he left.
“Night,” she whispered to the empty air.
There’d been a time when he’d kiss her goodnight, murmur sweet dreams, linger over tea after Oliver was asleep. Now? Just silence.
Emily wasn’t stupid. Something was off. James was buried in work—or whatever else he wasn’t telling her. And she? Exhausted. They’d hoped Oliver could start nursery, but the specialist group was full, so they’d settled for private sessions.
She glanced at the clock. Half ten! Dishes, a quick wash, then bed.
By the time she slipped under the covers, James was snoring. His phone buzzed—a text. Probably his mobile provider. Or the bank.
She barely shut her eyes before the alarm blared.
“Six already? Feels like I never slept,” she groaned, splashing water on her face. Coffee. Breakfast.
James shuffled in, scowling.
“Porridge *again*?”
“Morning, love!”
“My mum used to make pancakes or cheese scones. Now I’m stuck with this slop.”
“James, it’s *porridge*. It’s good for you—and Oliver loves it. Fried food every morning isn’t healthy.”
“Oh, brilliant. Now I’m choking down mush because you can’t be bothered. At least fry an egg!”
“First, stop shouting—you’ll wake the kids. Second, I forgot to buy eggs.”
“What kind of wife are you? Can’t cook, can’t remember shopping. You sit at home all day—how hard is it? My mum’s right about you.”
“I *knew* your mother was poisoning you against me!”
“Don’t you dare drag her into this! Go mind the kids!”
He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
The day spiralled—breakfast, cleaning, cooking while fielding endless requests. After lunch, naps, then the playground.
“Mum, let’s go to the swings!” Oliver begged.
“Fine, love.”
They’d just settled when a voice cut in.
“Emily! Long time no see!”
“Lucy! Look how big Toby’s gotten!”
“And Charlotte! But you—you’ve lost weight. You look peaky. Are you ill?”
“Just tired. Two kids, you know?”
“Love, you need *you* time. Doesn’t James help? I rope my Darren in all the time. You made the kids together—parent together!”
“Lucy, James works late.”
“So? Darren’s not unemployed! It’s not hard to watch your own child. Where are you lot off to?”
“The park. You?”
“We’re hitting the shopping centre—new soft play area. Come with!”
“Oh, no. We’re fine here. Didn’t bring money.”
“Emily, James *just* bought a new car! Saw him parking near the centre last week. He’ll splash out on himself but not his kids?”
Emily stayed silent.
“Come on. My treat. Let’s catch up.”
At the café, Lucy frowned. “You’re jumpy. Everything okay?”
“Just tired.”
“Tell James to pull his weight. It’s not 1950—men parent now.” Lucy trailed off, eyes widening. “Em… is that James?”
Emily turned. There he was—arm around some woman, kissing her by the escalator.
“The *absolute* *rotter*! Emily, don’t just sit there! If that were Darren, I’d—”
Emily burst into tears.
*****
“Texting your girlfriend?” Emily asked later, as James devoured his chicken.
“What? Talking rubbish again?”
“I saw you. At the centre. Buying her gifts?”
A pause.
“Spying now? *You’re* the one wasting time shopping! Yes, I’ve got a girlfriend. Look at you—scruffy, exhausted. Embarrassing to be seen with.”
“I want a divorce.”
“*What*? Don’t be daft!”
She filed anyway. The court granted her full custody. She moved back to her hometown, crashing with her parents before landing a job and a mortgage.
“You can’t take my kids!” James roared.
“I can. You’re welcome to visit—but we both know you won’t. The children never mattered to you. Or your mother.”
He had no comeback. Probably because he knew she was right.
