“You’re a husband, not a piece of furniture.”
“You bought the wrong bread again. I asked for seedless,” Emily said, placing the loaf on the table without even glancing at James.
“It was the last one left,” he replied calmly. “What’s the big deal? It’s fine.”
“Ollie gets a stomachache after. Easy for you to say—you’re not the one up all night giving him medicine.”
James closed his eyes for a second and exhaled slowly. He moved the shopping bags closer to the window and sat on a stool there, as if trying to keep his distance from the family. He wanted to be closer but couldn’t.
The doorbell rang—it was Charlotte. She arrived with treats and a smile. At her sister’s house, she always had this sense of déjà vu. The same bustle, but warm, familial. She was drawn to that warmth.
“Hello, family. How’s the peace and quiet?”
“If only. We’re nearly done for the day—just homework, dinner, bath time. Oh, and ironing tomorrow’s clothes,” Emily replied, unpacking bags. “Been on my feet since morning, haven’t even sat down.”
“Knees not creaking yet?” Charlotte teased, shrugging off her coat.
James just nodded in greeting and retreated to the bedroom. He’d long stopped trying to join the women’s conversations.
“Same as usual?” Charlotte murmured, watching her sister.
“What d’you mean?”
“You’re here alone again. James is in the next room, quieter than a church mouse.”
Emily waved her off, rolling her eyes.
“Don’t start. We’ve got… roles. I handle the house and kids; he works. Standard stuff.”
“That’s not what I meant. He’s been home for an hour and a half. Have you even talked to him?”
“Oh, sorry, am I supposed to cook him a candlelit dinner every night? We’ve got kids.”
The kitchen was cramped—a narrow table, chairs with fraying tied-on cushions, a worn-out chopping board. A neatly written list of clubs and football schedules hung on the wall.
“Kids mean the end of your personal life?” Charlotte asked.
Emily shrugged.
“I just don’t want them to have it like we did. Remember how Mum left us alone for hours? And Dad drinking while she worked herself to the bone? Not to mention the mess. I was terrified to use the loo till I started cleaning.”
“I remember,” Charlotte said softly. “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. The answer was obvious.
“They need maths, English, and swimming—not cartoons.”
“And James? Does he need nothing?”
Emily glanced toward the hallway, frowning.
“He’s a grown man. He’ll manage for the family.”
Charlotte fell silent, studying her sister—the purple shadows under her eyes, the messy bun, her hands never still. Open, close, stir, tidy.
“Do you love him?” Charlotte asked suddenly.
“Are you mad? Of course I do! It’s just not the time.”
“Over a decade ‘not the time.’ Since Noah was born.”
Ollie wandered in, pyjama-clad and rumpled like a little sparrow.
“Mum, Noah’s book is torn. He said I did it. But I didn’t!”
“I’ll sort it.”
Emily stood abruptly and left. Charlotte stayed, but not for long. Minutes later, James appeared, as if waiting for his wife to leave before grabbing water.
“Rough day?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s fine. Just… sometimes I think if I vanished, she wouldn’t notice.”
“She would. Maybe too late.”
He shrugged, sighed, and turned away.
“I love them. But I’m like… furniture here. Bring home the pay cheque and then clock out.”
Charlotte had no reply. James didn’t wait for 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 kicked off with a row by the wardrobe. Emily was bundling everyone up as usual.
“Noah, wear the hooded coat.”
“Mum, I’ll boil. We’re going to the shopping centre—it’s warm inside!”
“And the walk there? Who’ll wipe your nose after?”
Ollie, meanwhile, twisted by the door, socks pulled over his boots for “better grip.” Emily snapped. He startled, scrambled to change. James waited in the car. He’d offered help—always the same answer: “I’ve got it, don’t fuss.”
In the car, he tried:
“Listen… maybe just us tomorrow? Cinema, café. Like we used to.”
“Tomorrow? Who’ll mind the boys?” Her surprise turned sharp. “Noah’s twelve—he can make sandwiches.”
“And burn the kitchen down. James, seriously? They can’t even put shoes on right.”
At the shopping centre, the boys steered toward the food court. Emily blocked them, arm like a barrier.
“We’ve got soup at home. Burgers’ll give you indigestion.”
“Mum, it’s Saturday,” Noah groaned. “We never do this.”
“I said no. End of discussion. This isn’t a democracy.”
Twenty minutes later, Ollie whined from hunger. Noah refused to try on clothes, so Emily barked at him—sharp, nervy. He clammed up.
It wasn’t new. But today, James snapped.
“Can you hear yourself?”
“Can you?” She wheeled on him. “Do you hear anything but your games?”
“I hear you dictating everything. All day. Even when it’s pointless.”
“Because if I don’t, it’ll all fall apart!”
“It already has, Emily.”
They left early. James drove in silence, Emily stared out the window, the boys plugged into headphones. The air was thick.
James didn’t park—just stopped outside the house. He didn’t get out.
“Going somewhere?” Emily asked.
“I need space. To think. Don’t wait up.”
“What?!” Panic and hurt mixed in her voice. “You’re leaving us?”
“No. I just can’t breathe on your schedule. I’m a husband, not a wardrobe.”
She stood, bewildered, watching the car vanish.
At home, Noah shut himself in his room. Ollie glued to the PC. Emily drifted to the kitchen. She set the kettle on the stove but forgot to turn it on. A shopping list lay nearby—words blurring into nonsense.
She was alone. *What now?*
No more plans.
Two weeks passed—quiet, sparse phone calls. James stayed with his parents, mulling a flat. Emily cooked soups out of habit, ironed on autopilot. The house grew silent. Too silent.
Ollie asked on day three when Dad was coming back. Emily said “soon”—though she didn’t know. Noah said nothing, just retreated, answering in monosyllables. Sometimes she caught his wary look, like he was waiting for her to snap.
Charlotte visited Saturday evening with a shop-bought pie and oranges, though she knew Emily had stress-stocked the fridge.
“Have you eaten today?”
“Yeah. Made mash and nuggets.”
“That’s not an answer. Did *you* eat?”
Emily hesitated. She couldn’t remember.
“You look like the apocalypse is tomorrow.”
“It’s just… I don’t know what to do with myself. Feels like something’s missing.”
Charlotte poured tea, sliced pie.
“You forgot how to live for yourself. And for James. It’s just kids and ‘must-dos’ you piled on yourself.”
“I thought that’s how it’s meant to be. That caring meant being there—”
“James wanted *you*, not just your presence. He’s not just for errands. He’s a person.”
“I know…” Emily whispered. “I thought—just a bit longer, boys grow up, things settle.”
She folded her hands. Now she wasn’t the commander—just a woman running on empty. She reached for her phone but didn’t unlock it.
“I want to talk to him. Properly.”
They met at a café. James arrived in a navy jumper and jeans Emily had bought him. Tired but focused. Prepared—shaved, hair trimmed, faint cologne. Even white socks.
“Hi,” he said, sitting.
“Hi.”
Silence, thick with unspoken *I’m sorry*.
“Let’s just… get to it,” Emily started. “I… didn’t see how you got lost in our life.”
“Em… I tried hinting. You kept ignoring it.” Pain edged his voice.
“I… needed to be needed. First you, then the boys. Without it… it’s empty. But… I’m sorry. I forgot you needed more than clean socks.”
James sighed, hand near hers on the table. Neither touched. Neither pulled away.
“You want me back?”
“Yes. I’ll try toTwo weeks later, James carried his suitcase back over the threshold, and as the door clicked shut behind them, Ollie’s laugh echoed from the living room where Noah was teaching him to build a pillow fort—just like they used to.
