**Diary Entry – 18th April**
*”You’re at home all day, doing nothing.”*
“Mum, come play cars with me—you promised!” Five-year-old Oliver peeked into the kitchen again, his voice hopeful. Emily glanced at her son, then at the pile of unwashed dishes and the chicken waiting on the chopping board. She looked back at him. He stared right at her, waiting for an answer that wasn’t quite a question, more a plea.
“Ollie, just wait a little longer, love. Mum’ll be there soon, alright?” She said it quietly, probably because she didn’t quite believe that “soon” would ever arrive.
“Not again! You always say that, then never come! I don’t want to play alone!” he shouted before storming off to his room. His cries woke little Sophie, who immediately signalled her displeasure with a wail. Emily sank onto a chair, pressing her hands to her head as if to block out the noise. She shut her eyes for a second.
…She’d always wanted children. Loved them madly. But right now, she’d give anything to be somewhere entirely alone—no endless cleaning, cooking, nappies, speech therapy, walks, bedtime routines…
Other mothers lived like this, sure. But most had grandparents nearby, husbands who helped. Emily’s parents lived miles away, and her mother-in-law was too busy with work and her own life to spare time for grandchildren. And her husband, James? Most evenings, he walked in just as the kids were settling into bed. He’d eat, then slump in front of the telly or his laptop. No help whatsoever. Lately, things between them had grown tense, strained. Painful, even.
*”Mummyyyyy…”* Sophie’s sleepy voice drifted from the nursery.
“Coming, sweetheart!” Emily hurried off.
She got the children sorted, tidied up a bit. After lunch, Oliver had speech therapy. While he was occupied, Emily took Sophie to the playground.
They returned as dusk settled. Emily bathed the children, fed them dinner. She didn’t eat—just gulped down a quick cuppa. Then she cleared the dishes, eyed the chicken, and sentenced it to tomorrow’s menu. For James, she boiled some frozen dumplings.
James came home just before nine—usually in a foul mood by then.
“I’m home! No one around to say hello?” he barked from the hallway.
“James, please, don’t shout. I’ve just put Sophie down,” Emily kept her voice soft, careful not to rile him.
“Brilliant. Welcome home, then—silence!” He grumbled, heading straight to wash up.
She set the table—dumplings on a plate, a little pot of sour cream and chives on the side. Boiled the kettle, sliced bread.
“Em, did you buy these dumplings on sale? Am I stuck eating rubbish till they’re gone?” His voice was sharp.
“James, just today, alright? I’ll do the chicken tomorrow like I said.”
“Last time I’m eating this junk. Monday, then today—same bloody meal!” He scowled but started eating anyway.
He didn’t ask if she’d eaten a thing all day. Lately, she might as well not exist.
“James, put the phone down for five minutes. Tell me about work?”
“What’s to tell? Same as always. I’m sick of it, and you want me to talk about it at home too?” He snapped, then buried himself back in his screen.
“Alright. Enjoy your dinner. I’ll check on the kids.”
“Go on, then.”
She tucked them in, dimmed the nursery light, and returned to the kitchen.
“I’m going to bed,” James muttered, not looking up as he left.
“Goodnight,” she whispered to the empty room.
There’d been a time when he kissed her goodnight, wished her sweet dreams. Evenings spent chatting over tea after putting Oliver down. Watching films together in bed.
Now? That warmth felt like a distant memory. James was buried in work, in things she wasn’t part of. And since Sophie’s birth, exhaustion had taken root. She’d hoped to get Oliver into nursery, but the specialist group had no spaces, so private speech therapy it was.
A heavy sigh. Half ten already. Dishes to clear, a quick wash, then bed.
She crept in at half eleven. James was already asleep. His phone buzzed—a text.
*Who messages this late?* Probably the bank.
She barely closed her eyes before the alarm blared at five-thirty.
*Did I even sleep?*
She splashed her face, gulped coffee, then started breakfast.
James appeared at six.
“Porridge and toast *again*?” He scowled before even sitting.
“Morning, James.”
“My mum always made pancakes or crumpets. From you? Nothing!” He shoved the porridge bowl spitefully.
“James, I just don’t have time weekdays. Weekends, I cook properly. And fried food every morning isn’t healthy—”
“So now I’m stuck choking down this rubbish! You had time to sit around all day!”
“Please, lower your voice—you’ll wake the kids. And I forgot eggs at the shops!”
“What kind of wife are you? ‘Forgot.’ ‘Too busy.’ You don’t even work! Other women manage! This house is unbearable!”
Sophie’s cries cut him off.
“I’ve a feeling your mum’s poisoning you against me.”
“Don’t you dare drag her into this! Go mind the kids!” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
She regretted the fight. Things were bad enough without petty rows.
The day rolled on—washing faces, breakfast, cleaning. Cooking lunch and dinner simultaneously, fielding constant demands.
After naptime, they went to the park.
“Mum, let’s go to the swings in the next square,” Oliver begged.
“Alright, love.”
They’d barely arrived when a voice called out.
“Emily! Long time no see!”
“Liz! Look how big Charlie’s got!” She ruffled her friend’s son’s hair.
“And yours! But you’ve lost weight—are you ill?” Liz frowned.
“Just busy. Two kids…”
“Love, you’ve got to take time for yourself. Doesn’t James help? I make my Dave pitch in—we made these kids together!”
“James works late…”
“So? Dave’s no layabout. But it’s no hassle spending time with your own child!”
They chatted until Liz invited them to the new play area at the shopping centre. Emily hesitated—money was tight. James was eyeing a new car.
Liz insisted.
At the café, Liz studied her.
“Em, you’re jumpy. Everything okay?”
“Just tired.”
“Tell James to step up. My Dave—” Liz froze.
“What?”
“Em… isn’t that James with some girl?”
Emily turned. A few seconds later, she faced away, tears falling. James was kissing a woman near the escalators.
“The absolute *rat*! Not even hiding it! Em, if that were Dave—”
Emily covered her face.
*****
“Texting your girlfriend?” Emily asked that evening as James ate.
*”What?* What’re you on about?”
“I saw you today. At the shopping centre. Buying her gifts?”
A pause.
“You’re spying now? *I* should be asking what *you* were doing there! Lazing about while I work!”
“Yes, I’ve got a girlfriend. So? Look at you—would *you* want to be seen with you?”
“I want a divorce.”
*”What?* Don’t be daft!”
A few days later, she filed. The court granted her full custody. She moved back to her hometown, stayed with her parents until she got a job, then a mortgage.
“You can’t take them away!” James yelled.
“I can. You’re welcome to visit. But we both know you wouldn’t—kids don’t interest you. Or your mother.”
He went silent. For once, he had no comeback. Probably because, deep down, he knew she was right.
