“At home, just sitting around doing nothing.”
“Mum, can we play with my cars? You promised…” five-year-old Oliver pleaded once more, peeking into the kitchen.
Emily glanced first at her son, then at the towering pile of unwashed dishes and the chicken lying patiently on the chopping board. She looked back at her little boy, who stared at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“Ollie, just be patient a little longer, and Mummy will come soon, alright?” she murmured quietly, as if unsure whether that elusive “soon” would ever arrive.
“Not again! You always say that and then never come! I don’t want to play by myself—I don’t!” Oliver shouted before storming off to his room.
The commotion woke baby Sophie, who promptly announced her awakening with loud cries. Emily sank into a chair, cradling her head as if trying to block everything out. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment.
…Emily had always wanted children and loved them dearly. But right now, she’d give anything to be alone—somewhere without endless cleaning, cooking, nappies, speech therapy, walks, bath times, dinners, and bedtime stories.
Plenty of women lived like this, but most had grandparents nearby or helpful husbands. Emily’s situation was different. Her parents lived miles away, her mother-in-law was busy with work and her own life—grandchildren weren’t a priority yet. And her husband, James, almost always came home when the children were already in bed. He had dinner, then retreated to his computer or TV, offering little help. Lately, their relationship had grown tense, even painful…
“Mummmmeee…” came the drawn-out call of one-and-a-half-year-old Sophie.
“Coming, sweetheart, coming!” Emily hurried to the nursery.
She tended to the children, tidied up a bit. After lunch, Oliver had his speech therapy session. While he was occupied, Emily took Sophie to the playground.
By the time they returned, it was nearly evening. Emily bathed the children, fed them dinner. She barely ate herself—just gulped down a quick cup of tea. After clearing their plates, she glanced at the chicken and declared, “No time.” To feed James, she boiled some ready-made dumplings instead.
James arrived close to nine. Emily was used to him coming home in a foul mood.
“I’m home! Why is no one greeting me?” he called from the hallway.
“James, please don’t shout—Sophie’s already asleep,” Emily replied, forcing warmth into her voice to avoid provoking him.
“Lovely. Welcome home, then. Can’t even speak in my own house,” he grumbled, disappearing into the bathroom.
Emily set the table—dumplings on a plate, a side of herbs and sour cream, fresh bread sliced and ready. She boiled the kettle.
“Emily, did you stock up on these stupid dumplings when they were on sale? Am I just supposed to eat nothing else until they’re gone?” James sneered.
“James, just one more night. Tomorrow, like I promised, I’ll roast the chicken,” she said apologetically.
“Last time I’m eating this rubbish. Tomorrow, or I’m not touching it. We had these on Monday and now again!” He scoffed before grudgingly starting his meal.
He didn’t even ask if she’d eaten anything all day. Lately, his wife seemed invisible to him.
“James, put your phone down for five minutes. Tell me about work?”
“Work? Same old rubbish. I’m sick of it, and now you want to talk about it at home?” He shut her down and returned to his screen.
“Fine. Enjoy your meal, I’ll check on the kids.”
“Go ahead,” he muttered.
Emily tucked the children in, turned off the light, and returned to the kitchen.
“I’m going to bed,” James announced flatly, still scrolling as he left.
“Goodnight,” she whispered to the empty air.
Once, he used to kiss her goodnight, wish her sweet dreams. They’d talk for hours after Oliver was asleep, sipping tea, laughing over TV shows. Those warm, tender moments were fading from memory.
Lately, something was off. James was distant, wrapped up in work—or something else entirely.
Since Sophie’s birth, exhaustion had settled into Emily’s bones. She’d hoped Oliver could start nursery, but the speech therapy group was full. Instead, she kept him home and took him to private sessions while on maternity leave.
Emily sighed deeply, checking the clock—half past ten. Dishes needed washing, then a quick shower before bed.
By the time she reached the bedroom, it was nearly midnight. James was already asleep. His phone buzzed with a message.
“Who’s texting this late?” she wondered but dismissed it—just an alert from the network or bank, probably.
She barely closed her eyes before the alarm blared.
“Five-thirty already? Feels like I didn’t sleep at all…” She dragged herself up, showered, and brewed coffee before starting breakfast.
At six, James appeared.
“Porridge and toast *again*?” he groaned.
“Good morning, James.”
“My mum used to make pancakes or cheese toasties. From you, I get cardboard.” He shoved the bowl of porridge irritably.
“James, there’s no time. I cook proper breakfasts on weekends—fried food every day isn’t healthy anyway. Porridge is good for you *and* Oliver.”
“Oh, brilliant. So now I choke this down while you laze about? Could’ve at least scrambled some eggs!”
“First—lower your voice, you’ll wake the kids. Second—I forgot to buy eggs yesterday.”
“What kind of wife are you? Forgetting, failing, never managing! Sitting at home doing nothing while other women handle this easily. You’re unbearable! No wonder my mum—”
Sophie’s cries cut him off.
“I *knew* your mother was turning you against me!”
“Don’t you dare blame her! Go deal with the kids!” James slammed his chair back and stormed out.
By the time Emily settled the children, James had already left for work—no goodbye, just the door slamming behind him.
She regretted another argument. Their marriage was strained enough without these petty clashes.
The day raced on—washing, breakfast, cleaning. She juggled cooking dinner for James and lunch for the kids, fielding constant demands.
After naptime, they went to the park.
“Mum, can we go to the playground with the swings?” Oliver asked.
“Alright, let’s go.”
As they crossed to another block, a familiar voice called out.
“Emily! Long time no see!”
“Oh, Sarah! Look how big your lad is!” Emily ruffled her friend’s son’s hair.
“And yours have grown! But you’ve lost weight—you look pale. Are you ill?”
“No, just juggling two kids…”
“Love, you *must* make time for yourself. Doesn’t James help? I rope Mark in all the time—we made the baby together, so we raise him together!” Sarah laughed.
“Sarah, James works late…”
“So does Mark! Doesn’t mean he can’t parent. Where are you off to?”
“The playground over there. You?”
“We’re heading to the shopping centre. They’ve got a new soft play area—come with us!”
“Oh no, we’ll stay here. Didn’t bring money—we’re saving. James is eyeing a new car.”
“Emily, he *just* bought one! Saw him parked near the centre last week. Buys himself cars but won’t spend on his kids?”
Emily stayed silent. Sarah wasn’t wrong.
“Come on, our treat! We need a proper catch-up!”
At the centre, the older kids tackled an obstacle course while Emily, Sarah, and Sophie settled in a café with ice cream and cakes.
“Emily, you seem… jittery. Everything okay?” Sarah asked carefully.
“Just tired.”
“Love, tell James to step up. You’re letting him off too—” Sarah froze.
“What? What is it?”
“Em… is that *James* with some girl?”
Emily turned. A few seconds later, she looked away, tears spilling silently. There James was, kissing a woman as they left a boutique.
“The *nerve* of him—out in public! Emily, why are you just sitting there? If Mark ever—”
Emily covered her face and sobbed.
*****
“Texting your girlfriend?” Emily asked later as James devoured the roasted chicken, phone in hand.
“What? What’s your problem?”
“My *problem*? I saw you today. At the shopping centre. Buying her gifts?”
James paused.
“Now you’re *spying* on me? Maybe I should ask what *you* were doing there! Lounging about all day, then too tired to function. Fine—yes, there’s someone else. So what? Have you *seen* yourself lately? Looking like a mess—embarrassing to be seen with you!”
“I want a divorce.”
“What?! Don’t be daftJames sneered, but six months later, he stood alone in an empty flat, realizing too late what he’d thrown away.
