“She really does look lovely. And I’d stopped noticing,” James thought to himself.
The morning was as chaotic as ever. Emily had made breakfast and woken little Sophie. Her husband had taken over the bathroom, so she washed their daughter in the kitchen instead. As she reached for a towel, she accidentally knocked a mug off the table. The noise brought James running. She asked him to hold Sophie while she picked up the shards.
“Right, that’s—” Emily rushed to get dressed.
“I’ve got to go—you drop Sophie off today,” she called from the hallway, tugging up the zip on her boots. “Big presentation today. If it goes well, they’ll put me in charge of the whole project. More money, experience, references.”
She threw on her coat, gave herself a final critical glance in the mirror, snatched her handbag, and bolted out the door before James could even protest.
He finished his toast and coffee while Sophie stood beside him, watching.
“Want some?”
She nodded.
“Nah, better not—you won’t eat your porridge at nursery.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose at the mention of porridge.
“Plenty of things I don’t like either. Like your mum rushing off all the time. Doesn’t look like that’ll change.” He dropped his empty plate in the sink.
Dressing Sophie turned into a battle against twisted tights. Then he spent ages hunting for her mittens—only to find them on the radiator. Finally, sweaty and dishevelled, they left the flat. James hoisted Sophie onto his hip and jogged down the stairs.
At nursery, he handed her over, but the teacher started explaining something.
“Sorry—late!” he cut in, sheepishly escaping.
Only in the car did he relax, taking a moment to recover before driving to work. The whole way, he brooded over how much simpler life had been when Emily stayed home. No mad dashes, just coming back to a tidy house smelling of dinner. This couldn’t go on.
Plenty of women would kill to stay home. But no—Emily had to be independent. Career-driven. Why even get married, then? He’d persuade her to quit. They didn’t need the money. The thought cheered him.
Work distracted him until lunch, when a text came: *Running late—can you pick Sophie up?*
Brilliant. There went his pub plans with the lads. His mood plummeted again.
That evening, James was frying potatoes when Emily burst in, radiant. Still in her coat, she breezed into the kitchen.
“You’ll never guess—my presentation was a hit! They’ve put me in charge! Congrats, eh?” She tilted her cheek up. He pecked it.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” she asked, noticing his scowl.
“Thrilled. Just brilliant. Wife climbing the ladder while our kid barely sees her. Perfect.”
“Is this jealousy? Because I’m actually good at my job while you’re still stuck as a middle manager?”
“Jealous? You’re never here! Sophie won’t know who you are soon. What, my salary not enough?”
“Don’t shout. This isn’t about her—it’s your ego. Yes, I’ll earn more. And it burns you up. I want to *work*, James. To look sharp. That’s the woman you fell for—wasn’t it?”
He floundered. She wasn’t wrong.
“But we’ve a child now. She needs her mum.”
“She needs her dad too. Men love dumping parenthood on women. Well, step up.”
It escalated. Neither backed down. They went to bed furious—though in sleep, Emily’s hand found his chest, and he covered it gently.
Next morning, James rose early, hoping to slip out first. But Emily was already making breakfast, rousing Sophie. He sighed and went to shave. The chaos repeated: spilled coffee, tangled tights, then Emily at the door, ready.
He yelled that he couldn’t collect Sophie later. The door slammed.
“Bloody hell!” He flung his shirt onto the bed.
This wasn’t the family he’d envisioned. His own mum had stayed home—cooking, waiting, helping with homework. No rows. Why couldn’t they have that?
At work, Charlotte cornered him. They’d had a fling years back—before Emily. Actually, Emily was why it ended.
“You’ve been off lately,” she said.
“How?” He scooped instant coffee into a mug.
“Grumpy. Domestic bliss not so blissful?”
“We’re fine. Just adjusting to Emily working.” He filled his cup, glancing up.
Her red lips curved knowingly. She looked straight off a magazine cover.
“You’re swamped. Need help? I could fetch Sophie—keep her till you’re free.” She leaned closer. “You’ve not visited in ages.” Her fingers brushed his collar.
He caught her wrist. “No. We’re done, remember?” The thought of Sophie mentioning “Auntie Charlotte” later… He left.
That night, Emily was late again. They didn’t argue—just stewed silently. She knew what grated at him, where this tension led. She didn’t want to lose him—but loved her job too. In bed, she tried to hug him. He turned away.
Staring at the ceiling, she weighed options. Quitting now—just as she was excelling—meant someone else would take her place. But James had a point. Weekends were just her glued to her laptop.
And he was fit. Plenty of women at his office would pounce if he wavered—Charlotte for starters. He’d confessed their history early, to avoid drama.
*No. Others manage both. So can I. No more overtime. Shift meetings to mornings. And why do I do everything? We’re a team—right?* Decision made, she settled into the pillow.
Next day, Emily appeared on telly as a rising star in her field. Asked how she balanced work and family, she beamed: “Couldn’t do it without my brilliant husband.”
*She really does look lovely,* James realised.
“Saw wifey on telly,” Charlotte purred later.
“Give it a rest,” he said, watching malice flicker in her kohl-rimmed eyes before vanishing.
She smiled, claws sheathed for now. “And why not? Women like her hogging gems like you—it’s selfish.”
“Drop it. Fancy Alex instead—he’s mad for you.” He walked off, leaving his coffee.
His mum rang after the segment.
“So you’re cooking and cleaning now? Going hungry, I bet. A wife should be home, minding her—”
“Butt out, Mum. We’ll sort it. Remember how I never knew what to say when kids asked your job? ‘Just a housewife’—mortifying. Dad strayed because you bored him in that apron.”
“You never said you knew—”
“Would you have listened? You martyred yourself, thinking he’d worship you for it. Instead, he eyed women with *lives*. I even know you went to his mistress—made her quit.”
“Do as you like,” she whispered.
“Mum—sorry. Love you. Come round Sunday? Your pancakes are unbeatable. Teach Emily. I love her too—don’t want anyone else.”
Next evening, expecting to fetch Sophie, the nursery staff said her mum had already collected her.
“Really?” Heart lifting, he hurried home.
“You’re early! Project axed? Sacked?” he joked at the door.
“Just… trying to reset. Though I’m itching to call and check on things,” Emily admitted.
“They’ll manage. Smells amazing—” The doorbell rang.
“Mum?” James blinked at his mother on the doorstep.
She scanned the flat—clean, his ironed shirt hung ready, Emily cooking actual meat while Sophie chopped lettuce.
Over dinner, Emily and Sophie washed up while James and his mum talked.
“You’ve done well. I was right to stay home with you—not exhausted from some office—”
“Mum—”
“No, you were right. Kids should outdo their parents. My own mum stayed home with us three—I just copied her. But teamwork’s better. Emily’s sharp—getting Sophie to help already.” She squeezed his hand. “Glad you’re happy, son.”
With time, things smoothed. Sophie grew, dressing herself for nursery. Emily learned to delegate and keep weekends family-only. James stopped griping. They listened.
To any man reading: cherish your love. Help her. Don’t walk away from your kids.
Happy holidays, all.
