*”She really does look stunning. And I’d stopped noticing,”* Victor thought to himself.
The morning was as hectic as ever. Emma had made breakfast and woken little Sophie. Her husband had commandeered the bathroom, forcing her to wash their daughter in the kitchen. In her rush, she knocked a mug off the table with a towel. The noise brought her husband running. Emma handed him Sophie and bent down to pick up the shattered pieces.
*”Okay, think that’s everything.”* She scrambled to get dressed.
*”I’ve got to dash—you take Sophie to nursery. Big day today,”* she called from the hallway, zipping up her boots. *”I’m presenting my pitch. If it goes well, I’ll lead the whole project—good money, experience, and professional respect.”*
She threw on her coat, gave herself a final critical glance in the mirror, snatched her handbag, and bolted out the door before Victor could protest.
He finished his toast and coffee while Sophie stood beside him, watching.
*”Want some?”*
She nodded.
*”No, you won’t eat your porridge at nursery.”*
Sophie grimaced at the mention of porridge.
*”Lots of things I don’t like either. Like Mummy rushing out every morning. Doesn’t look like we’re fixing that anytime soon.”* Victor dropped his empty cup in the sink.
Dressing Sophie was a battle—her tights kept twisting, and her mittens had mysteriously migrated to the radiator. By the time they finally tumbled out the door, both were flustered. Victor scooped Sophie up and hurried down the stairs.
At the nursery, he handed her over, but the teacher started explaining something.
*”Sorry, I’m late,”* he cut in, fleeing like a guilty man.
Only in the car did he exhale. For a minute, he just sat there, recovering from the morning chaos before driving to work.
The whole way, he stewed. It used to be so easy—Emma at home, the flat tidy, dinner waiting, no stress. Now everything was a race. *This can’t go on.*
Plenty of women would love to stay home. But no, she *needs* independence, a career. Why even get married then? Should’ve stuck to climbing the ladder. He’d talk to her tonight—convince her to quit. They didn’t *need* the money. The thought lifted his mood.
Work distracted him until lunch, when Emma texted: *”Running late—please pick Sophie up.”*
Fantastic. There went his plan for a pint with mates. His spirits crashed.
That evening, Emma burst in, radiant, still in her coat. *”You won’t believe it—my pitch was a hit! I’m leading the project! Congrats, me!”* She offered her cheek. He kissed it.
*”Not happy for me?”* She caught his gloom.
*”Oh, thrilled. Wife’s got a fancy career now. No time for us. Brilliant,”* he sneered.
*”What’s your problem? Jealous I’m succeeding while you’re stuck as a middling manager?”*
*”Jealous? You barely see Sophie! Soon she won’t even know you. What, my salary not enough?”*
*”Stop shouting. You’re not worried about her—you’re threatened. Yes, I’ll earn more. And you hate it. I want to *do* things, not rot at home. I want to look good—like when you fell for me. Was that a lie?”*
Victor floundered. She wasn’t wrong.
*”That was *before*. Now we’ve got a child who needs her mother!”*
*”She needs a father too. Men love dumping everything on women. *You* look after her then!”*
The argument escalated. Neither backed down. They went to bed furious, facing opposite walls—until, in sleep, Emma’s hand drifted to his chest, and he covered it with his own. Dreams didn’t hold grudges.
Next morning, Victor rose early, hoping to escape first. But Emma was already making breakfast, rousing Sophie. He sighed and went to shave. The routine repeated: coffee spilled, Sophie tangled in her tights, Emma already at the door.
*”I can’t pick Sophie up today—”* The door slammed.
*”Bloody hell!”* He flung his shirt across the bed.
This wasn’t the family he’d imagined. His mother never worked—home-cooked meals, perfect house, waiting on his father. No fights. Why couldn’t *they* have that?
At work, Margot cornered him. Once, they’d had a fling—before Emma. Actually, *because* of Emma, he’d ended it.
*”You’ve been off lately,”* she said.
*”Have I?”* He dumped instant coffee into a mug.
*”Grumpy, dishevelled. Marriage not the fairytale you hoped?”*
*”We’re fine. Just adjusting to Emma working.”* He glanced up. Margot’s glossed lips curved knowingly. She looked straight out of *Vogue*.
*”You’re always so busy. Need help? I could fetch Sophie from nursery—you collect her from mine later.”* She leaned in. *”You haven’t visited in ages.”* Her fingers brushed his collar.
Victor caught her wrist. *Sophie babbling to Emma, “Auntie Margot picked me up—”*
*”No. We’re done. I’ve got work.”* He left, coffee forgotten.
Emma came home late again. They didn’t fight—just silence. She knew what loomed if this continued. She loved her job, but she loved *them* more. That night, she reached for him. He turned away.
She lay awake, thinking. *Quit now, and in two years, who’d hire her? But Victor wasn’t wrong—she’d been neglecting them. More money meant holidays, no scrimping. But Margot was circling—Victor had admitted that years ago, to avoid surprises.*
*No. Others manage both. So can I. No late nights, move meetings earlier. Why do I do everything? Let the team pull their weight. Sorted.* She settled into the pillow.
Next day, Emma was on TV—*”rising star,”* discussing her project. When asked how she balanced work and family, she smiled. *”I’ve a brilliant husband who supports me.”*
*”She really does look stunning. And I’d stopped noticing,”* Victor thought.
*”Saw your little wife on telly,”* Margot murmured later.
*”Stop following me.”* Her kohl-rimmed eyes flashed, then cooled, feline.
*”And if I am? She told the *nation* what a gem you are. Men like you shouldn’t be wasted on one woman.”*
*”Enough. Alex fancies you—go bother him.”* He walked off, abandoning his coffee.
His mother called after seeing the segment. *”So you cook and clean now? Starving, I bet. A wife should be *home*—”*
*”Stay out of it, Mum. We’ll figure it out. You stayed home—I never knew what to say when kids asked, ‘What does your mum do?’ Dad strayed *because* you were just… *there*.”*
A pause. *”You knew?”*
*”Of course. You thought martyrdom earned love. Dad wanted *alive* women. Remember when you harassed his mistress into resigning?”*
*”Fine. Your life.”* A shaky breath.
*”Sorry, I didn’t mean— Come visit Sunday. Or we’ll come for pancakes. Teach Emma— yours are genius. I love her, Mum. No one else.”*
Next day, Emma didn’t ask him to collect Sophie. Assuming she’d forgotten, he went after work. The teacher beamed. *”Mummy already picked her up.”*
*”Seriously?”* He hurried home.
*”You’re back early! Project axed? Fired?”* he joked, stepping inside.
*”No. Just… trying to reset.”* She chewed her lip. *”Though I *am* itching to call—”*
*”They’ll manage. Smells amazing—”* The doorbell rang.
*”Mum?”* Victor gaped.
She surveyed the flat—clean, Victor’s ironed shirt hung ready, Emma cooking *actual* food, Sophie “helping” with salad. Not the disaster she’d feared.
After dinner, Emma and Sophie washed up while Victor and his mother talked.
*”You *are* happy. I raised you right—because I was *there*, not exhausted from work—”*
*”Mum—”*
*”No, you *were* right. Kids *should* outdo us. My mum stayed home too—I thought that was *life*. But it’s *partnership*. Emma’s teaching Sophie teamwork. A wife shouldn’t be *good*—she should be *lAnd as the years rolled on, they learned that love wasn’t about who did what, but about doing it together—messy, imperfect, and still somehow right.
