– Why are you so quiet and lost in thought today? – William asked his wife as they sat at the kitchen table late in the evening.
Emily, his wife, silently placed the reheated dinner in front of him.
– Late again tonight? – she murmured softly.
– Took on extra work… there’ll be a bonus at the end of the quarter.
William, a thirty-five-year-old bank clerk, tall and well-kept for his age, had just come home from work. His family was waiting for him—Emily and their three daughters: six, four, and a one-year-old. Lately, for about two years now, he’d dreaded returning home. He lingered at the office, wandered through London… only slipping back into their flat late at night. The shrieks of children, the chaos, the nappies, the babygros… the constant crying in the small hours, and Emily—forever preoccupied with the kids, unkempt, wearing an old dressing gown, her hair in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her tired eyes.
When he’d married the radiant beauty from his department seven years ago, did he ever imagine life would become such a burden… such a disappointment? The first years had been happy—their eldest was born. He’d helped with chores, made sure Emily had time on weekends to visit the hairdresser or get her nails done. A year passed, and she was pregnant again—they’d planned to have two children close together, “get it over with,” and stop there. Their second daughter was a difficult baby, screaming at night until she turned six months old. William arrived at work exhausted, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Another half a year, and the child settled. Life improved. The girls started nursery, Emily returned to work… and then—another surprise. She was pregnant again.
He protested—how could they handle another child? But she wept, threw a fit. He argued: “Where will we put another baby? They’re still so little… There are medical options now, minor procedures. Let’s just pay for it.”
Emily wouldn’t budge. He gave in—one more child. He’d hoped for a son.
Her pregnancy was rough—she was often in hospital. He was left managing the two girls: school runs, walks, laundry, cleaning… No one to help. Her parents lived a thousand miles away, up in Scotland. His own mother was elderly, unwell—she needed care herself.
The third baby was just as restless—crying through the night, only calming in Emily’s arms. She never put the little one down.
Slowly, William realised he didn’t want to go home anymore.
*What have I seen these past seven years? The first year, we still went to cinemas, cafés, exhibitions… even holidays by the sea. Then what? Nappies, screaming, baby vests…*
He no longer desired her. Intimacy held no appeal. He came home late, when the children were asleep. He couldn’t bear to look at her—pitied her, what had become of the beauty he married. But more than that, he pitied himself. Something had to change. He couldn’t live like this.
At work, colleagues boasted about trips—holidays in the Maldives. They teased, *When will the family man take his girls to the seaside?* His salary wasn’t small. He stayed silent. How could he admit he wanted to run away, disappear for days—weeks, even?
– Will… I’m pregnant again, – Emily whispered, lowering herself slowly onto a chair.
William froze. The spoonful of soup hovered mid-air.
– Have you lost your mind? I can’t even remember the last time we—! – he shouted.
– Twelve weeks already… too late to do anything, – she said quietly.
– You’re insane! I’ve had enough. This isn’t life, it’s hell! Look at yourself—when was the last time you had your hair done? You swore you were on the pill! You look like a walking corpse. I can’t stand the sight of you. I’m leaving. Keep the kids. Do whatever you want.
– Where will you go? What about us? – A single tear rolled down her cheek.
– You and the girls can have the flat and everything in it. I’ll take the car, stay with Mum. I can’t stand this anymore.
He shoved back his chair, stormed to the front door.
– Never in my worst nightmares. This isn’t living—it’s bloody torture. – The slam of the door shook the walls.
