The Love Has Faded.
“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” remarked William, sitting at the kitchen table late in the evening, watching his wife.
Eleanor said nothing, simply sliding the reheated dinner toward him.
“Late again?” she murmured.
“Took on extra shifts… bonus at the end of the quarter.”
William, a thirty-five-year-old banker, a tall, well-built man who looked younger than his years, had just returned home. His family waited—his wife and their three daughters: six, four, and the baby barely a year old. Lately, though, for nearly two years now, he dreaded stepping through that door. Lingering at the office, wandering the streets of London… only returning when the hour grew late. The chaos had worn him raw—shrill laughter, endless tantrums, nappies, onesies… the restless cries in the night and Eleanor herself, always buried under the weight of motherhood. Untidy, exhausted, always in that same old dressing gown, her hair tied back carelessly, dark circles beneath her hollow eyes.
Seven years ago, when he’d married the vibrant beauty from his department, had he ever imagined domestic life would become such a burden? Such a bitter disappointment? No, the early years had been sweet—when their first daughter arrived. He’d helped then, given her weekends off for the salon, for manicures, anything to ease the load. But within a year, Eleanor was pregnant again. They’d agreed: two children, quick and done. Yet their second was a nightmare—screaming through the night until dawn, leaving him red-eyed and hollow-cheeked at work. Half a year passed before she settled, and life grew bearable. The girls started nursery, Eleanor even returned to work briefly… then—another shock. Another pregnancy.
He had fought it. Argued. “Where would we put another? They’re still so young—there are clinics, procedures. We could afford it.”
But Eleanor had wept, raged, refused. In the end, he relented—hoping for a son.
Her pregnancy was hell. Constant hospital stays. And him? Left juggling two children alone—nursery runs, laundry, cleaning. No help to be found. Her parents lived thousands of miles away in Scotland, and his own mother—frail, elderly—needed care herself.
The third child was no easier. A restless infant, only soothed in Eleanor’s arms—arms that never seemed free.
Slowly, the thought crystallised: he didn’t want to come home.
“What have these seven years been?” The question gnawed at him. “The first year—cinemas, cafés, weekends away. Even Brighton once. And after? Just… nappies. Screaming. Sleepless nights.”
He no longer desired her. Intimacy felt like a chore. Evenings, he lingered at the office until the girls were asleep. Could hardly bear to look at Eleanor—pity twisted in his gut at what had become of her. But mostly, he pitied himself. Something had to change. He couldn’t endure this.
At work, colleagues boasted of Maldives holidays, asked when he’d whisk his family off somewhere lavish—his salary certainly allowed it. He stayed silent. How could he admit he yearned to run? To vanish for days, weeks, maybe forever.
“William…” Eleanor’s voice was barely audible. “I’m pregnant again.”
The spoon froze halfway to his lips.
“Have you lost your mind? I don’t even remember the last time we—!” His voice cracked like a whip.
“Twelve weeks… it’s too late now,” she whispered.
“You’re insane. That’s it—I’m done. This isn’t living, it’s a bloody prison! Look at yourself—when was the last time you even got your hair done? You swore you were careful! Christ, you look half-dead. I can’t do this. I’m leaving. Keep the house, the kids—deal with it alone!”
“Where will you go?” A tear slipped down her cheek. “What about us?”
“I’m taking the car. Staying with Mother. I can’t stand the sight of you.”
He shoved back from the table, storming toward the door.
“Never in my worst nightmares,” he spat, wrenching it open. “‘Family life’—more like a life sentence.”
The slam echoed through the flat long after he was gone.
