Emma slammed her fist on the kitchen counter, sending ripples through her untouched tea. The china rattled, threatening to topple.
“You—you’re unbelievable! Your godforsaken job, your urgent calls, your endless trips to Manchester!” Her hand swiped across the surface, sending the mug crashing against the tile. Dark liquid splattered like ink.
“Stop being hysterical,” James muttered, his voice maddeningly calm. It made her blood boil hotter. He stood there like a statue while her entire body trembled. “I can’t cancel this trip. This is about the CFO position.”
“The CFO position?” She choked on her own fury. “Your career always comes first! You missed Lily’s graduation, forgot our anniversary even though I reminded you a week in advance! And now—now this! Alfie’s surgery is in two days, and you’re jetting off to bloody Scotland!”
“Edinburgh,” he corrected automatically, then flinched.
“As if it matters!” She threw her arms up. “You won’t be there when our son is terrified out of his mind, when I’m losing mine with worry! All for some pointless contract!”
James exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Stubble shadowed his jaw, exhaustion darkening his eyes, but his voice stayed stubborn.
“This contract is twenty years of work, Em. It’s not just tonsils—it’s routine. Not some brain tumour.”
“And what if something goes wrong?” Her nails bit into her palms. “What then, eh?”
“Nothing will.” His dismissive wave only stoked her rage. “I spoke to the surgeon myself.”
“Fantastic,” she snapped. “Because doctors are never wrong.”
“Sit down,” he hissed, shoulders tensing. “If there’s an emergency, I’ll be on the first flight back. Like when Lily had her appendix out, remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” she spat. “You stumbled in eight hours too late. The nurses had clocked off by then—heroic timing, really.”
James shook his head.
“I’m not made of elastic, Em. I’m killing myself to give you this life. Or did you forget nagging me about the new house? ‘Let’s move, the neighbours are loud, the Tube’s too far—'”
“I’d take that cramped flat in Hackney over this!” Her voice cracked. “At least then we’d have a proper father for our kids—not some weekend guest who brings paychecks instead of presence!”
He collapsed onto a chair, the wood groaning under his weight.
“We agreed on this. You handle home, I handle the bills. What changed?”
Emma opened her mouth, but the front door burst open. Backpacks hit the floor, children’s laughter flooding the hall.
“Later,” she muttered, forcing a smile so brittle it hurt.
James pulled out his laptop. The presentation loomed—another spreadsheet in a life that had become one.
—
Later, alone in the dim kitchen, Emma scrolled mindlessly through her phone. The numbness had settled in. Twenty-two years of marriage, reduced to debits and credits.
James entered, sinking into the chair opposite.
“Coffee?” she asked flatly.
“Please.” He rubbed his temples. “We need to talk.”
“About what?” The kettle clicked on. “You leave in two days. Alfie and I will manage.”
“Listen—” He reached for her shoulder, but she sidestepped. “This matters. To me.”
“More than us?” Her eyes held exhaustion, not anger.
“It’s for you,” he said softly. “Everything I do—”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s for your ego. Your pride. We’ve been background noise for years.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Alfie asked if his op could wait until your trip was over—so you wouldn’t ‘miss important work.’ He’s ten, James. Already scheduling his life around your absences.”
James flinched.
“And Lily?” Emma continued. “She asked if you’d come to her uni graduation. Not because she wants you there—but because she’s scared you’ll cancel.”
“I’ll be there,” he muttered.
“You’ll ‘try.'” Her laugh was bitter. “Like always.”
Silence stretched. The fridge hummed.
“Maybe you should talk to someone,” he ventured. “A therapist.”
“Ah, yes. The problem is me.” She ground coffee beans with unnecessary force. “Not my absent husband—just my inability to grin through it.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Name Alfie’s teacher,” she challenged. “Or Lily’s dissertation topic.”
His silence was answer enough.
“You’ve missed our life, James. And you’re still missing it.”
—
The hospital corridor buzzed with noise. Emma clenched her handbag strap, watching the clock. Alfie had been in surgery for an hour—twenty minutes longer than promised.
Lily tapped her phone, but her eyes flicked to the doors every few seconds.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked suddenly.
“Meeting.” Emma checked her phone—no missed calls.
“Shocker.”
Just then, the surgeon emerged, mask dangling. “All went well. He’s in recovery.”
Emma’s knees wobbled. Lily squeezed her hand.
“Text Dad,” the girl urged.
No reply.
Later, over tepid tea, Lily stared into her cup. “Are you divorcing?”
Emma choked. “Why would you—?”
“You fight when you think we can’t hear.” Lily’s voice was small. “And you’re always sad when he leaves.”
Emma studied her daughter—when had she grown so sharp?
“Your father and I… we’re figuring things out.”
“Like Sophie’s parents did?” Lily traced the rim of her cup. “She said that too. Before they split.”
Emma hesitated. “Would that… upset you?”
Lily shrugged. “Dunno. He’s barely here anyway.”
A text finally arrived: *In a summit. Alfie ok?*
Emma typed back, hands stiff.
*You tell me.*
—
James called that night, voice frayed. “How is he?”
“Fine. Temperature’s up, but normal.” She stared at the family photo on the fridge—Cornwall, five years ago, all of them sunburned and grinning.
“Em, I’d be there if—”
“Save it.”
A beat. Then, quietly: “I spoke to the board. If I land this role, I’ll have more control. More time.”
*If.* The word hung between them.
“Will you be at Lily’s graduation?” Emma asked instead.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
She exhaled. “Prove it.”
—
Alfie’s crayon scraped across paper, crafting a lopsided aeroplane.
“Look, Mum! Dad’s flying home in this one.”
Emma tucked the drawing on the fridge—next to the older, fading photos.
“Course he is, love,” she murmured. *He’d better be.*
