To an outsider, Emily and Daniel’s marriage seemed picture-perfect—harmonious, stable, and loving. Daniel didn’t drink, except on special occasions and then only in moderation. He didn’t smoke, and in eleven years, he’d never once raised his hand to his wife.
There was only one incident, though Emily blamed herself and sometimes confided in her friend:
*”Years ago, we had a silly argument. I lost my temper and went at him—imagine me, a slip of a woman, throwing punches at a man his size. What was I thinking? He just pinned my wrists gently and sat me down on the sofa. Another man might’ve fought back, taught me a lesson. That’s when I realised I was wrong, and I’ve never raised a hand to him since.”*
*”Well I never, Em,”* her friend Claire scoffed. *”Your Daniel could knock you flat with one hand tied behind his back! What woman could ever best a man in a fight?”*
Both were on their second marriages. Emily had left her first husband because he drank too much and picked fights—coming home late when their daughter was asleep, waking her with his shouting, ignoring the chaos he caused. It wore Emily down, and finally, she filed for divorce and moved back with her parents.
*”You did right, love,”* her mother had reassured her. *”Five years with that man, and not a single happy memory. We’ll raise little Sophie together, and you’ll find love again. You’re a catch, you know that.”*
When Sophie turned twelve, Emily married Daniel. They’d met at Claire’s husband’s birthday party at a pub.
*”You look bored,”* he’d said with a disarming smile. *”Fancy a dance?”*
Tall and handsome, he dwarfed Emily, his calm demeanour instantly putting her at ease.
*”Not bored,”* she’d replied, *”but I’ll dance anyway.”*
And so it began. Claire was thrilled—finally, her friend wasn’t alone. By then, Emily and Sophie lived in a modest three-bed semi, inherited from her grandmother. The rooms were small, the building old, but it was home—Sophie had her own space, and Emily was grateful. Daniel moved in soon after, as he’d been living with his mother.
His first marriage hadn’t worked out either. He and his ex, Rebecca, had lived with his mother, and the two women clashed constantly—neither would back down, their rows nearly turning physical.
*”Daniel, where did you find this harpy?”* his mother would snipe the moment he walked in from work. *”I can’t stand sharing a roof with her!”*
*”Daniel,”* Rebecca countered, *”I can’t live with your mother. Get us a flat, or I swear I’ll lose it.”* She was already pregnant, fiery-tempered at the best of times.
So they moved out. Their son arrived, and Daniel tried to help, but Rebecca was never satisfied.
*”We’re skint—your son needs new clothes. Go shopping. Cook dinner—I’m knackered. Take him out, I need a break.”*
He did as she asked, but his mother called daily, lamenting that Rebecca kept her grandson from her.
*”She won’t even let me see him!”*
*”Mum, relax. I’ll bring him round at the weekend.”*
Rebecca would pack their son off with Daniel, then vanish—sometimes coming home late, reeking of booze. She picked fights, called his mother names, until one weekend, she didn’t come home at all. With work the next day, Daniel had to drop their boy at his mother’s. She never missed a chance to berate him—*”Where did you find such a woman?”*
By the time their son turned four, Rebecca dropped the bombshell.
*”I’m leaving. You’re still tied to your mum’s apron strings. I’ve found a real man.”*
So he moved back with his mother—a bitter woman who believed no one was good enough for her son.
At first, Emily and Daniel were happy. The only shadow was his mother, who disapproved of Emily’s past—her child, Sophie, who called her *Gran* in innocence.
*”I’m no gran to you. You’ve got your own.”*
The words stung, but Emily bit her tongue. She was right—Sophie wasn’t hers. The girl spent most of her time at Emily’s parents’ anyway.
Years passed. Sophie left for university, and the couple never had children of their own. Emily tried with Daniel’s mother—smiling through the jabs—but warmth never grew.
Yet, as time went on, Daniel changed. He was a brilliant cook—when in the mood. But lately, that mood was rare.
*”I don’t understand, Claire,”* Emily confessed. *”He’s always in a foul temper. No reason for it. Everything I say is wrong, and he drags me down with him. He’s turned into one of those people who only see the worst. Was he always like this, or is it age?”*
Claire frowned. *”I always thought you two were happy. Goes to show—no one really knows what happens behind closed doors.”*
*”He looks for reasons to snap at me, like he’s determined to ruin my day. He’s angry all the time—takes it out on me. At least Sophie’s not here to see it. I keep hoping he’ll change… he doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke—the perfect husband, right?”*
*”Wait—you quit your job?”* Claire blinked. *”I ran into Anna from your office. She told me.”*
*”Had to. Daniel kept accusing me of messaging blokes from work. Every text was a row.”*
It started with: *”You spend too much time with colleagues and friends. Your family should come first.”*
So Emily quit. Stopped seeing friends. The rows stopped—until the next issue.
*”You waste money on nonsense,”* he griped. *”Manicures, new dresses—spend it on the family.”*
*”Fine,”* she agreed. *”You do the shopping now. I’ll give you lists. If you think we don’t need something—don’t buy it. No more arguments.”*
He calmed—briefly. Then found new faults.
*”You only go to the gym to eye up other men. Stop it.”*
So she quit that too.
With too much time on her hands, she wondered—why had he turned into this petty, controlling man? She watched him.
*”Is there someone else? Maybe that’s why he’s so paranoid. I’ve never snooped, but…”*
She checked his phone—no other women. Just his mother, calling constantly. He’d take her calls in another room now.
Emily eavesdropped. Her name came up often. Once, when Daniel was in the shower, she answered.
*”Daniel, did you do as I said?”* The old woman’s voice was sharp. *”Your wife’s out gallivanting while you sit here like a fool. She walks all over you—you’re no man at all.”*
*”Hello, Mum,”* Emily cut in, fighting to keep her voice steady. *”Daniel’s in the shower. I’ll pass that on.”*
No apology came—just venom. *”How dare you touch his phone?”* Then the line went dead.
Emily understood. His mother was poisoning him.
*”Why? I’ve done nothing to her. I’ve always been kind. Why can’t she stand us being happy?”*
Two weeks later, Emily still couldn’t shake it. She realised—his mother thrived on misery. She wanted his life as bleak as hers.
*”What do I do? I can’t cut her off. I love him. I could ignore his moods, but I pity him. He lashes out after her calls, then apologises later. He’s trapped. How do I save him?”*
One idea lingered—*Maybe a therapist?*
For now, that was her only hope.
