**Diary Entry**
That was the final straw.
“Enough! My patience has run out!” shouted James the moment he and Emily stepped into their flat. “Will you ever learn to hold your tongue?”
“What on earth did I say wrong?” Emily retorted, crossing her arms.
“You’re seriously asking?” James scoffed, his lips twisting into an unpleasant smirk. “You’ve crossed every line, my dear. It’s high time you were taught some manners.”
“James, what’s the problem, exactly?” Emily took a step back, eyes narrowing.
“The problem is your attitude—unacceptable, to say the least! Tiny little thing, yet so full of yourself!”
“Not all of us can be lumbering giants like you!” she shot back. “A woman’s supposed to be delicate and refined!”
“And quiet, obedient, and submissive—qualities you sorely lack!” James unbuckled his belt and yanked it free. “Time for some old-fashioned discipline.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Emily retreated further. “You’re not actually going to hit me?”
“Discipline,” he corrected, baring his teeth. “And punishment for that sharp tongue of yours. You nearly gave my mother a heart attack today!”
“Well, maybe she shouldn’t spout nonsense!” Emily snapped. “Why on earth should I take off my shoes—which, by the way, I brought in a bag—just to wear her smelly slippers? I won’t hobble around like some shrinking violet!”
“Perfectly decent slippers!” James advanced. “For guests!”
“Since when do guests wash dishes and scrub the stove?” Emily tilted her head. “And I don’t take orders from anyone!”
“Which is exactly why you’re getting this! You’re my wife, yet you act like some spoilt princess. Time you learned respect—for me and my parents!”
“Maybe they should behave decently first!” Emily darted into the next room. “They’re rude, and I’m just supposed to stay quiet? You should’ve stood up for me! Look how small and fragile I am, and they still bully me!” She pouted but kept a wary eye on him.
“If you acted according to your size and station, no one would dare!” James growled. “But no—you’ve got opinions. Well, I’ll beat them out of you!”
“Please don’t!” Her voice trembled. “You’ll hurt me!”
“Damn right I will,” he said smugly. “You’ll remember your place for the rest of your life. Petite but acting like the Queen herself!”
“Stop!” she shrieked, pressing against the wall, curling into a ball. “Please, don’t!”
James closed in, belt raised. “Oh, I will. Stubborn little brats like you need it knocked into them!”
—
Meeting Emily’s parents had left a lasting impression on James.
Her father, Edward—who insisted on being called “Dad Ed”—had gripped his hand in an enthusiastic shake before pulling him into a bear hug.
“Son! I’d do anything for you! Always wanted a lad—Margaret only gave me a daughter and called it quits! Dreamed of fishing trips, football matches, hunting! Proper father-son things! None of this frilly nonsense! But with you, son-in-law, we’ll make up for lost time!”
“Pleased to meet you, Dad Ed,” James said awkwardly. “Though I’m not much of a fisherman.”
“Nonsense! Neither was I at first!” Dad Ed laughed. “Point is, I’ve got a son now! I’ll teach you everything—whatever you want!”
“If there’s time…”
“You don’t understand how happy this makes me!” Edward’s eyes glistened. “With them, it’s all chatter about nonsense.” He jerked his head toward Emily and Margaret. “But you and I—we can talk cars, space, anything! Finally, a break from this house of women!”
Margaret gently steered her husband aside, inviting James to sit. “It’s a sore spot,” she murmured apologetically. “Five sisters, works in a female-dominated office. Nearly walked out of the hospital when he heard it wasn’t a boy. Now he’s got you to share his woes.”
“I’ll do my best,” James said humbly.
“I’m sure you will.” Margaret smiled. “You’ve no idea how he longed for a son. Even tried raising Emily like a lad—thank goodness I stepped in. A girl should be gentle, sweet, refined.” She shot her husband a look. “Not whatever you were trying to mould!”
Edward scowled at his wife, then Emily, before beaming at James.
“See?” Margaret sighed. “Still holds a grudge. Sometimes he’ll rush in, eager to share something, then remembers it’s ‘not for women.’ Waves it off, mutters, and storms out. Some days, we barely exchange two words. But since you came along—” She patted James’s arm. “He’s a new man! Though if he bothers you, just say so. I’ll rein him in.”
“No, not at all! I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly.”
“Good!”
True to his word, Dad Ed claimed James as his personal confidant, unloading his grievances immediately.
“You’ve no idea how thrilled I am to have another man in the family! Together, we’ll outnumber them! Living like this is unbearable! Swear once—just once—and it’s all ‘This isn’t a barracks!’ and ‘Where are your manners?’ Margaret starts with ‘This isn’t a beach—cover up!’ Then Emily chimes in—‘Ew, Dad!’” He slashed a hand across his throat. “Their ‘ews’ are choking me!”
“Delicate sensibilities,” James offered.
“Too delicate! Dragged me to the theatre—absolute rubbish on stage. ‘I love you, I hate you!’ Everyone miserable in turns! I slipped out at intermission and never returned. They nagged me raw! Never went again. Played chauffeur instead—drop off, pick up. But them? Galleries, concerts, operas! Nearly died of their ‘refinement’!”
“A woman’s meant to be cultured,” James said.
“Margaret, fine—I chose her for her quiet ways. But I thought she’d give me a son! Then it’d be perfect. Instead—” He waved dismissively. “God gave me a daughter. Only good thing she did was bring you home!”
“We’ll be living separately after the wedding,” James reminded him.
“Exactly! Lock your refined lady away—let her cook! I’ll do the same with mine. Then you and I can enjoy life like proper men!”
From these rants, James gathered Edward barely tolerated his daughter. Margaret had raised her, and the two were near inseparable—petite, sharp-witted, and strong-willed. Well-educated, neither shied from voicing opinions—often to their detriment.
“Emily, darling,” James would plead, “must we argue? Art’s subjective.”
“Yes, we must!” she’d insist. “Truth must prevail!”
“Suppose it does—we’ll still quarrel. What difference does Monet or Manet make?”
“Just admit you’re conceding!” She’d stick out her tongue, laughing.
Then came worse clashes.
“Was silence so hard? Shove those boxes in the loft, bin them later—easy!” James groaned.
“If you meant to toss them, why bring them home?” Emily frowned.
“For God’s sake, was it worth upsetting my mother? We’re not planning children yet, but she’s sentimental!”
“Then she should keep her sentiments to herself!” Emily huffed.
“It’s four boxes of childhood junk, not a national crisis!”
“No thanks! I’ll buy new things for our child—not dusty relics from your mum’s attic!”
“Why tell her that? She was on sedatives for days!”
“Why blame me? If you didn’t want them, you should’ve refused! Be a man—say it’s outdated clutter! If memories matter, let her keep them!”
“Enough!” James snapped. “I’ll apologise to her—”
“If she foists that junk on you, dump it in a skip! Don’t bring it home!”
“Listen!” He glared. “I’ll smooth things over. And you—try not to provoke her again. An apology would make me very happy.”
“For your happiness, then,” Emily muttered. “But not today—I need to calm down.”
Emily never warmed to his parents. James made endless trips to apologise for her, then coaxed half-hearted ‘sorrys’ from her.
Two years passed. Then, during another apology visit, his parents, Helen and Richard, steered the conversation elsewhere.
“How long will you blush for that wife of yours?” Richard demanded. “A grown man grovelling—disgraceful! And not even for your own mistakes!”
“That insufferable shrew!” Helen finished.
“Son, I know you’ve built a life together, but her behaviour
