“The Broom” for Victor—and for the Whole Family
Victor walked into the flat as usual, tossed his keys onto the side table, and headed straight for the kitchen. Emma stood by the stove, stirring a pot of pumpkin porridge—their children’s favourite. He didn’t even say hello.
“Where’s the broom?” he snapped over his shoulder, his voice sharp with annoyance.
“What broom?” Emma turned, confused, trying to make sense of his mood.
“The regular one. For the floors. It’s a pigsty in here—can’t you keep the place clean?” he sneered, already walking out before she could reply.
Emma stood frozen, watching him leave. It didn’t make sense—what had happened to the man who used to call her “Emmy” and would wash the dishes without being asked?
Not long ago, things had been different. Victor would come home, hang up his jacket, and grab the hoover first thing. He never split chores into “men’s” and “women’s” work—he just did them. With care. After supper, he’d pull Emma close, insisting she relax while he scrubbed the pans.
Their life had been full—parties, cinema trips, nights out with friends. Then their daughter was born. Victor had glowed with pride. Two years later, their son arrived. Everyone admired them: the perfect couple, golden children, a love to envy.
“You’re so lucky, Em,” her friends would say. “Men like that don’t exist anymore.”
Emma believed their love was real. And everlasting.
But slowly, things shifted. Victor started coming home irritable. His patience vanished, his tenderness dried up.
“Why is everything always a mess?” he’d demand. “I’m working all day—can’t you even manage dinner? What do you do all day?”
Emma tried to explain—how their son had spilled porridge everywhere, how their daughter had chased him, smearing the walls. How she’d cleaned, laundered, soothed. But Victor wouldn’t listen. He was angry. Exhausted. A stranger.
Once, while chopping onions, she couldn’t tell—were the tears from the knife or the ache in her chest?
“Mum warned me,” she whispered. “Don’t spoil a man. Love’s one thing, but you can’t strip yourself bare for someone else. He’ll take and take and never say thanks.”
She’d been sure she and Victor were meant to be. Hadn’t she known him without words? But now… now it felt like a delusion.
And Victor? He took her silence as guilt. His judgement filled the house. Emma felt her world cracking.
Then, as if their guardian angel stepped in—
A call from work. A position had opened, one they’d wanted Emma for. Better pay, shorter hours. Her colleague had retired. If she said yes, the job was hers.
Her mother promised to mind the kids until nursery started. Emma, suddenly hopeful, booked a haircut, bought new clothes. It was time to find herself again.
Meanwhile, Victor… lost his job. His company folded. He tried to keep up appearances:
“I’ll handle the kids, don’t worry. Updating my CV, checking listings. If needed, your mum can step in.”
Emma didn’t argue. She nodded, steady. For the first time in ages—calm.
Two weeks in, Emma settled into her new role. At home, things seemed fine. But by month’s end, she noticed—dirt gathered unscrubbed, laundry piled unsorted, the children fussier. Victor grew snappish. One evening, she remarked lightly:
“Seems you’ve let things slide. I’m working, bringing in wages, but the house is a tip.”
Her tone wasn’t cruel—just instructive. Victor wilted. He understood.
“Em… I’ve been an idiot. Only now I see what you carried,” he admitted that night. “This morning, the kids fought over a toy. While I broke it up, the porridge burned. Had to make omelettes—Oliver refused his. Cleaning the hob, Sophie knocked over milk. Then, of all times—a video call for an interview. I answered in panic, apron on. But… they offered me the job. Start next week. Your mum still good with the kids?”
Emma nodded. Quiet filled her eyes—the kind that comes when everything finally falls into place.
Now she knew—he’d felt it. Lived it. No more lectures about brooms. He’d value her. Not because he had to—but because he’d learned.
That evening, they sat together, sipping tea. Sophie scribbled at the table. Oliver stacked blocks.
Emma caught Victor’s eye and smiled—really smiled—for the first time in forever.
He held her gaze.
“Sorry I was blind,” he murmured. “Can I make dinner tomorrow?”
“Go on,” Emma smirked. “But leave the broom alone. It’s my sceptre now.”
They both laughed. And for the first time in far too long—it was together.
