“Fancy some bangers or scrambled eggs?” asked Eleanor. William sat at the table, scrolling through his phone.
“Bangers. Just no weird seasoning this time,” he muttered.
Eleanor sighed. Little Matilda snoozed in her arms, making cooking a challenge.
“Could you hold Matilda for a bit?” she ventured.
“In a minute, just finishing this,” William waved her off.
Matilda began to fuss. Eleanor tried to soothe her while flipping the sausages. One caught and blackened at the edge.
“Burnt again?” William wrinkled his nose. “Maybe pay more attention?”
“Maybe you could help?” she snapped, turning sharply.
“Here we go… I’ve been at it all day, keeping a roof over our heads.”
“And what am I doing? My shift never ends—twenty-four hours, no breaks.”
Silently, Eleanor slid a plate in front of him. Once, they’d been a team. Now she was dragging the weight alone.
Days blurred into monotony. One evening, Eleanor steeled herself.
“Will, we need to talk. You’re always buried in work, your phone, the telly. What about me? What about Matilda?”
“El, not this again. I do everything for you lot.”
“But that’s not enough! A family isn’t just wages. It’s care, it’s showing up.”
“That’s your job,” he shrugged.
“I need you present. I’m tired of carrying it all.”
“I’m knackered from work. I need downtime.”
“And what do I get?” Her throat tightened.
From the nursery, Matilda began to cry. William didn’t move.
After maternity leave, Eleanor found a new job. Mornings now started at five. William still didn’t lift a finger. One evening, she worked late. The flat was dim when she returned, dishes piled high. William sprawled on the sofa.
“Sort us some dinner?” he said instead of hello.
“Seriously? I’m late, and you couldn’t even wash up?”
“I’m shattered.”
“Where’s Matilda?”
“Asleep. Got her a takeaway pizza.”
Eleanor walked to the kitchen, hands trembling. Later, checking her account, she saw William had taken five hundred quid from her savings—no warning, just a new gaming PC.
“Since when is it *your* money?” he’d said. “We’re supposed to share.”
“Share? Then why is *my* labour never enough when the washing piles up?”
The final straw was Matilda’s birthday. Eleanor spent a week preparing. William promised to leave work early.
*”Sorry, stuck at the office. You’ll manage.”*
The text blazed on her screen. Something inside her snapped. That night, tucking Matilda in, she made a choice.
William came home late, as usual.
“El, iron my shirt for tomorrow. And where’s dinner?”
Slowly, she turned.
“Sort your own meals, your own mess, your own life. I’m not your maid.”
She walked to the bedroom, pulled out a pre-packed bag.
“Where the hell d’you think you’re going?” William blocked the door.
“No—I’m waking up. I’m done.”
“What’s the matter? We’re normal, aren’t we?”
“Normal? Two ghosts sharing a house? You checked out years ago, Will. You’re a stranger, and I’m just the staff.”
She moved past him, lifted a sleepy Matilda from her cot.
“Stop!” He barred the exit. “We’re a family!”
“Family? That died ages ago.”
The cramped rented flat welcomed them with quiet. William’s calls came in waves—threats, then pleas, then empty vows.
“I’ll change,” he promised.
“No, Will. You won’t. Because you don’t even know what’s broken.”
Weeks passed. Eleanor unpacked her new life. She smiled in mornings now, the bone-deep fatigue lifting.
William’s calls grew sparse. Once, he appeared at her work with roses.
“Let’s try again. I get it now.”
“Too late,” she said softly. “Words don’t fix scars.”
Time stretched wider without him. She signed up for classes, met friends, relearned her own voice.
Tonight, in the small rented flat, Eleanor wasn’t lonely. She was whole. And that—despite the fear—was worth every shattered illusion.
