Emily had sensed for a while that her marriage to James was crumbling. The warmth between them had faded, replaced by empty routine. Conversations dried up, silently piling up grievances. The air carried an eerie calm, like the lull before a storm.
She waited, pretending things might improve, though deep down, she knew—once she faced the truth, there’d be no turning back. But what then? They had a daughter. She had to think of Sophie.
Emily cooked, kept the flat tidy, made sure Sophie wasn’t out too late and did her homework. Lately, Sophie had her own secrets—typical teenage stuff. But James? His contribution was his paycheck, and that was it.
He never put his phone down. Staring at the screen like an overgrown teenager.
Then Emily fell ill. A fever, pounding headache, every muscle aching. She asked James to sort dinner—Sophie was out with friends again.
“Come on, tea and toast will do,” James replied.
Too weak to argue, Emily drifted in and out of sleep. Two days later, she dragged herself to the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dishes, not a clean mug in sight. The bin reeked, stacked with empty pizza boxes. His shirts clogged the washing machine, sand gritted underfoot in the hallway, and the fridge was empty. She cleaned, cooked, and collapsed by evening.
After dinner, another mountain of dishes. Emily nearly cried. Resentment burst through.
“Enough. I’m not your maid. I work just like you, then come home to this. Couldn’t you even rinse a plate?”
“You’d wash them anyway,” James said flatly.
“Take the rubbish out tomorrow before work. I’ll leave the bag by the door.”
“Fine.” Eyes still on his phone.
“Not *fine*. Don’t forget.” Exhaustion crept into her voice. “You used to help—even hoovered. I’m not asking for the moon, just take out the trash. Are you listening?”
“What?” He barely glanced up. “I *do* stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Why the fuss? You’re the woman—it’s your job. I bring in the money. What more d’you want? Two women in the house, and I’m washing plates?”
“Did you just call our daughter a *woman*?”
“Speaking of, where is she? Your parenting—letting her roam. Over a *plate*.”
“It’s not the plate. It’s you not caring—treating me like a servant—”
“Christ! Nag, nag, nag.” He stormed out. The bathroom door slammed.
His forgotten phone lit up on the table. Emily caught the sender’s name before the screen darkened.
There it was—the crack she’d sensed but ignored. James returned, snatching the phone.
“*Lottie*—short for Charlotte? Or Lottie herself?” Her voice stayed level, numb.
He froze. “You went through my phone?”
“It’s locked. Something to hide?” *Lie to me. Like always.*
“What if I am?” He glared. “Yes, there’s someone else. Let’s handle this like adults.”
“Handle *what*?” Tears spilled.
“Here we go.” He rolled his eyes. “Play the victim all you like, but nothing’s changing.”
Her world shattered. Thunder cracked; the downpour began.
“Pack your things.”
“What?”
“The flat’s mine. My parents bought it. I’m not selling.”
“Where do Sophie and I go?”
“Your mum’s.”
“I’m not leaving.” Sophie’s voice cut in from the hallway.
“Eavesdropping?” James snapped.
“You were shouting loud enough.” Her stare flicked between them. “Are you divorcing? I’m staying with Dad.”
James smirked. “There’s your answer. Who’s the villain now?” He left—probably texting *Lottie* about the soon-to-be-vacant flat.
“You can’t stay with him,” Emily whispered. “He’s got—” She choked. “He won’t be alone.”
“So? I’ve got my room. Not moving to Nan’s—it’s ages away. My school’s here, my friends.” Sophie turned. “I’ve got homework.”
Panic crushed Emily. What now? Family, home, gone. Like a whirlwind had flipped her life, spat her out, breathless.
*No. Sophie didn’t mean it. She’s confused.* Emily hid in the bathroom, sobbing. Later, a pillow and blanket waited on the narrow sofa. James was texting again.
“What’s this?”
“Work it out.”
The sofa dug into her spine. She lay awake all night. *A good wife, a good mother—yet neither.* No begging. No forgiveness. The flat was a lost cause. But Sophie—if she could just *think*…
At dawn, she left. The office was empty; the security guard startled.
Her colleague frowned. “What’s wrong?”
“No family. No home. Nowhere to go.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“Well… Dad left me a flat. Tiny, needs work. You can stay—just cover bills.”
Emily clutched the lifeline.
“See it first,” the colleague warned.
The flat was cramped, stuck in another decade.
“He died three years back. Do what you want with it.”
She scrubbed until midnight. *Sophie’s better off with James.* No one called to check on her.
She took time off to collect her things while James was out. Her colleague and husband helped. Wine blurred the pain.
Daily calls to Sophie. “It’s fine. *Lottie* moved in. She’s cool—gave me her jeans and makeup…”
*Everyone’s happy but me.*
She waited at Sophie’s school. Heavy makeup. “Don’t come again.” Emily wept all evening.
To numb herself, she took a second job—a late shift at a hardware store. Restocking, mopping. Midnight returns, then collapse. But the pay was fair. She saved ruthlessly. A year later, a mortgage on a one-bed flat. *If Sophie comes back…*
She moved in, sleeping on a discounted mattress from the store. A wardrobe, a sofa. Vladimir, a store coworker, offered to assemble them. She cooked borscht, fried potatoes.
Over lunch, he shared his own divorce—his wife left him for money. He’d moved in with his mum. He listened silently to Emily’s story, then sighed. “Sophie staying was strategic. Easier to kick you out than her. She’ll figure it out. No stepmother replaces blood.”
Vladimir kept visiting—hanging lights, fixing shelves. One night, talk ran late. He stayed. Then moved in. He proposed; she refused. *Waiting for Sophie.* But Sophie never called.
Time dulled the ache. Vladimir steadied her. “If she’s happy, let her be.”
Then, a knock.
“Sophie!” Emily hugged her. “You’re so grown! Vlad, look!”
Sophie eyed the flat. “Not bad.”
Over tea, she admitted failing her A-levels. James refused to pay for a foundation year.
“*Lottie* said they need the cash. They’re booking a holiday. Mum, can you help?”
“I’ve got nothing. The mortgage—”
Vladimir stepped in. “Your mum worked two jobs for this flat. I’ll get you a job at the store. Save up.”
Sophie pouted. “Mum?”
“I can’t. He’s right.”
“I’m not wasting a *year*.”
Emily studied her. *Was she always this selfish?*
“Sleep on it,” Vladimir said.
“I’ve got an airbed. It’ll fit… here.”
“On the *kitchen floor*?”
“Just tonight.”
Later, Emily whispered, “She’s back.”
“And so are the problems. She wanted cash. Not you.”
Morning. Sophie was gone. No note.
*”Don’t call me again.”*
Emily crumpled.
“Let her go,” Vladimir said. “She’ll return when she *needs* you.”
Six months later, Sophie married a club fling. Pregnant. No invite. Emily only learned when Sophie called: struggling with the baby, the husband partying, *Lottie* refusing to help.
Vladimir negotiated with the groom’s wealthy parents—a flat for Sophie and the baby, in exchange for their son’s freedom.
Now, Emily spends evenings with Sophie and her granddaughter. And despite it all—she’s happy.
