“Go to the kitchen!” I heard my husband sayand I couldnt take it anymore.
Emily stared at her phone screen. Andrew had texted her for the fourth time in half an hour: *”Take the call, you daft cow.”*
She sat behind the wheel of the learner car, her instructor patiently explaining parallel parking. The phone buzzed again.
“Can I answer? My husbands worried.”
“Go ahead.”
“Andrew, Im driving”
“Why arent you picking up? Ive been calling!”
“I cant talk while”
“Oh, I see. Getting your license is more important than your husband. When will you be home?”
“An hour.”
“Whos making dinner? Or am I expected to do it myself?”
The instructor turned away, pretending not to hear.
“Ill cook when I get back.”
“Good. Thought Id married a career woman now.”
At home, Andrew scrolled through his phone on the sofa. Three months unemployedhe called it temporary, but the job hunt dragged on.
“Hows driving school? Complicated, is it?” His voice dripped with mockery.
“Its fine. Practiced parallel parking today.”
“Oh, very serious. Whole science, isnt it?”
Emily walked into the kitchen. Unwashed dishes sat in the sinkhis breakfast.
“Andrew, maybe we could finally unpack those boxes? Its February, and we might as well have moved in yesterday.”
He glanced up from his screen.
“Whats to unpack? You can manage.”
“We could do it together. And tidy up while”
Andrew stood abruptly, stepping closer. Something cold flickered in his gaze.
“Go to the kitchen.”
He said it quietly, but the words cut sharper than any shout. Not a yelljust a command, and the silence that followed was worse than any noise.
Emily froze.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me. Go cook dinner.”
“We were talking about the boxes”
“Talking? You were whinging. I said youd manage.”
Something inside Emily snapped. Not from hurtfrom realisation. She remembered the New Years party at his mates, where hed been the life of the crowd.
Flirting, joking, helping the hostess. Then in the car afterward:
“Whyd you stay quiet all night? Embarrassed, were you?”
“Im not going to the kitchen!”
His eyebrows shot up.
“What?”
“I said no.”
“Emily, dont push me. We were having a civil chat.”
“Civil? When was the last time you spoke to me like a human?”
Andrew set his phone aside.
“Whats your problem? I was only joking.”
“Joking? *Take the call, you daft cow*that a joke too?”
“Cant I text my wife?”
“You can. Just not like that.”
“For Gods sake, whats the difference? You know I dont mean it!”
“I know. Thats why Ive stayed quiet all this time.”
Emily sat on the edge of the bed.
“You know what my instructor said today? *Youve got steady hands.* Imagine that. Steady. Yet at home, Im afraid to ask for help with boxes.”
“Afraid?”
Andrew laughed.
“Oh, give it a rest!”
“I am. Because I know youll find a way to make me feel worthless.”
“Dont be ridiculous! Youre twisting everything.”
“Twisting? Remember when you told your mates I was *playing at driving school*?”
“It was funny!”
“To you. To me, it was humiliating.”
Andrew sat beside her on the sofa.
“Look, if you dont like how I talk”
“Then what?”
“The doors right there.”
Silence. Emily stared at him. No apology. No explanation. Just a nod toward the exit.
“Fine.”
She stood, pulling a suitcase from the wardrobe. Began packing.
“Whatre you doing?”
“What you suggested.”
“Wherell you go?”
“Charlottes.”
“Youll storm off, have a cry, then crawl back. Like always.”
“Like always?”
“Women love their dramas. Slam doors, sob to their girlfriends.”
Emily folded clothes, tucked in her charger.
“And then come crawling home!”
She reached for the wedding album, pulled out a photothem at the registry office, beaming.
“Would you have spoken to me like this then?”
Andrew glanced at the picture.
“We had guests.”
“And here?”
“Here, its family. I can relax.”
Emily slid the photo back, zipped the suitcase.
“Relax. Right.”
“Wait. Lets talk.”
“Talk? Youve shown me exactly what I am to you here.”
In the hallway, she tugged on her coat. Andrew stood barefoot in joggers.
“Come off it! Every couple argues.”
“We werent arguing.”
Her hand gripped the doorknob.
“You just decided you could.”
The door slammed. His voice chased her:
“You wont get far!”
Two weeks later, a text arrived: *Coming tomorrow, when Ive got time.*
Her friend Charlotte shook her head.
“Why even see him?”
“I need to be sure Im right.”
The café by the station. Andrew was half an hour late.
“Howve you been?”
He sat without apologising.
“Fine.”
“Where you staying?”
“Charlottes for now.”
*For now* slipped outan old habit of softening things.
“Place is a mess. Dishes piled up, laundrys not done. Thank God the neighbour helped with shopping.”
A waitress approachedpretty brunette, mid-twenties.
“Order?”
“Two coffees,” Andrew said, flashing her a smile.
“Whatve you got for sweets?”
“Our cakes are lovely”
“Bring whatevers best.”
He slid off his wedding ring, set it on the table.
“Now theres no one to nag about socks on the floor, Ill treat myself.”
The waitress giggled.
“Can you cook?”
“Course! Mans got to eat. Just nice not having someone moan about helping with the flat.”
Emily watched the ring.
“Or begging for help with unpacking.”
He kept going. In that moment, she realisedhe was turning their marriage into a joke for a stranger.
“So,” he turned back to her, “end of the show? House is dull without you.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Im not coming back.”
For the first time, Andrew really looked at her.
“Serious?”
“Yes.”
She stood, left cash for the coffee.
“Wait. You know what youre doing?”
“I do. This is the first time in three months.”
“Emily! Were adults!”
“Exactly why Im leaving.”
Outside, sleet fell. Through the window, Andrew was explaining something to the waitressprobably complaining about his mad wife.
A month later, Emily rented a one-bed flat. Passed her test, started a new job.
Once, she spotted Andrew in Tesco with a younger woman. Laughing, picking groceries. She walked past unseen.
She wondered: *How long before he tells her to go to the kitchen? A month? Two?*
That evening, Emily stood by her flats window, tea in hand. Her phone lay silent on the table. No more texts calling her *daft cow.*
She thought of the women who stay. Who believe *he doesnt mean it, all men are like that.* And felt not judgment, but sorrow.
The screen lita message from a colleague about tomorrows meeting. Professional. Respectful.
Emily smiled, replied. Then sank onto her sofain her own home, where she could ask for help without fear.
