“You chose work over me.”
“I can’t—I can’t believe what I’m hearing! This is insane!” Emma swept her coffee cup off the table, sending it crashing against the wall, brown splatters spraying like paint. Shards littered the floor like broken promises.
“Stop acting like a child, for God’s sake!” John didn’t even raise his voice, and that stung worse. She was boiling inside, and he just stood there, unmoved. “I can’t cancel this trip. It’s about the promotion.”
“The promotion?!” She nearly choked on the word. “That’s always more important, isn’t it? You missed Lily’s graduation, didn’t even call on our anniversary—I reminded you a week in advance! And now this? Alfie’s surgery is in two days, and you’re dashing off to bloody Manchester!”
“Birmingham,” he corrected automatically, then winced.
“Oh, what difference does it make? You could be going to the moon for all I care!” Her hands flailed like windmill sails. “You won’t be there when your son is put under. When he’s terrified. When *I’m* falling apart trying to hold it together! All for some bloody contract!”
John exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his stubbled face. Dark circles, tired shadows, but that stubborn set in his jaw—always the same.
“You’re overreacting. It’s just tonsils. Not a brain tumor.”
“Oh, brilliant! And what if something goes wrong? What then, John?” Her nails dug crescents into her palms.
“Nothing will. I spoke to the surgeon myself.”
“And if it does?!” Her voice hit a pitch that made the glassware tremble.
“For Christ’s sake—if anything happens, I’ll get on the first flight back! Like when Lily had her appendix out, remember?”
“Oh, I remember!” A bitter laugh. “You turned up *eight hours* after they’d stitched her up. The doctors had gone home, but there you were—hero of the hour!”
John shook his head. “I can’t be in two places at once, Em. I’m killing myself to give you this life. Or have you forgotten how you nagged me about the new house? ‘The neighbours are loud, the garden’s a mess, the Tube’s too far—'”
“I’d rather live in a shoebox with a husband who actually sees his kids!” Her voice cracked. “Not some weekend visitor who breezes in for Sunday lunch!”
He collapsed onto the chair, all 14 stone of him. “We had a deal, remember? You handle home, the kids. I bring the money. What changed?”
Emma opened her mouth—then the front door slammed. Backpacks hit the floor, children’s voices bubbling through the hall.
“We’ll talk later,” she muttered, forcing a smile so strained it hurt.
—
That night, after the kids were asleep, Emma scrolled mindlessly through her phone at the kitchen table. No tears left—just numbness. Twenty-two years of marriage, and every year felt like balancing a budget: inputs, outputs, assets, liabilities. When had it all gone so wrong?
John walked in and sat across from her.
“Coffee?” she asked, not looking up.
“Yeah.”
Silence. Then: “Em, we need to talk.”
“About what?” The kettle clicked. “It’s obvious. You leave the day after tomorrow. Alfie and I will manage the hospital alone.”
“Listen—” He moved behind her, hands on her shoulders. “This trip *matters*. For all of us.”
“More than we do?” She turned, and he saw it then—not anger, just exhaustion.
“Everything I do is for you,” he said quietly.
“No, John.” She shook her head. “It’s for *you*. For your ego, your career. We’re an afterthought.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? Know what Alfie said about the surgery? ‘At least it’s during Dad’s work trip, so he won’t stress about missing meetings.’ He’s *eleven*, John. He’s learned to schedule around you.”
John had no answer.
“And Lily asked if you’d come to her uni graduation next year. Not because she wants you there—because she’s afraid you’ll be ‘too busy.'”
“I’ll *try* to be there.”
“*Try*.” She echoed the word like a death knell.
And then—the grenade. “You know when I realised you’d chosen work? When I miscarried. Ten years ago. You flew in *two days* after they discharged me.”
“I was negotiating in Hong Kong—”
“Exactly.” A hollow smile. “You were negotiating. I was burying our baby. Alone.”
She turned back to the coffee grinder, methodical.
“You never told me how you felt,” he muttered.
“What good would it have done? You’d apologise, promise it wouldn’t happen again—then choose work the next time.”
John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist.”
“Ah, yes. *I’m* the problem.” A mirthless laugh. “Not the fact my husband’s a glorified lodger who tops up the account. No, it’s *my* attitude that needs fixing.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Do you even know who Alfie’s form tutor is? Or what Lily’s dissertation is about?”
Silence.
“Thought so.” She slid his coffee across the table. “You’ve missed our lives, John. And you’re still missing them.”
He winced at the bitterness—always too strong when she was upset.
“I’ll take leave this summer. We’ll go away, all of us.”
“Lily’s hiking in Cornwall with friends. Alfie’s booked into football camp.”
“You could’ve *told* me before planning!”
“I did. Twice. You said, ‘Sort it, we’ll see.’ So we did.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I don’t remember.”
“You’ve always had selective memory.” Her voice was quiet now. “But here’s the worst part—I’m starting to prefer it when you’re *not* here. At least then I’m not waiting for you to *actually be present*.”
“What do you want me to do? Quit?!”
“I want our kids to have a *father*. Not a walking sponsor. I want a husband, not a stranger who sleeps here sometimes.”
“I can’t walk away from a thirty-year career!”
“No one’s asking you to. Just to *balance it*.”
“I’m *trying*!” He caught himself, lowering his voice. “But you know how it is at my level—”
“Your level, your salary, your *responsibilities*.” She cut him off. “I know the script by heart. Meanwhile, the kids are growing up without you. *I’m* growing old without you.”
A beat. The fridge hummed.
“I can’t cancel the trip,” he said finally. “But I’ll postpone by a day. Take Alfie to hospital myself.”
“Your flight’s booked.”
“I’ll change it.”
She gave a sad smile. “Think that’ll fix everything?”
“No. But it’s a start.” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose you, Em.”
“You already have,” she whispered.
—
The hospital corridor buzzed. Emma sat outside the OR, twisting her handbag strap. Alfie had been in there 70 minutes—the surgeon promised 40.
Lily scrolled her phone beside her, but Emma saw the glances at the OR doors.
“Where’s Dad?” Lily asked suddenly.
“Meeting, remember?” Emma checked her watch. “He’ll call when he can.”
“Sure he will,” Lily muttered.
The OR doors swung open. The surgeon smiled. “All went well. He’s in recovery—you can see him soon.”
Relief flooded Emma’s veins.
Lily squeezed her hand. “Text Dad.”
Emma called. Voicemail. She typed: *Alfie’s fine. In recovery.* No reply.
Over tea in the canteen, Lily asked the question. “Are you and Dad getting divorced?”
Emma choked. “What?”
“You argue when you think we’re asleep. Dad’s never home. You’re sad when he leaves.”
Emma studied her daughter—when had she grown so perceptive?
“Your dad and I are… figuring things out.”
“Like Millie’s parents? They said that too. Then they split.”
Emma hesitated. “How would you feel if…?”
Lily shrugged. “Dunno. Sad, I guess. But he’s barely here anyway. Might not change much.”
*He’s not leaving,* Emma almost said. But the lie stuck in her throat.
John’s text came late: *In meetings. How’s Alfie?*
Lily’s smirk said it all.
Emma looked at her children, then at the phone screen still glowing with John’s unanswered messages, and for the first time in years, she knew exactly what she had to do.
