“You Picked Your Job Over Me”
“I—I can’t believe my ears! This is insane! Your stupid job, your endless calls, your bloody business trips!” Emily swept her coffee mug off the table, sending it crashing against the wall, splashing half-drunk coffee like confetti.
“Stop overreacting, you’re acting like a child!” James didn’t even raise his voice, which only made it worse. She was boiling inside, and there he stood, frozen. “I can’t cancel this trip—you know it’s about the promotion.”
“Promotion?” She nearly choked on the word. “That’s always your excuse! You missed Olivia’s graduation, didn’t even call on our anniversary after I reminded you for weeks! And now this? Alfie’s surgery is in two days, and you’re swanning off to—where? Edinburgh?”
“London,” he corrected automatically, then winced.
“Oh, brilliant. Might as well be the moon!” She waved her arms like windmill sails. “You won’t be there when they put our son under anaesthesia. When he’s terrified. When I’m losing my mind worrying! All for some pointless contract with a signature!”
James exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Dark circles, patchy stubble, but that same stubborn look.
“It’s not just a contract—it’s the CFO role. Twenty years I’ve worked for this. And Alfie’s surgery is routine. It’s tonsils, not a brain tumour.”
“Oh, sure! And if something goes wrong? Then what?” Her nails dug into her palms.
“Nothing will go wrong. I spoke to the surgeon.”
“But if it does?!” Her voice hit a pitch only dogs could hear.
“Sit down,” he snapped, shoulders tensing. “If anything happens, I’ll catch the first flight back. Like when Olivia had her appendix out, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember!” Her laugh was bitter. “You strolled in eight hours late. The nurses had already clocked off, but hey—hero dad finally showed up!”
James just shook his head.
“D’you think I’m made of spare time? I’m working my arse off for this family. You begged for this house—‘the neighbours are loud, the Tube’s too far’—”
“I’d take that old flat back in a heartbeat!” she fired back. “With a husband who actually sees his kids. Not some weekend dad who’s home for Sunday roasts if he’s lucky!”
He collapsed onto a chair, all 14 stone of him.
“We had a deal, Em. You handle the house, kids, the cosy bits. I bring in the money. What changed?”
She opened her mouth to tear into him—then the front door slammed. Backpacks thudded in the hallway, kids’ voices bubbling in.
“Later,” she muttered, forcing a smile so fake it hurt.
James opened his laptop. The presentation wasn’t finished, but his thoughts were fog.
***
That night, after the kids were asleep, Emily scrolled mindlessly on her phone at the kitchen table. The tears had dried; now she just felt numb. Twenty-two years of marriage, and every year felt more like a spreadsheet: income, outgoings, assets, liabilities. When had it gotten so complicated?
James walked in and sat opposite her.
“Coffee?” she asked, not looking up.
“Please.” He rubbed his temples. “Em, we need to talk.”
“About what?” She flicked the kettle on. “It’s obvious. You’re flying out. Alfie and I will manage alone.”
“Listen.” He moved closer, hands on her shoulders. “This trip matters—for all of us. The promotion means more flexibility later.”
“More than *us*?” When she turned, his reflection in her eyes wasn’t anger. Just exhaustion.
“It’s always for you three,” he said quietly.
“No, James.” She shook her head. “It’s for *you*. Your pride, your career. We’ve been second best for years.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? When Alfie talked about surgery, know what he said? ‘At least it’s during Dad’s trip—he won’t stress about missing work.’ An eleven-year-old shouldn’t have to think like that.”
James stayed silent.
“And Olivia asked if you’ll make her uni graduation. Not because she wants you there—because she’s scared you’ll bail again.”
“I’ll *try*—”
“‘Try’.” She echoed it mockingly. “Always ‘try’. Know when I realised you’d chosen work over me? When I miscarried. Ten years ago. You flew in *two days late*.”
“I was in Hong Kong for meetings—”
“Exactly.” Her voice cracked. “You were *working*. I was alone, losing our baby.”
She turned away, grinding coffee beans harder than necessary.
“You never told me how much it hurt,” he whispered.
“What would’ve changed? You’d apologise, promise to do better, then pick work *again*.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist.”
“Oh, brilliant. So *I’m* the problem? Not the fact my husband’s a glorified lodger who tops up the joint account?”
“That’s not what I—”
“You’re right. I *do* ‘dramatise’. Like when you missed parents’ evening last month. Or when you blanked on Olivia’s dissertation topic. Or—”
“Enough.” He held up a hand. “I’ll take summer off. We’ll go away—all of us.”
“Olivia’s backpacking in Cornwall with mates. Alfie’s booked 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. “I don’t remember.”
“The worst part?” Her gaze drifted past him. “I’m starting to think life’s *easier* when you’re gone. When you’re home, I keep hoping you’ll actually *be* here—not just your body. And every time…”
“What do you *want* from me? Quit your job?”
“I want our kids to have a *dad*. Not a walking ATM. I want a *husband*—not a stranger who sleeps here between flights.”
“I can’t reboot my career at fifty,” he said flatly.
“No one’s asking you to. Just *balance it*.”
“I *am* trying!” His voice rose, then dropped at the sound of the kids’ white-noise machine through the wall. “But you’ve got to understand—”
“‘My role, my salary, my responsibility’.” She cut him off. “I know the script. Meanwhile, the kids are growing up without you. *I’m* growing old without you.”
A long silence. Distant traffic hummed. The fridge groaned.
“I can’t cancel the trip,” he said finally. “But I’ll move my flight. Take Alfie to hospital. Call every hour till he’s out of surgery.”
She gave a joyless laugh. “Think that’ll fix us?”
“No.” He met her eyes. “But it’s a start. I don’t want to lose you, Em.”
“You already have,” she whispered. “I don’t know if we can get it back.”
***
The hospital corridor buzzed with footsteps and PA announcements. Emily gripped her handbag strap, eyes fixed on the operating theatre doors. Alfie had been in there seventy minutes—twenty longer than expected.
Beside her, Olivia thumbed her phone, but her glances at the doors betrayed her calm act.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked suddenly.
“You know. Edinburgh.”
“He promised he’d call.”
Emily checked her watch. “Probably in meetings. Forgot.”
“Classic,” Olivia muttered.
Before Emily could reply, the surgeon pushed through the doors, mask dangling.
“All went smoothly. He’s in recovery—you can see him soon.”
“Thank God.” Emily’s shoulders sagged. Tears pricked her eyes.
Olivia squeezed her hand. “Text Dad.”
Emily dialled—straight to voicemail. She typed: *Surgery done. Alfie’s fine. In recovery.*
No reply. Not in the half-hour they spent in the canteen, picking at sandwiches.
“Mum,” Olivia blurted, staring into her tea, “are you and Dad getting divorced?”
Emily choked on her drink. *”What?”*
“You argue loads when you think we’re asleep. Dad’s never home. You’re sad when he leaves.”
Emily studied her daughter. When had she gotten so sharp?
“We’re just… in a rough patch. We still love each other.”
“Vicky from year ten said that. Then her parents split.”
Emily hesitated. “How would you feel if…?”
Olivia shrugged. “Dunno. Sad, I guess. But he’s barely here now, so…”
“He’She squeezed Olivia’s hand, watching the hospital lights flicker above them, wondering if promises—like old bulbs—could ever glow bright enough again.
