“You Chose Work Over Me”
“I can’t—I can’t believe this! How can you be so selfish?” Emma swept her coffee cup off the table, sending it crashing against the wall. Brown droplets splattered like rain, shards scattering across the floor.
“Stop overreacting,” Mark said calmly, which only made it worse. His indifference boiled her blood. “I can’t cancel this trip—it’s about the promotion.”
“Promotion?” Her laugh was sharp as glass. “Your work always comes first! You missed Lucy’s graduation, forgot our anniversary—even when I reminded you a week early! And now this? Ben’s surgery is in two days, and you’re flying to—where, Edinburgh?”
“Manchester,” he corrected automatically, then winced.
“As if it matters!” Emma flung her hands up. “You won’t be there when your son is terrified, when they put him under. But sure, chase your precious signature on some contract!”
Mark dragged a hand down his face, stubble uneven, exhaustion weighing his eyes. “This isn’t just paperwork—it’s twenty years of work for this director role. And Ben’s surgery is routine. Tonsils, not a brain tumor.”
“Oh, brilliant! What if something goes wrong?” Her nails dug into her palms. “What then?”
“Nothing will,” he said flatly. “I spoke to the surgeon myself.”
“And if it does?” Her voice climbed.
“For God’s sake—if there’s an emergency, I’ll get on the first flight back! Like when Lucy had her appendix out, remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” she sneered. “You showed up eight hours late, after the doctors had left. Heroic.”
Mark exhaled hard. “I’m not a damn rubber band, Em. I’m breaking my back so you and the kids never want for anything. Or did you forget nagging me for this house? ‘Better schools, bigger garden, closer to the tube—'”
“I’d trade it all for a husband who’s actually present!” Her voice cracked. “The kids barely know you—you’re just the Sunday-after-lunch dad!”
Mark collapsed onto a chair, the wood groaning under his weight. “We agreed on this: you raise the kids, I provide. What changed?”
Emma opened her mouth, but the front door banged open. Backpacks thudded to the floor, children’s voices spilling into the hall. “Later,” she muttered, forcing a smile so brittle she felt it crack.
—
That night, after the kids were in bed, Emma scrolled mindlessly through her phone. Twenty-two years of marriage had become a spreadsheet—income, outgoings, assets, liabilities. When had they lost each other?
Mark sat across from her at the kitchen table. “Coffee?” she asked, not looking up.
“Yeah.” He rubbed his temples. “Em, we need to talk.”
“About what? You leave the day after tomorrow. Ben and I will manage.”
“Listen.” He gripped her shoulders. “This trip matters—but so do you. I’m doing this for us.”
“For us?” She met his eyes, and the anger had burned away to exhaustion. “No. It’s for your ego, your career. We’ve been an afterthought for years.”
“That’s not true.”
“Ben said something yesterday. Know what it was? ‘At least my surgery’s during Dad’s trip—he’d stress about missing work.’ He’s *eleven*, Mark. He’s learned to schedule around your job.”
Mark flinched.
“And Lucy asked if you’d come to her uni graduation. Not because she wants you there—because she’s afraid you’ll be ‘busy.’ Again.”
“I’ll try—”
“*Try*.” The word tasted like ash. “Remember my miscarriage? Ten years ago? You flew home *two days later*.”
“The China deal—”
“Exactly. Your deal. My loss. Alone.” She turned away, grinding coffee beans with methodical fury.
“You never told me how much it hurt.”
“Would it have changed anything?” Her laugh was hollow. “You’d apologize, promise to do better, then pick work the next time.”
Mark pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist.”
“Of course,” she sneered. “The problem’s *me*, not my husband, who’s basically a paycheck with legs.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“When was the last parent-teacher meeting you attended? Or do you even know Ben’s teacher’s name?”
Silence.
“You’ve missed our lives, Mark. And you’re still missing them.”
—
The hospital corridor buzzed with voices. Emma clenched her handbag strap. Ben had been in surgery for an hour—twenty minutes longer than promised.
Lucy glanced up from her phone. “Where’s Dad?”
“Manchester. He said he’d call.”
“Yeah. ‘Important meeting’ first, right?”
Before Emma could reply, the surgeon emerged. “All went well. He’s in recovery—you can see him soon.”
Lucy squeezed her mother’s hand. “Text Dad.”
Emma typed: *Surgery successful. Ben’s fine.* No reply came.
“Are you and Dad getting divorced?” Lucy blurted in the cafeteria.
Emma choked on her tea. “What?”
“You argue when you think we’re not listening. Dad’s never home. You’re sad when he leaves.”
Emma studied her daughter—her perceptiveness, the quiet resignation. “We’re… figuring things out.”
“Like Maddie’s parents did. Before they split.”
Emma swallowed. “Has it felt like he’s already gone?”
“Kind of.” Lucy poked her sandwich. “Remember that holiday in Cornwall? When I was nine? Dad was with us the whole week. We built sandcastles, went sailing… Why can’t it be like that now?”
“Work,” Emma whispered. “Somehow, it became everything.”
—
Mark called that night. “Ben okay?”
“Fine. Fever’s normal, Lucy’s with him.”
“I’ll switch my flight. Be there tomorrow.”
A pause. “Will that fix us?”
“No,” he admitted. “But it’s a start. I don’t want to lose you, Em. Any of you.”
“You already have,” she said softly.
Silence. Then: “I spoke to HR. If I get this role, I’ll delegate more. Be home. If not… I’ll step back. Find balance.”
Emma eyed the photo on the fridge. Them, laughing on a beach. Five years ago. A lifetime.
“Prove it,” she said.
—
Ben drew a plane the next day—silver, with blue wings. “Dad’s coming home on this,” he said proudly.
Emma kissed his forehead. “He is.”
She didn’t know if promises would be kept. But for the first time in years, hope flickered.
Maybe love and ambition could coexist.
Maybe, this time, he’d choose them.
Ben added a stick figure by the window. “That’s Dad. He’s waving.”
Emma smiled. *Yes. He’s coming home.*
**The Lesson:** A career can build a house, but only presence builds a home. Time, unlike money, can’t be earned back.
