“You chose work over me,” Emily whispered, her voice trembling.
“I—I can’t believe what I’m hearing!” Her hands shook as she slammed her mug onto the counter, sending dark tea splattering across the kitchen tiles. Fragments of porcelain scattered like jagged confetti.
“Stop being so dramatic,” James replied, eerily calm. His restraint only fueled her fury. Her pulse pounded in her ears, yet he stood there like a statue, unyielding. “This trip isn’t negotiable. The promotion hinges on this deal.”
“Promotion?” She nearly choked on the word. “Your career always—always—comes first! You missed Lily’s graduation, forgot our anniversary even after I reminded you for weeks, and now this? Max needs surgery in two days, and you’re flying to bloody Manchester!”
“Leeds,” he corrected automatically, then winced.
“As if it matters!” Her arms flailed. “You won’t be there when they put our son under anaesthesia! When he’s terrified, when I’m falling apart! All for some meaningless contract!”
James exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his stubbled jaw. Dark circles framed his stubborn eyes.
“Christ, Emily, it’s a routine tonsillectomy. Not brain surgery. And this deal? It’s twenty years of grinding for CFO. Don’t you get that?”
“What if something goes wrong?” Her nails dug into her palms.
“Nothing will. I spoke to the surgeon myself.”
“But if it does?” Her voice hit a shrill pitch.
“For God’s sake—!” He jerked his shoulders. “If there’s an emergency, I’ll catch the first flight back! Like when Lily had appendicitis, remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” she spat. “You crawled in eight hours later, long after they’d discharged her!”
James rubbed his temples. “I can’t split myself in half, Em. I’m killing myself to give you this life. Or have you forgotten how you begged for this house? ‘The neighbours are loud, the tube’s too far—’”
“I’d take our old flat in a heartbeat if it meant having a husband who’s actually present!”
James collapsed onto a chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “We had an agreement. You manage the home, I bring in the money. What changed?”
She opened her mouth—but the front door burst open. Backpacks thudded to the floor, followed by the chatter of their children.
“Later,” she muttered, forcing a smile so brittle it hurt.
James flipped open his laptop. The presentation loomed, but his mind was static.
That night, after the kids were asleep, Emily scrolled mindlessly through her phone at the kitchen table. The numbness had replaced the tears. Twenty-two years of marriage, reduced to a ledger of sacrifices.
James entered, hesitating before sitting opposite her.
“Coffee?” she asked flatly.
“Please.” He cleared his throat. “Emily, we need to talk.”
“About what? You fly out tomorrow. Max and I will handle the hospital alone.”
He reached for her shoulders. “This trip—it’s important.”
“More than us?” When she turned, her eyes held exhaustion, not anger.
“Everything I do is for this family.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s for your ego. Your ambition. We’ve been an afterthought for years.”
“That’s not—”
“Max said something yesterday. ‘At least it’s during Dad’s trip, so he won’t stress about missing work.’ An eleven-year-old shouldn’t have to think like that. And Lily asked if you’d even come to her uni graduation. Not because she wants you there—because she expects you to cancel.”
“I’ll be there,” he muttered.
“‘Try’.” She mocked his tone. “Always ‘try’. When did I realise you’d chosen work? When I miscarried. Ten years ago. You landed two days after I was discharged.”
“I was in Hong Kong for—”
“Exactly.” The coffee grinder drowned his excuse. “You were negotiating. I was bleeding alone.”
“You never told me how much it hurt.”
“What would’ve changed? Another empty apology before the next deadline took priority?”
James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Maybe you should talk to someone. A therapist.”
“Ah, so I’m the problem?” Her laugh was brittle. “Not the husband who’s become a glorified paycheck?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Name Max’s teacher. Or Lily’s dissertation topic.” His silence was answer enough. “You’ve missed our lives, James. And you’re still missing them.”
He winced at the bitter coffee—her tell when upset. “I’ll take summer off. We’ll go away.”
“Lily’s backpacking through Cornwall. Max has football camp.”
“You could’ve consulted me!”
“I did. Twice. You said, ‘Plan it, we’ll see.’ So we did.”
He exhaled. “I don’t remember.”
“The worst part?” Her gaze drifted past him. “I’m starting to prefer when you’re gone. At least then I’m not waiting for you to show up—really show up.”
“Want me to quit? Throw away twenty years?”
“I want a father for my children. A husband who doesn’t treat home like a hotel.”
“I can’t reset at fifty.”
“Then find balance.”
“I’m trying!” His voice cracked before dropping to a whisper. “But in my position—”
“—with your salary, your responsibilities,” she finished. “I know the script. Meanwhile, the kids grow up without you.”
The fridge hummed in the quiet.
“I’ll postpone the trip by a day,” he said finally. “Take Max to the hospital. Change my flight.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Think that fixes it?”
“No. But it’s a start. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You already have,” she whispered.
—
The hospital corridor buzzed with noise. Emily gripped her handbag, eyes glued to the operating theatre doors. Max had been inside for an hour—twenty minutes longer than promised.
Lily sat beside her, pretending to scroll, though her glances at the doors betrayed her worry.
“Where’s Dad?” Lily asked.
“You know. Business trip.”
“He promised to call.”
Emily checked her watch. “Probably in a meeting.”
“Classic.”
The surgeon emerged, peeling off his mask. “All went well. He’s in recovery.”
Emily’s relief came in tears. Lily squeezed her hand.
“Text Dad,” she urged.
Emily typed: *Successful surgery. Max in recovery.* No reply came—not in the café, not when Lily finally asked, “Are you and Dad getting divorced?”
Emily choked on her tea. “Why?”
“You argue when you think we can’t hear. Dad’s never home. You’re sad when he leaves.”
Emily studied her daughter—when had she become so perceptive?
“We’re… navigating things,” she admitted. “But we love each other.”
“Like Sophie’s parents? They divorced last term.”
Emily hesitated. “How do you feel about it?”
Lily shrugged. “Won’t change much. He’s already never here.”
James’s belated reply arrived: *Sorry, in meetings. How’s Max?*
She showed Lily. “He’ll call when he’s free.”
“Of course.” Lily stirred her tea. “Remember that Cornwall trip? When Max was three?”
“You ate ice cream till you turned blue.”
“Dad was with us the whole week.” Lily’s voice cracked. “Why can’t it be like that anymore?”
Emily had no answer.
—
Home alone, Emily stared at a family photo—five years old, all of them smiling on a Brighton beach. A lifetime ago.
James called, his voice frayed. “How’s Max?”
“Fine. Fever’s normal. Lily’s with him.”
“Good she’s there.” A pause. “Emily, I swear I’d cancel if I could.”
“Of course.”
“I didn’t choose work over you. I just… lost my way.”
Her throat tightened. “Prove it.”
“I spoke to the board. If I get CFO, I’ll delegate more. Be home.”
“And if not?”
“I’ll step back. I mean it, Em.” His voice broke. “I miss you.”
She traced the photo. “We’ll see.”
—
Max’s crayon scraped across paper. “Look! Dad’s plane.” A silver jet, a stick figure waving.
“He’s coming home?”
Emily kissed his hair. “Yes, love.”
She didn’t know if James would keep his word. But for the first time in years, hope flickered.
Maybe—just maybe—he’d choose them this time.
