**Diary Entry**
I’m a husband, not a piece of furniture.
*”You bought the wrong bread again. I asked for the one without seeds,”* Emily said, setting the loaf on the table without even glancing at James.
*”It was the last one,”* he replied calmly. *”What’s the problem? It’s perfectly fine bread.”*
*”Oliver gets stomachaches from it. Easy for you to say—you’re not the one up at night giving him medicine.”*
James closed his eyes for a second and exhaled slowly. He placed the shopping bags by the window and sat on a stool nearby, as if putting distance between himself and the family. He wanted to be closer but couldn’t.
The doorbell rang—Charlotte had arrived with treats and a smile. Here, in her sister’s home, she was wrapped in the same comforting monotony—always chores, but warm, familial ones. She craved this warmth.
*”Hello, family. Peaceful and cosy in here?”*
*”Hardly,”* Emily answered, unpacking bags. *”Just homework, dinner, baths left. Oh, and ironing for tomorrow. Been on my feet since morning.”*
*”Knees not creaking yet?”* Charlotte teased, hanging her coat.
James merely nodded at her before retreating to the bedroom. He’d long stopped inserting himself into women’s conversations.
*”Same as always?”* Charlotte asked quietly, watching her sister.
*”Meaning?”*
*”You’re alone again. James might as well be invisible.”*
Emily rolled her eyes, irritated.
*”Don’t start. We have… roles. I handle the house and kids, he works. Like everyone else.”*
*”I’m not talking about that. He’s been home for an hour and a half. Have you even spoken to him?”*
*”Oh, come on, I don’t owe him a candlelit dinner every night. We have children.”*
The kitchen was cramped—a narrow table, chairs with threadbare cushion ties, a peeling chopping board. The wall held a neatly written schedule of clubs and football practice.
*”Since when are kids the end of a personal life?”* Charlotte asked.
Emily shrugged.
*”I just don’t want them to have… well, what we had. Remember how Mum would leave us alone for hours? Or how Dad drank while she worked herself to the bone? Not to mention the mess. I was terrified of the loo until I started cleaning it myself.”*
*”I remember,”* Charlotte sighed. *”But I also remember us sprawled on the floor watching cartoons. When was the last time you did that with the boys?”*
Emily looked away. The answer was obvious.
*”They need maths, English, and swimming—not cartoons.”*
*”And what does James need?”*
Emily glanced toward the hallway, frowning.
*”He’s a grown man. He can endure it for the family.”*
Charlotte fell silent, studying her sister—the dark circles under her eyes, the messy bun, her hands in perpetual motion: open, close, stir, tidy.
*”Do you love him?”* she asked abruptly.
*”Are you mad? Of course I do! It’s just not the priority right now.”*
*”It hasn’t been for over a decade. Not since Noah was born.”*
Oliver shuffled in, pyjama-clad and rumpled like a sparrow.
*”Mum, Noah’s book is torn. He says I did it, but I didn’t!”*
*”I’ll sort it.”*
Emily vanished. Charlotte stayed, but soon James appeared, as if waiting for his wife to leave before pouring water.
*”Tired?”* she asked gently.
*”It’s fine. Just… sometimes I think if I vanished, she wouldn’t even notice,”* he admitted quietly.
*”She would. But maybe too late.”*
He shrugged, sighed, and turned away.
*”I love them. But I’m just… furniture here. Paycheck delivered, then dismissed.”*
Charlotte had no reply. James didn’t expect one. He left.
Emily never returned—lost between a torn book, dusty windowsills, and haphazardly folded laundry.
The next morning began not with coffee but a row by the coat rack. Emily insisted on overdressing everyone.
*”Noah, wear the hooded jacket.”*
*”Mum, I’ll roast. We’re going to the shopping centre!”*
*”And the walk there? Who’ll wipe your nose after?”*
Oliver fidgeted by the door, pulling socks over his boots for *”better grip.”* Emily snapped; he flinched and redressed. James waited in the car, offering help met with the usual: *”I’ve got it, don’t interfere.”*
In the car, he tried:
*”What if just us tomorrow? Cinema, café. Like we used to?”*
*”Tomorrow?”* Surprise turned to irritation. *”Who’ll watch the kids? They’re too young!”*
*”Twelve and five. Noah can make sandwiches.”*
*”And burn the kitchen down. Seriously? They can’t even put shoes on right.”*
At the centre, the boys begged for fast food. Emily blocked them like a tollgate.
*”Soup’s at home. Burgers mean heartburn.”*
*”Mum, it’s the weekend,”* Noah groaned.
*”No debate. This isn’t a democracy.”*
Twenty minutes later, Oliver whined from hunger. Noah refused to try on clothes, earning a sharp yell that killed any urge to talk to his mother. He just dug in.
This wasn’t new. But today, James snapped.
*”Do you even hear yourself?”*
*”Do *you*?”* She turned, scowling. *”Or is it just your games you listen to?”*
*”I hear you bossing everyone, constantly. Even when it’s pointless.”*
*”Because if I stop, everything falls apart!”*
*”It already has, Emily.”*
They left early. James drove in silence; Emily stared out the window; the boys plugged in headphones, tension thick.
James didn’t park, just stopped outside the house. He didn’t get out.
*”You’re going somewhere?”* Emily asked, startled.
*”I need to think. Alone. Don’t wait up.”*
*”What?!”* Panic and hurt tangled in her voice. *”You’re leaving us?”*
*”No. I just can’t breathe on a schedule anymore. I’m a husband, not a sideboard.”*
She watched the car disappear, shell-shocked.
At home, Noah retreated; Oliver glued himself to the computer; Emily stood in the kitchen, kettle untouched, staring blankly at a shopping list that had lost all meaning.
She was alone. *What now?*
No plan could fix this.
—
Two weeks of silence and sparse calls passed. James stayed with his parents, considering a flat. Emily cooked soups by rote, ironed mechanically, wiped already-clean tables. The house was quiet. Too quiet.
On day three, Oliver asked when Dad was coming back. Emily said *soon*, though she didn’t know. Noah asked nothing, just stayed in his room, eyeing her warily, waiting for the next explosion.
Charlotte visited Saturday with shop-bought cake and oranges, though the fridge was already overstocked.
*”Have you eaten today?”*
*”Yeah. Made mash and sausages.”*
*”That’s not an answer. Did *you* eat?”*
Emily shrugged. She couldn’t remember.
*”You look like the apocalypse is tomorrow,”* Charlotte said.
*”I just… don’t know what to do with myself. Something’s missing.”*
Charlotte poured tea, sliced cake, nudged it toward her.
*”You’ve forgotten how to live for yourself. Or for James. It’s just the boys and endless *must-dos* you invented.”*
*”I thought… that’s just how it is. That caring means being there—”*
*”James wanted you *with* him, not just nearby. He’s not a shopping trolley. He’s a person.”*
*”I know,”* Emily murmured. *”But I thought… once the boys were older, it’d settle.”*
Her hands folded on the table. The commander was gone—just a drained woman remained. She reached for her phone but didn’t touch it.
*”I want to talk to him. Properly. Calmly.”*
They met at a café. James wore the navy jumper and jeans she’d bought him, tired but composed—shaved, hair trimmed, faint cologne. Even white socks.
*”Hi,”* he said, sitting.
*”Hi.”*
Silence, heavy with unspoken *sorry*s.
*”Let’s just… talk,”* Emily began. *”I didn’t see how lost you were. In our lifeJames reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers, and for the first time in years, they both let the silence between them feel like a beginning rather than an end.
