**LOVE’S GONE COLD**
“Why so quiet and broody tonight?” asked William, sitting at the kitchen table late in the evening. His wife, Sophie, wordlessly slid his reheated dinner across to him.
“Late again, were you?” she murmured.
“Just extra work at the office… getting a bonus at the end of the quarter.”
William, a thirty-five-year-old bank clerk, fairly handsome for his age, had just shuffled in from work. At home, his family awaited—his wife and their three daughters: six, four, and just a year old. Lately—well, for the past two years, if he was honest—he’d dreaded coming home, lingering at the office, strolling around London… anything to delay stepping back into that flat. The endless shrieks of children, the chaos, nappies and onesies… midnight wailing and Sophie—forever buried in childcare, dishevelled in an old dressing gown, hair scraped back into a limp ponytail, dark circles under her weary eyes.
When he’d married the lively beauty from his department seven years ago, had he ever imagined family life would become such a slog… such a letdown? Not that the first years were bad—when their first daughter arrived, he’d been happy. He’d helped around the house, even freed Sophie up on weekends so she could get her nails done or visit the salon. Then, barely a year later, she was pregnant again—“Let’s get two out of the way in one go,” they’d agreed. But their second daughter was a colicky nightmare, wailing through the night for months, leaving William red-eyed and sleep-deprived at work. When she finally settled, life improved briefly—until daycare forms were signed and Sophie returned to work… only to drop another bombshell: pregnant again.
He’d been dead set against another child. But Sophie had cried actual crocodile tears, thrown a proper strop. He’d argued, “Where would we even put another one? They’re still so small… There are modern procedures—quick, simple. Let’s just pay for it.” But she wouldn’t budge. Reluctantly, he’d caved—hoping, at least, for a son.
Her pregnancy was miserable, endless hospital stays. Meanwhile, he juggled the two girls alone—nursery runs, walks, laundry, cleaning. No help in sight—her parents lived hundreds of miles away in Scotland, and his own mother was frail, needing support herself.
The third baby was no picnic either, crying unless held constantly—which Sophie did, never setting the poor thing down. Slowly, William realised he didn’t want to come home anymore.
*What have these seven years even been?* he wondered. *The first year, we still went to cinemas, cafés, exhibitions—even had a proper seaside holiday. And then? Nothing but wailing, nappies, onesies…*
He didn’t desire her anymore—the thought of intimacy made him cringe. He made sure to return late, when the girls were asleep, avoiding even looking at Sophie. Pity, mostly—what had become of the woman he’d married? But mostly, he pitied *himself*. Something had to give. He couldn’t live like this.
At work, colleagues bragged about holidays in the Maldives, prodding him—*When are you taking your ladies to the coast? You’re not short on salary!* He stayed silent. How could he admit he’d rather bolt—escape them all, even for a few days? Preferably months.
“Will… I’m pregnant again,” Sophie whispered, sinking into a chair.
The man froze, spoon hovering mid-air.
“Have you lost your mind? I don’t even remember the last time we—” he exploded.
“Twelve weeks… Nothing can be done now,” she murmured.
“You’re insane! That’s it—I’m done. This isn’t living, it’s purgatory! Look at yourself—when was your last haircut? You swore you were on contraception! You look like something dug up from a tomb—I can’t stand it. I’m leaving. Stay here with the kids, do whatever you want!”
“Where will you go? What about us?” A single tear rolled down her cheek.
“You can keep the flat and everything in it. I’ll take the car—go stay with Mum. Can’t stand the sight of you,” he bellowed, shoving back his chair and storming to the door.
“Never in my worst nightmares. Not a life—a bloody prison sentence,” he shouted over his shoulder, slamming the door behind him.
