**Love Faded Away**
“You’re awfully quiet and thoughtful tonight,” asked William, sitting at the kitchen table late in the evening. His wife, Emily, silently served him the reheated dinner.
“Working late again?” she murmured.
“Took on extra hours… end-of-quarter bonus coming up.”
William, a thirty-five-year-old banker, tall and youthful, had just come home from work. His family waited for him—his wife and their three daughters, aged six, four, and one. Lately, and “lately” had dragged on for two years now, he dreaded going home. He lingered at the office, wandered through London’s streets, and only returned late at night to their flat. The children’s shrieks, the mess, the nappies, the onesies… the endless crying at night and Emily—always exhausted, always buried in child-rearing, unkempt in her old dressing gown with her hair tied back, dark circles under her eyes.
Seven years ago, when he married the lively beauty from their department, did he ever imagine family life would become such a burden… such a disappointment? No, the first year had been bliss—their first daughter arrived. He helped with chores, gave Emily weekends off to visit the salon, get her nails done. A year later, Emily was pregnant again—they’d decided to have two children close together, “get it over with.” Their second daughter was colicky, screaming through the night until she turned six months old. William went to work exhausted, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Things eased when the girls started nursery, and Emily returned to work… then came the shock—another pregnancy.
He had objected. “Where would we fit another child?” he argued. “They’re still so small… There are modern medical solutions these days. We could arrange something.”
But Emily was adamant, tears streaming down her face. He gave in, hoping for a son.
Her pregnancy was difficult—hospital stays, complications. He juggled work, nursery runs, laundry, cleaning… No help in sight. Her parents lived hundreds of miles away in Scotland, and his own mother was elderly, frail.
Their third child was just as restless, crying unless held. Emily never put her down.
Slowly, William realized he didn’t want to come home anymore.
“What have I seen these past seven years?” he wondered. “The first year, we still went to cinemas, cafés, exhibitions—even holidayed in Spain. Then what? Nappies, screaming, sleepless nights…”
He no longer desired Emily—intimacy held no appeal. He came home late, after the girls were asleep, avoiding looking at her. Pity gnawed at him—what had become of the woman he once adored? But mostly, he pitied himself. Something had to change. He couldn’t live like this.
At work, colleagues boasted of trips to the Maldives, asking when he’d take his family somewhere nice. He stayed silent—how could he admit he dreamed of vanishing, even for a few days?
“William… I’m pregnant again,” Emily whispered, sinking into a chair.
He froze, his spoon suspended midair.
“Are you mad? I don’t even remember the last time we—!” he shouted.
“Twelve weeks… too late to do anything,” she murmured.
“You’ve lost your mind! That’s it—I’m done. This isn’t life, it’s hell! Look at yourself—when was the last time you stepped into a salon? You swore you were on the pill! I can’t stand the sight of you. I’m leaving. Keep the flat, the kids—do whatever you want!”
“Where will you go?” she whispered, a lone tear slipping down her cheek.
“I’ll take the car, stay with Mum. I want nothing to do with this.”
He stormed out, slamming the door behind him. “Never in my worst nightmares… This isn’t living—it’s a prison sentence.”
In the end, he learned too late that love fades not from hardship, but from forgetting why it was worth holding onto in the first place.
