David announced that I had to look after his mates, and I slipped out for a walk in the park.
Emma, why are you dawdling? The lads will be here in half an hour and we havent even got a roast on the table. Speed up. Fry the potatoes with onions the way they like them, fetch the picklesthose the one your mum used to make. Slice the bacon thin, but make it look nice, not the chunky mess you did last time.
David stood in the kitchen doorway, already in his worn joggers and a stretchedout Tshirt, glancing at his watch with a sour expression. Emma had just walked in with two heavy grocery bags, setting them down with a thud on the tiled floor. Her shoulders ached, her boots felt like they were on fireshopping had been a nightmare today, the preChristmas rush turning the supermarket into a battlefield.
What lads? she asked quietly, unzipping her parka. Her fingers were numb from the cold shed felt while waiting for the bus. Its Friday night, Im barely hanging on. I thought wed just have dinner and watch a film.
David rolled his eyes. Here we go againbarely hanging on, tired. Everyones working, Emma. Im not just lounging around. Serge called; he, Tom and Victor are passing by, thought theyd drop in. Its been ages. How can I turn away friends? That would be, frankly, disrespectful.
Could you have told me earlier? A daytime call?
It was spontaneous! Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill? All we need is some snacks. Theyre not coming to eat, just to chat. We have a bottle of gin, a bar cart in the hall. Just get the table set quickly. A simple saladmaybe a classic Waldorf or a crab one, you know the drill. And definitely something hot; theyve been working all day and are starving.
Emma felt a hot balloon of resentment swell in her chest. Just like always. She knew that meant she would have to dash to the stove, shuffle between the sink and the pan, chop salads, set the table, then spend the whole evening clearing plates, fetching dirty dishes, making sure the men never ran out of bread, and listening to their crude jokes and loud guffaws. By midnight, shed be left with a mountain of dishes, a smoky kitchen, and a sticky floor.
Im not cooking, she said firmly, meeting his gaze. Im exhausted. I want a shower and my bed. If your friends are hungry, order a pizza. Or make the dumplings yourself.
Davids eyebrows shot up.
What? Pizza? The lads want homemade food. I already promised theyd see a proper spread. Serge still talks about your pasties. Dont embarrass me in front of the boys. What will they think? That I cant provide for my own wife?
Provide? Emma asked, feeling a cold shiver run down her spine. Am I a servant or a recruit on parade?
Dont twist my words! David snapped, his voice hardening. Youre a woman, the lady of the house. Its your duty to welcome guests. I earn the money, I bring the bills homedoesnt that give me the right to have a night out with my mates once a month? Should my wife cater, create a cosy atmosphere? Am I asking too much? Stop making excuses. Here, the bags are down. Put the chicken in the oven while you peel the potatoes; itll cook itself. And stash the vodka in the freezer so it stays cold.
He turned toward the living room, tossing the last of his order over his shoulder.
Now tidy up, you look like a garden scarecrow. Vickys got a new girl; I dont want you looking pale next to her.
The frontdoor didnt shut, and the television blared from the next room. David flopped onto the sofa, convinced the matter was settled: Emma would now charge into the kitchen like a battlehardened soldier.
Emma stood in the hallway, listening to the news anchors mumble. She pulled off her parka; her hair, wild and staticcharged, fell over her face. Scarecrow, Davids words echoed. Twenty years of marriage had taught her to be the perfect housewife, the attentive spouse, the patient listener. She put up with his garage gatherings, his mothers endless advice, his stray socks, and his perpetual complaints about a bland soup. She thought that was family lifecompromise, patience, smoothing over rough edges.
She eyed the grocery bags: a chicken shed planned to roast tomorrow, vegetables for a salad, milk, bread. Heavy, burdensome.
She bent downnot to unpack, but to zip up her parka again, pull her hat down, tuck her hair back, adjust her scarf. She peeked into the bedroom.
David, she called.
He, eyes glued to the screen, waved lazily.
Anything else you need? Salts in the top drawer.
Im leaving, she said.
Where to? David finally turned, genuine puzzlement on his face. The shop? Forgot something? Got the bread? The mayo?
No. Im going for a walk. To the park.
The park? At seven oclock? Its dark, cold. The guests will be here in twenty minutes! Whos going to set the table?
You, Emma replied calmly. You invited them, you set it up. The potatoes are under the sink, the chickens in a bag, the knifes on the block. Youll find the recipe online.
Emma, wait! David shouted, springing up. What are you doing? Which park? Come back! Get dressed and head to the kitchen! I told you!
Emma ignored him. She slammed the heavy metal front door, the locks click sounding like a gunshot. She raced down the stairs, skipping the lift, fearing David might chase her back. The landing was empty; he seemed frozen, mouth agape.
Outside, fine, prickly snow fell. The wind slipped under her collar, but she didnt notice. Adrenaline and a longsuppressed sense of fierce freedom surged through her. She hurried away from the lit windows of her flat, where David was probably scrambling for a line to tell his mates what had happened.
The park was two blocks awaya modest city park with wide avenues and tall linden trees, now stark and swaying in the wind. Few people were out: a couple with a dog, a handful of workers hurrying home, and a teenage pair glued to their phones on a bench.
Emma turned down a side lane where streetlamps flickered, casting a strange pattern of shadows on the snow. She slowed, her breath catching, heart hammering.
What have I done? a panicked thought raced through her mind.
Shed always feared conflict. Since childhood shed been taught to be agreeable. Endure and youll be loved, Silence is golden, A husbands the head, a wife the neck. Her mother had often said, Emma, dont argue, be wiser. Feed and praise your man, and the house will run smooth. So she fed, she praised, even when David sat on her neck with his demands.
Her phone vibrated. The screen showed a photo of David with the caption David. She let it ring, then called back. He tried again, then a third time. She turned the phone off, slipping it into her pocket. Silence settled, broken only by the wind and the crunch of snow under her boots.
She reached the pond. Dark water lay unfrozen at the centre, ducks gliding over a thin rim of ice. Leaning on the cold railing, she stared down.
She remembered the previous visit from the lads: Tom had gotten drunk and smashed her favourite vasea gift from her sister. David laughed it off: Oh, well, it happens! Well get a new one. They never bought a new one. And Simon, that night while she was washing dishes, had slapped her thigh and winked, Lucky for you, babe, you can feed and cuddle all the time. David pretended not to see, or pretended not to care. Shed wanted to crawl into the floor in disgust, but she forced a thin smile and kept washing. Dont embarrass me, shed whispered to herself.
She whispered into the night, I wont do it again.
She kept walking, the frost nipping her cheeks, oddly refreshing. She realised she hadnt eaten since lunch. Her stomach growled.
In the centre of the park a small kiosk glowed warm amber. A girl in a knitted hat greeted her.
Good evening, love. What can I get you? Something to warm you up?
A large cappuccino, please. And the cinnamonspiced scone. And a chicken sandwich.
Great choice. Ill have it ready in a jiffy.
She cradled the steaming cup, her frozen hands warming around it. She settled on a bench beneath a lamp, watching the snow fall. The sandwich was hot, cheese stretching, chicken juicythe best dinner shed had in years, not because it was gourmet, but because she ate it alone, in peace, without anyone to please. She watched an elderly couple strolling handinhand, the man teasing his wife, Dont go out in the cold, love, youll catch a chill. She thought, Will David and I ever be like that? The honest answer terrified herprobably not. He would probably stay ahead, grumbling about her slow pace, while she lugged the grocery bags, assuming his back hurt and needed a rub.
Her smartwatch buzzed: ten thousand steps. An ironic twistshed left home just to meet her daily activity goal.
Two hours later shed looped the park three times. Her legs throbbed, not from fatigue but from the long walk. The coffee was gone, the scone eaten. Cold seeped through her coat. She needed to go home; she wasnt planning to spend the night on a bench.
Returning felt frightening. What awaited? A fight? A shouting match? Or perhaps hed already sent the guests home, nursing a grudge.
She approached the block, the lights of her flat shining through every window. She took the lift, fumbled with her keys, hands trembling. She inhaled deeply, as if before a plunge, and opened the door.
A thick smell of burnt oil, stale cigarette smoke, and cheap aftershave assaulted her. The hallway was littered with strangers shoesso the guests had arrived after all. A pile of jackets hung on the coat rack.
From the kitchen came boisterous voices and laughter.
I tell her not to overstep! shouted Simon. A woman should know her place! And Daves doing a right job, not losing his head!
Emma slipped off her boots, hung her coat, and entered the kitchen.
The scene was both depressing and pathetic. The table was a mess: open tins of sardines, sliced ham lying on a newspaper, a pan with burnt potatoes, empty beer bottles and a halfempty vodka bottle scattered about. Tom, Simon and a girl who was supposed to be Victors date were lounging; Victor was nowhere to be seen.
Dave, back to the door, waved a fork with a pickled cucumber, grinning.
She just ran to the shop for delicacies, right? he slurred. Shell be back, set the table like a queen. My Emma, pure gold, shy as a mouse.
Emma coughed.
The men fell silent, turning toward her.
What! Shes here! Simon shouted, his grin greasy. We were waiting! Dave, did you send her off for brandy?
Daves face flushed, eyes muddy. Seeing his wife, he first seemed frightened, then straightened, trying to assert his role.
Where have you been? he barked, trying to stand but wobbling back into his seat. The lads are waiting! No food! The potatoes are burnt! Youve set me up, Emma!
Emma stared at the table, the spilled beer, the ash in her favourite coffee mug turned ashtray.
Good evening, gentlemen, she said, voice icy. The banquet is over.
What do you mean? Tom stammered. We just started. Emma, can you at least make an egg?
I saideveryone out, Emma raised her voice. Its ten oclock. Ive got work tomorrow. David, see the guests out.
You cant tell me what to do! Dave thumped the table. The fork jumped and clattered. This is my house! My friends! Who are you to evict them? Get back in the kitchen and cook! Or else
Or else what? Emma stepped forward. Hit me? Fine. Ill call the police, file a report, and file for divorce tomorrow. Is that what you want?
A heavy silence fell. Even Simons smile faded. Emma, usually meek and compliant, now stood like a taut string, eyes cold and fierce.
Dave, Tom muttered, rising. Maybe its time. The wives are worried too.
Sit down! Dave roared. No ones leaving! Emma will fix everything. Ill count to three. One
Count to a million, Emma snapped, flinging open the kitchen window. Freezing air rushed in, blowing the stale smell out. Ventilate, please. It smells like a stable.
Have you lost your mind? Dave sputtered, toppling a chair. I fed you, clothed you, and you
Fed? Emma laughed bitterly. I work two jobs, Dave, so we can pay the car loan. Remember the coat I bought three years ago with my bonus? You gave me nothing for it.
Simon and Tom, sensing the drama turning sharp, slipped toward the hallway, jackets in hand.
Alright, were off. See you next time, Emma. Sorry about the mess.
They slipped out, slamming the front door behind them.
David and Emma were left alone. He leaned on the table, breathing heavily. His bravado evaporated with the departing crowd.
What have you achieved? he asked, voice low, hurt. Youve embarrassed me in front of the lads. Ill be called a henpecked husband now.
Youre the henpecked one, Dave, Emma replied. Not by me, but by your ego and your friends opinions. You care more about what Simon thinks than about the woman whos been carrying you for twenty years.
I thought you loved me cared for me
I loved you. I cared. But caring is a twoway street. Ive spent twenty years playing oneway football.
She looked at the mountain of dirty dishes, the ash in the mug, the stains on the tablecloth.
Clean up, she said.
What? Daves eyes widened.
Clear this mess. My floor. My dishes. Ventilate. By morning the kitchen should sparkle.
And if I dont?
Then youll be on the sofa at Mums flat tomorrow. Im not joking. This flat came from my grandma. Youre on the lease, but you have no rights. Ive put up with enough, especially after you called me a scarecrow and threw the potatoes at me instead of asking how I felt.
Emma retreated to the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the shower and let the water wash away the nights grime, the cigarette smell, the lingering guilt. She stayed under the hot spray, letting the steam cleanse more than just her skin.
When she emerged, wrapped in a robe, the kitchen lights were on and the dishes clattered softly. Dave, muttering under his breath, was awkwardly scrubbing a plate. He was angry, drunk, but he was washing.
Emma walked to the bedroom, set the spare mattress on the sofa in the living room.
Youll sleep there, she told the passing Dave.
He gave no reply, only a malicious glance.
Morning found Emma awake to quiet. It was Saturday; no need to work. She stretched, feeling her body finally relax. Usually, Saturday mornings shed be at the stove making pancakes or cheese scones.
She took her time, applied a face mask, brewed fresh coffee.
The kitchen was relatively tidy. The floor had a few streaks, the stove bore some grease spots, but the dishes were washed and stacked. Dave slept on the sofa, his head buried in a pillow.
Emma sat at the table with her coffee, looking out at the snowcovered courtyard and the park beyond, where shed made the most important decision of her life the day beforechoose herself.
David stumbled in, his face swollen, reek of last nights drink. He glanced apologetically at her, then at the empty stove.
Emma breakfast? he asked, voice hoarse. A bit of broth, perhaps?
Emma sipped her coffee, savoring the taste.
There are eggs in the fridge, David. The pans cleanyou washed it yesterday. You can manage.
Are you still giving me the cold shoulder? he sat, trying not to shift too sharply. I overdid it, I admit. Too many drinks. Who hasnt? Lets make peace. I love you, you silly thing.
He reached for her hand. Emma pulled it back.
Im not giving you the cold shoulder, David. Ive learned my lesson. From today, new rules: I cook when I want, and what I want. Cleaning is split. Guests only with prior agreement. And if I say Im tired, that means Im not to be touched.
What if I disagree? he asked, narrowing his eyes.
Then youll be packing your bags, catching the train, staying with Mum. Choose.
David stared at her, searching for the docile Emma hed known, the one he could manipulate with sweet words or harsh shouts. That Emma was gone. In her place stood a woman confident and calm.
His stomach gurgled; his head throbbed. The thought of moving back to his Mothers cramped twobed flat with its worn carpets and stern lectures terrified him.
And as she stepped out into the crisp morning, she felt the warm promise of freedom settle over her like the first rays of sunrise.
