You cant be serious, Tom. Please tell me this is a bad joke. Or maybe I misheard you over the running tap?
Emily switched off the kitchen faucet, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and turned to face me slowly. The kitchen was filled with the smells of boiled vegetables, fresh parsley, and clementinesthe unmistakable fragrance of Christmas Eve. There were only six hours left until midnight. Finely chopped ingredients for potato salad towered on the table, a roast goose with apples was slow-cooking in the oven, and the homemade trifle shed made in the night was chilling in the fridge.
I stood in the doorway, fiddling awkwardly with a button on my shirtthe only thing betraying my nerves. I was well aware how irrational the whole thing sounded, but I wasnt backing down.
Em, please, lets not start I tried to keep my tone gentle, almost pleading. Its just that Sarahs pipes burst well, not really burst, but the water and heating are off. Imagine her sitting in the cold tonight with the kids. I couldnt refuse. They are my boys, after all.
The boys are your sons, yes Emily did her best to sound calm, although I could see the hurt flicker in her eyes. But Sarah? Is she your child too, Tom? Why cant she go to her mums? Or a friends? Or even a hotel room? The child support you pay her is enough for the Ritz.
Her mums in hospital and her friends are all away I muttered, looking at the floor. And, you know, Christmas should be family. The lads would love to spend it with their dad. Well just have dinner, watch the fireworks. Theres plenty of room, Em. Everyone will fit.
Emilys gaze swept the kitchen. It was a large flat, yes, but it was our spacemine and hers. Shed spent a week polishing the place, decorating the tree, picking napkins to coordinate with the curtains, and buying the aftershave Id been dreaming of. In her mind, this night would be just the two of us: candles, fairy lights, a little music, and some precious quiet. It was our first Christmas at home together in three years, with no one else invited. The thought of that was her little dream. And now, the dream was tumbling like a house of cards.
Tom, we agreed, she whispered. It was our promise: this Christmas, just us. I have nothing against your sons, you know that. I always welcome them when they come for weekends. But Sarah… Youve asked your ex-wife to our table. Do you see how that looks?
Youre blowing it out of proportion, I said, trying to sound firm but failing miserably. Were grown ups. Sarahs the boys mum, thats all. Dont be selfish, Emily. Nobody wants to be heartless at Christmas. Theyll be here in an hour.
And with that I walked out of the kitchen, half-expecting Emily to lob the nearest pan at my head. She was left standing by the counter, the warmth of the oven no longer comforting now. Dont be selfish. That stung most. For three years, Emily tried to be the perfect wife: managing the house, never begrudging my weekends with the boys, answering Sarahs random calls for helpfetching the cat from the vet, fixing a tap. This was her reward.
She pressed on, chopping potatoes in silence, hoping her irritation would subside. Maybe she was being oversensitive? Maybe Sarah would behave for once? It was Christmas, after alla time for miracles and forgiveness.
The miracle didnt come. The doorbell rang precisely fifty minutes later. Emily barely had time to change out of her old jumper into a dress and brush on some make-up. I scrambled to open the door like a boy eager to unwrap his presents.
In stomped the parade: first Harry, age ten, and Alfie, seven, bursting in and charging into the sitting room, their muddy boots trailing across the floor. Then Sarah walked in, as grand as you like.
She wore a bright red dress with a plunging neckline and toted enormous shopping bags. The sickly-sweet scent of her perfume immediately overpowered the citrus in the hall.
Finally! she announced to the ceiling, dusting snow off her fur coat right onto the carpet. The traffic was insane, I had to bully the cabbie! Tom, grab these bags, will you? Boys presents and real champagne. Not that cheap stuff you usually buy.
Emily appeared in the corridor, fixing a politeif tightsmile on her face.
Evening, Sarah. Hello boys.
Sarah eyed Emily from head to toe, pausing with a smirk at her simple, elegant dress.
Heya, Em, she said, barely feigning civility. Oh, its stuffy in here, isnt it? Should crack a window. Tom, where are my slippers? The pink ones I left last time when I stopped by for the money?
On it, Sar, just a sec, I hurried to rummage in the shoe cupboard.
Sar. Emily stiffened. Slippers just for her in our house? And Tom knew exactly where they were?
Everyone drifted into the lounge. The boys had already cranked up the telly and begun bouncing on the new ivory sofaEmilys pride and joy.
Harry, Alfie, careful please, she tried, softly.
Let them be, theyre children! Sarah interjected, flopping into an armchair. Tom, I need some water, my throats killing me.
The next hour was a one-woman show. Sarah was everywhere: critiquing the tree (These ornaments are so dreary; we used to have more fun with it), the table (Why so many forks, what are weat Buckingham Palace?), scolding her sons then instantly babying them. Tom hovered around her, rushing to fetch pillows, adjust the volume, plug in her phone. He avoided Emilys eyes the whole time.
Emily set the table in silence, moving plates and glasses with numb hands, feeling more like staff than a hostess.
Emily! Sarah called from the sofa. Is that potato salad with ham? Good grief, how outdated. Tom prefers it with roast beef, didnt you know? We always used beef.
Toms loved my recipe for three years, Emily snapped, banging the salad bowl down.
Ah, hes just being polite, Sarah laughed. My poor Tommy, suffering in silence.
Tom, standing awkwardly, simply grinned. He didnt step in; he didnt say Stop it, Emily cooks brilliantly. He just stayed quiet, too terrified of spoiling Sarahs mood.
That was the first warning bell. The second rang as Emily pulled the goose out of the oven and set it in the centre of the table. Crisp, golden, perfect. Her masterpiece.
Dinners readygoose with Bramley apples and prunes.
The boys dashed over, pulling faces.
Ew, its burnt! Alfie declared. Im not eating that! Dad, can we have pizza?
Its not burnt, its just well-roasted Emily tried.
Oh, come on, kids never eat this stuff, Sarah said, jabbing the goose leg with her fork. So fatty. And prunes? Who puts prunes in meat? Tom, order a pizza for the boys. Get me one too, I cant handle this, you know my tummy.
Tom looked at Emily apologetically.
Em, maybe shes got a point? The kids, it is Christmas. Ill order, itll be quick.
Are you serious? Emilys voice wobbled. I worked on that for hours. Marinated it overnight. This is my best dish.
Come on, love, I put my arm round her, but she shrugged me off. Its just different tastes. Well eat both, it makes the table look richer anyway.
I was already on the phone ordering a pizza, asking Sarah, Mushrooms or pepperoni for you?
Emily sat down. Everything around her felt surrealher home, her kitchen, her Christmas. Yet here she was, pushed aside as her own husband and his ex picked pizza toppings and mocked her cooking.
Remember 2016, Tom? Sarah suddenly said, pouring herself uninvited a glass of champagne. When we booked that lodge for New Year’s? You dressed as Santa, and your beard fell off mid-song! We were in stitches!
Oh, God, yes! I laughed, relaxing for the first time. You went as the Snow Maiden and your heel snapped in the snowdrift.
Soon they were reminiscing: seaside trips, buying their first car, Harrys first steps. They laughed and swapped stories, lost in a world that had nothing to do with Emily. She sat at her beautifully set table, feeling utterly invisible. A piece of furniture.
The boys raced around, and one clipped a wine glass, splashing a crimson stain across the starched white tablecloth the one Emily had ironed just that afternoon.
Oh, dear, Sarah tutted. Tom, dont just stand there, clear it up! You cant put wine on the edge when kids are about. Emily, have you got salt? Might as well, though its not exactly an heirloom.
Emily rose, the cheerful TV drowned by the ringing in her ears. She watched as Tom fetched the salt, following Sarahs every order, never once glancing her way. He was entirely absorbed by saving Christmas for his other family.
Thats when Emily realised: for Tom, she wasnt really there. He was full of guilt for the past and desperate to pleasebut Emily was just a background prop. She was expected to smile, serve dinner, and not get in the way.
No one noticed when she quietly slipped out. Sarah was gabbing about some trip to Toms mum; Tom was laughing.
Emily slipped into the bedroom. It was dark, quiet, a pool of yellow light from the streetlamp on the bed. She pulled out a holdall from the wardrobe, her hands steady. No more anger; only icy resolve. Jeans, a warm jumper, fresh underwear, make-up bag, phone charger, passport.
She changed out of her dress, swapped into boots, and glanced in the mirror: a tired but determined woman stared back.
Passing silently through the hallway, she overheard the buzz as the pizza arrived and the boys cheered.
Tom, pay the driver, I dont have any change! Sarah barked.
Emily waited until my back was turned, slipped out the door, and shut it quietly behind her. The sound was lost amid the household hubbub. In the lift down to the street, she finally dared breathe.
Outside, soft snow fell. London was lighting up for midnight, fireworks exploding in the air, laughter echoing down the road. Emily pulled out her mobile and rang her best friend.
Lizzy, are you awake? she asked when Lizzy answered, breathless.
Its ten o’clock, on Christmas Eve! Jamie and I just opened the prosecco. Whats happened? You sound odd.
Ive left Tom. Can I come to yours?
My God of course! Jamie, set another place, Emilys coming. Where are you? Ill call you a cab.
Forty minutes later, Emily was curled up in Lizzys kitchen. Warmth, the scent of cinnamon, and the gentle background hum of a real home. Jamie tactfully made himself scarce while the pair sat with mugs of steaming tea.
Tell me everything, Lizzy said, pouring the tea.
Emily poured her heart out: the broken tap, the ex, the potato salad, the reminiscing, the goose rejected without a taste.
The point isnt just that they showed up, she admitted, wrapping her hands around her cup. Its him. He turned into a butler. He forgot about me. I stood there like hired help while he played happy family. Why am I here if hes never really let go of them?
Classic nice-guy syndrome, Lizzy shook her head. Always wants to please everyone and ends up betraying the one who really matters. Im glad you left. If youd stayed hed just think it was all right to walk all over you for his exs sake.
Emilys phone was silent for an hour. Presumably, it took that long for them to realise she was gone.
Tom called. Emily ignored it.
He called again. And again.
Then the texts came, one after another.
Em, where are you? We cant find you.
Did you pop out? Theres pizza.
Please, answer. This isnt funny. They keep asking, wheres the hostess?
Seriously Emily? Have you run off? Lizzy, this is childish! Come back now, I cant deal with Sarah on my own!
Emily read the last and gave a bitter chuckle. He was embarrassed, not for his insulted wife, but before his former wifewho was now surely sitting back triumphant.
Dont answer, Lizzy advised. Let him deal with his dear Sarah for a change.
Emily switched off her phone.
She didnt make any wishes at midnight; instead, she drank champagne with her best friend and her husband, watched ‘Love Actually’ on the telly, and for the first time in ages felt oddly lightlike finally dropping a rucksack shed carried for three long years.
The first of January dawned bright and icy. Emily woke on Lizzys sofa to the aroma of coffee. She powered up her phone: fifty missed calls, twenty messagesfirst demanding, then desperate, then pitiful.
The boys smashed your favourite vase. Sorry.
Sarah kicked off; she hates the sofa, says its too hard.
Theyve gone. The place is trashed. I dont know where to start.
Emily, darling, Im sorry. Im an idiot. Please ring me.
Midday, Lizzys bell rang. I stood on the step, as ragged as Id ever looked: hair wild, shirt creased and wine-stained, bags under my eyes, clutching a massive bunch of rosesclearly purchased at a garage for extortionate money.
Lizzy opened the door, arms folded, barring me entry.
Well, if it isnt Romeo. What do you want?
Liz, please, let me talk to Em. I know shes here. I have to.
Emily stepped into the hallway. She looked at me, utterly exhaustednot angry, just done.
Em! I moved towards her, but she stopped me with a look. Emily, Im sorry. I realise how awful I was. Last night was hell. As soon as you walked out everything went wrong. Sarah took control, the boys went wild, knocked the tree over When I tried to calm things, Sarah called me a rubbish dad. We argued. I packed them off in a cab at 3am.
Desperate, I locked eyes with her.
I get it, Emily. I acted like a doormat. I was so scared to upset them that I treated you horribly. Youre my family. Just you. Please come home. Its so empty. I tidied up mostly.
Emily looked at the roses, water dripping onto the mat.
Tom, its not just that you hurt me. You gave me a place in your housesomewhere between cook and table lamp. You allowed another woman to rule my home and ridicule me.
I swear, never again! I promised, almost shouting. Sarahs blocked on everything unless its strictly about the boys and only in public. No guests. No random calls. Trust me, Ill change.
Emily was silent, considering. She could see I was genuine: frightened, repentant. But could she forget that crushing loneliness at her own celebration?
Im not coming back tonight, she said at last. I need some time. Ill stay at Lizzys a few more days. You go home. And really thinknot about getting me back, but about how you even got us here. Why her feelings came before mine.
Ill wait, I managed, bowing my head. As long as you want. I love you, Em. I really do.
I set the roses on the side, turned, and left. The door closed quietly.
Emily stepped into the kitchen. Lizzy was already pouring another cup of tea.
So? Will you forgive him? her friend asked.
I dont know, Liz. Maybe. In time. Hes a good manjust lost. But if I go back, things will change. I wont be pushed aside again. Not ever.
She went to the window. Outside, London was covered in clean, white snowa blank page. Life would go on, and Emily knew now: the pen that wrote her story had to be in her own hand, not haunted by ghosts from the past.
If Im honest, thats the lesson I learned more than anyonesometimes trying to please everyone just means you lose the one who should matter most. Relationships need boundaries, respect, and the courage to see when youve gone wrong.
