In hindsight, the marriage of Emily and Henry appeared perfectly respectable—quiet, harmonious, even enviable. Henry never drank to excess, only a modest glass on special occasions. He didn’t smoke, and in all their eleven years together, he’d never once raised a hand to her.
There had been one incident, though Emily blamed herself for it, recounting it to her friend Lucy now and then:
“Years ago, we had a terrible row. I lost my temper and flew at him—imagine me, a slight woman, throwing punches at a man his size. What was I thinking? He just gently pinned my wrists and sat me down on the sofa. Another man might’ve struck back, taught me a lesson. That’s when I realised how wrong I was, and I’ve never let myself behave like that again.”
“You’re lucky, Em. That Henry could’ve sent you flying with one arm,” Lucy would say. “Honestly, what woman stands a chance against a man?”
Emily and Henry were each on their second marriage. Her first had ended because her husband drank too much and picked fights. He’d come home late when their daughter, Charlotte, was already asleep, then wake her with his shouting, indifferent to the chaos. Sick of it, Emily filed for divorce and moved back in with her parents.
“You did right, love,” her mother had reassured her. “Five years with that man brought you nothing good. We’ll raise Charlotte together, and you’ll find happiness yet. You’re a fine woman—you know that.”
When Charlotte turned twelve, Emily married Henry. She’d met him at Lucy’s husband’s birthday party in a pub. He’d approached her with a smile.
“You look like you could use some company,” he said. “Care for a dance?”
Tall and handsome, he’d seemed so calm—that was her first impression.
“Not at all,” she replied, “but I’d love a dance.”
That was the start of it. Lucy was thrilled; her friend wouldn’t be alone anymore. By then, Emily lived with Charlotte in a modest three-bedroom flat inherited from her grandmother. The old woman had been ill and alone, so her parents had taken her in. The flat wasn’t spacious—small rooms in an ageing five-storey building—but Emily was grateful. Charlotte had her own room, and soon Henry moved in, having lived with his mother until then.
His first marriage hadn’t fared well either. He and his wife, Margaret, had shared the house with his mother, but the two women clashed endlessly, neither willing to yield. Things nearly came to blows.
“Henry, where on earth did you find such a harridan?” his mother would snap the moment he walked in from work. “I can’t share a roof with her another day.”
“Henry,” Margaret would demand, “I won’t live with your mother. Find us a place, or I can’t answer for what I’ll do.” Impulsive and pregnant, she meant it.
They moved out, and a son was born. Henry tried to help, but Margaret was never satisfied.
“There’s no money—the boy needs new clothes. Cook dinner, I’m too tired. Take him for a walk, I need a break.”
He obliged, but his mother complained Margaret kept her from seeing her grandson.
“How dare she stop me?” she’d wail. “I’ve a right to see him!”
“I’ll bring him on Sunday,” Henry would promise.
Margaret would send them off but often disappeared herself—late nights out, sometimes not returning until morning. Henry grew suspicious, especially when she came home smelling of drink. She’d rail against his mother, and soon, weekends became her escape. One night, she didn’t come home at all. With work looming, Henry had no choice but to drop their son at his mother’s before dawn. She never missed a chance to remind him what a mistake Margaret had been.
By the time their son turned four, Margaret announced:
“I’m leaving. You’re a mother’s boy, and I want a real man. I’ve found one.”
Henry moved back in with his mother. She was no angel herself—no woman ever lived up to her standards, and in her eyes, no one ever would.
At first, Emily and Henry were happy. The only shadow was his mother, who despised Emily for having a child from her first marriage. Charlotte, though quiet and polite, even called her “Grandma” once—only to be sharply corrected.
“I’m no grandmother to you. You’ve got your own.”
Emily bit her tongue—she was right, after all—but the words stung. Charlotte spent more time with Emily’s parents after that.
Years passed. Charlotte left for university, and Emily and Henry never had children of their own—not for lack of trying. His mother never warmed to Emily, despite her efforts to ignore the jibes.
But as time wore on, Henry changed. He’d always been a fine cook—when in the mood. Lately, that mood was rare.
“Lucy, I don’t understand him,” Emily confessed. “He’s so sour these days, snapping at everything I say, determined to drag me down with him. I don’t know if he was always like this or if age has made him worse.”
“Honestly, Em, I’d never have guessed. You two always seemed so content. Truly, no one knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
“He seizes any excuse to pick a fight, Lucy. It’s like he wakes up aiming to ruin my day. Thank God Charlotte’s gone. I keep waiting for him to change, but…”
“Why did you quit your job?” Lucy asked. “I ran into Anna—you know, from your old office—she mentioned it.”
“I had to. Henry started accusing me of carrying on if anyone from work texted. One row too many.”
At first, he’d just grumbled:
“You spend too much time with colleagues and friends. Your family should come first.”
Tired of suspicion, Emily quit and stopped seeing friends. Henry calmed—or so she thought. Then came the next grievance.
“You waste money on nonsense—manicures, new dresses. Spend it on the household instead.”
“Fine,” she said. “You do the shopping. I’ll make lists. Skip what you think we don’t need. Just—no more fights.”
For a while, it worked. But soon, he found new faults. Even after she left work, avoided shops, and dropped her friends, he complained about her fitness classes.
“You only go to eye up other men. Stop it.”
So she did.
With too much time on her hands, she wondered: why had Henry turned into this petty, impossible man? She watched him closely, searching for answers.
“Maybe there’s another woman. Maybe that’s why he’s so jealous.”
She hated herself for it, but she checked his phone—something she’d never done. Aside from her and his mother, he barely spoke to anyone. What unsettled her were his mother’s constant calls—several a day to his work, fewer to home, but lately, he’d leave the room to take them.
Emily eavesdropped when she could. His mother’s voice dripped with disapproval, her name often mentioned. One day, when Henry was bathing, his phone rang. Emily answered before she could think.
“Henry, have you done as I said?” his mother snapped. “That wife of yours is off gallivanting while you sit at home like a fool. You’re spineless—letting her walk all over you!”
“Hello, Mother,” Emily said, forcing calm. “Henry’s in the bath. I’ll pass on your message.”
She expected an apology. Instead, his mother raged, insulting her for daring to touch his phone before hanging up.
Now Emily understood: his mother was poisoning him.
“What have I ever done to her? I’ve always been polite. Why does she hate us being happy?”
She said nothing to Henry.
Weeks passed, but Emily couldn’t shake it. His mother thrived on misery—dragging Henry down with her.
“What can I do? I can’t cut him off from her. I can’t leave—I love him. Ignoring his jibes is one thing, but I pity him. He hurts me, then regrets it, apologising later. But after talking to her, he’s restless again. How do I save him?”
Her only thought: a therapist.
She’d book an appointment. That much, she could do.
