Losing Control
From the outside, Emma and James appeared to be the perfect couple—harmonious, respectable, and content. James wasn’t a drinker, except for the occasional holiday toast, and he’d never raised a hand against her in their eleven years together.
There had been *one* incident, though Emma blamed herself, recounting it to her best friend Sophie over tea:
“Years ago, we had a stupid row, and I—well, I flew at him. Imagine me, a slip of a thing, throwing punches at a man his size! What was I thinking? He just held my wrists, gently sat me down. Another bloke might’ve shoved back, taught me a lesson. That’s when I realised how wrong I was—never behaved like that again.”
Sophie scoffed. “Honestly, Em. James could’ve knocked you flat with one hand if he’d wanted! Since when does a woman win against a fistfight?”
Emma and James were each other’s second marriage. Her first husband, Mark, drank too much and picked fights—stumbling home late, waking their daughter Lily with his shouting. Emma had finally had enough. She left, moved back in with her parents.
“Good riddance, love,” her mum had said. “Five years of misery was enough. We’ll raise Lily right, and you’ll find happiness yet. A pretty thing like you? Won’t be hard.”
When Lily turned twelve, Emma married James. They’d met at Sophie’s husband’s birthday bash in a cosy London pub. He’d sidled up to her, flashing a dimpled grin. “You look like you’re bored stiff. Fancy a dance?”
Tall, handsome, unnervingly calm—that was her first impression. She’d laughed. “Not bored. But I’ll dance anyway.”
And so it began. Sophie was thrilled—Emma wasn’t alone anymore. By then, Emma and Lily lived in a modest three-bed terrace in Croydon, inherited from her grandmother. The rooms were cramped, the walls thin, but it was *hers*—a roof over their heads, a room for Lily. Soon, James moved in—he’d been living with *his* mother.
His first marriage had crumbled under the weight of his mother’s interference. His ex-wife, Claire, couldn’t stand sharing a home with her. The pair clashed constantly, neither backing down—near fistfights erupted over burnt toast and misplaced teacups.
“James, where did you *find* that harpy?” his mother would shrill the moment he walked in from work. “She’s unbearable!”
Meanwhile, Claire would hiss, “I can’t live like this. Get us a flat, or I swear—” She was volatile, *pregnant*, and at her limit.
So they left. Their son, Oliver, arrived soon after. James helped where he could, but Claire was never satisfied.
“James, we’re skint—Oliver needs new shoes!” or “Cook dinner, walk the baby, *I’m tired!*”
He obliged, but then came his mother’s tearful calls: “She won’t *let* me see my grandson!”
James would promise weekend visits, and Claire would bundle Oliver off—only to vanish herself, returning late, reeking of wine. The rows worsened. Then one Sunday, she didn’t come home at all. James had to drop Oliver at his mother’s before work.
When Oliver was four, Claire announced: “I’m leaving. You’re a *mummy’s boy*. I’ve found a *real* man.”
James moved back in with his mother—a bitter woman who thought no woman *ever* matched her son.
For a while, Emma and James were happy—until *she* started picking at them. Hated that he’d married a woman with *another man’s child*. Lily, sweet-natured, called her “Gran” once.
“I’m *not* your gran,” the woman snapped. “You’ve got your *own*.”
Emma bit her tongue. The woman *was* right—Lily wasn’t hers. Soon, Lily spent most weekends at Emma’s parents’.
Years passed. Lily left for uni in Manchester. Emma and James never had children—she’d have kept a baby if it happened, but it didn’t. And her mother-in-law’s barbs never stopped, no matter how polite Emma was.
But lately, James had changed. He *could* cook beautifully—when he was in the mood. Now, that mood was rare.
“Soph, I don’t *get* it,” Emma confessed. “He’s so… sour. No reason for it! Everything I say sets him off. Like he *wants* me miserable. Was he always this negative?”
Sophie frowned. “Honestly? I thought you two were solid. Shows what I know—you never *really* know a couple, do you?”
Emma sighed. “He nitpicks *everything*. Like he resents me. He’ll snap, then later apologise—says he didn’t mean it. But after talking to *her*? He’s a storm cloud. How do I *fix* this? Therapy?”
Then Sophie gasped. “Wait—why’d you *quit* your job? Sarah from your office mentioned it.”
Emma winced. “James kept accusing me of flirting if a coworker texted. Easier to just leave.”
At first, he’d said, “You’re *always* with friends or colleagues. Focus on *us*.”
So she did. The jealousy eased—until the next complaint: “You *waste* money—manicures, dresses! Put the *family* first.”
Emma surrendered. “Fine. *You* handle shopping. I’ll make lists. Skip what you think’s unnecessary. No more rows.”
Peace lasted a week. Then he snarled about her gym habit: “You just ogle men there. *Stop.*”
She quit. Now, with too much time, she wondered—what *was* his problem? Was he cheating? She’d never snooped before, but…
His phone revealed nothing—just calls from his *mother*. Dozens *daily*. Lately, he’d leave the room when she rang.
One evening, Emma answered—his mother’s shrill voice: “Did you *listen*, James? Your wife’s out *gallivanting* while you mope! *Pathetic.* Can’t even control her—”
Emma cut in coolly. “He’s showering. I’ll pass that on.”
No apology—just fury that she’d *dared* touch his phone. The call ended with a slam.
The truth hit her: *She’s* poisoning him.
Emma ached. She couldn’t cut him off from his mother—but each call left him hollow, lashing out. He’d apologise later, guilt-ridden. But the cycle never broke.
“How do I save him?” she whispered.
The answer came slowly: *Maybe I can’t.*
Some battles aren’t yours to fight—even for love.
