Broken Dreams: The Drama of Emily
Emily paced the dimly lit living room of their flat in Manchester, her eyes darting to her phone every few seconds. Her husband was late again, and her patience was frayed like a thread pulled too tight.
“Where the devil is he?” she muttered, gripping the phone so hard her knuckles turned white.
The lock clicked, and Matthew stepped inside, exhausted but wearing a guilty smile. In his hands was a small bouquet of daisies.
“These are for you,” he said, holding them out. “Sorry, I got held up helping Mum.”
“Held up?” Emily’s voice trembled with hurt. “You couldn’t call? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Lost track of time,” Matthew murmured, avoiding her gaze as he fidgeted with his jacket sleeve. “Anyway, we talked—Mum and I—and we’ve made a decision.”
“A decision?” Emily froze, a chill crawling down her spine.
Matthew took a deep breath and started speaking. With every word, Emily’s face hardened into disbelief.
She couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent more than an hour at home. He left at dawn, returned after midnight—if he returned at all. Spring had swept into the city, and with it, Matthew seemed like a different man. In winter, he’d rush back, burrow under a blanket, and grumble when she suggested a walk. Now, he vanished for days, as if someone had replaced him.
His mother, Margaret Anne, had set Emily on edge from the moment they met. That first icy look—as if sizing up merchandise—stuck in her memory. At the dinner table, Margaret Anne spoke only to her son, ignoring Emily entirely. Emily pitied Matthew’s father, Robert. The man looked worn down, speaking to his wife timidly, flinching at her sharp words.
Even then, Emily knew: living under the same roof as that family would be a nightmare. Thankfully, she’d had her own flat, and after the wedding, Matthew had moved in with her. Margaret Anne hadn’t objected—almost seemed relieved to have him out of her hair.
During the housewarming, her mother-in-law had barely stayed an hour—inspecting the place with a critical eye, sipping tea, then leaving. A year into their marriage, Emily couldn’t say it was perfect, but it was ordinary: work, home, the occasional celebration. Her parents lived in another town, always inviting her to visit, but she liked her independence. She had a job, friends, a home, and a husband. She thought she was managing married life well enough.
Matthew was undemanding; they lived modestly but comfortably. Sometimes they helped his mother when she asked. Once a month, they might eat out, making plans for the future. Emily dreamed of children, but Matthew stayed silent. She understood—dreaming was easy, raising a child was another matter. Matthew, meanwhile, obsessed over buying a car. Emily agreed it would be useful, but the cost was steep.
Their arguments grew more frequent. Emily was tired of being a weekend wife—if that. Even on Saturdays, Matthew rushed to his parents. She wondered why she was never invited to help at their summer home.
One visit, she tried Margaret Anne’s pickled courgettes and couldn’t stop eating them.
“Did you make these?” Emily asked, impressed.
“Of course,” Margaret Anne replied proudly. “I work all spring and summer so we have good food in winter.”
“My mum never preserves things,” Emily said, hoping for a jar to take home.
Margaret Anne ignored the hint. “Strange family of yours. How can you not stock up? Every year, I bottle vegetables, make jams. It’s hard work, but lazy people end up with empty cupboards.” Her tone was cutting.
Emily never brought it up again. On the way home, she bought a jar of courgettes, fried some potatoes, and ate alone.
That evening, Matthew was late again. Emily paced, phone in hand, seething. She was sick of eating alone, sick of waiting like a loyal dog. The door opened—she tensed, ready to explode. Matthew walked in with daisies, offering a sheepish smile.
“Sorry, Em,” he said, holding out the flowers.
Emily silently placed them in a vase, hoping for a quiet evening. But Matthew sat down, gave her a sly look, and said, “Mum and I talked. Why keep this flat? Let’s sell it, buy something cheaper.”
Emily went still.
“You’re always saying I’m never home,” he continued. “If we move to the outskirts, we could afford a car. And Mum’s place would be closer—easier than taking the train and walking three miles.”
A storm brewed in Emily’s chest. What kind of husband was he? An extension of his mother. She wanted to scream, but instead said coldly, “Sweetheart, are you hungry?”
“No, ate at Mum’s. She made the most amazing roast chicken.” His eyes drifted dreamily.
Something inside Emily snapped. This man would never be a proper husband or father.
“Here’s another idea,” she said, voice icy. “Sell your mother’s summer home. Buy the car. Then you won’t need to drive her anywhere—and you’ll actually be home.”
Matthew gasped. “Mum would never agree! Where would we go in the summer? Well, Dad hates the place anyway.”
“Then here’s my final offer,” Emily straightened, trembling with resolve. “Pack your things and go live with them. Tomorrow, we file for divorce. I need space. When I come back, I don’t want to see you here.”
Matthew nodded, stunned. Emily grabbed her coat and left. She sat in a café until closing, replaying their life together. Was this the right choice? But it felt inevitable—Matthew would never change.
When she returned, he was gone.
The next morning, the doorbell rang. On the step stood Matthew—and Margaret Anne. Emily stiffened, staring at the unwanted delegation.
“Right, sort this out now,” Margaret Anne barked. “Honestly, like children!”
Matthew shifted awkwardly between the two women.
“Matthew, leave us,” Margaret Anne ordered. He obeyed, shutting the door behind him. “Emily, please. Take him back. If you don’t want to sell the flat, fine. But he’s driving me mad!”
Emily laughed bitterly.
“Margaret, I don’t want him. I tried to understand, to accept him—but I can’t. I don’t need a husband who’s a lapdog.”
Margaret Anne opened her mouth, then sighed and turned away. Her voice carried from the hallway:
“Stop following me, Matthew!”
Emily shut the door, exhaled, and felt the weight lift from her shoulders. She was free.
