Broken Dreams: The Drama of Emily
Emily paced restlessly across the living room of their flat in Manchester, glancing repeatedly at her phone. Her husband was late again, and her patience was wearing thin, like a frayed thread.
“Where on earth is he?” she muttered, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The front door clicked open, and in walked Daniel, looking weary but with a guilty smile. In his hand was a small bouquet of daisies.
“These are for you,” he said, offering the flowers. “Sorry, I was helping Mum—lost track of time.”
“Lost track?” Emily’s voice trembled with indignation. “You couldn’t even call? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Got caught up, forgot,” Daniel mumbled, fiddling with the edge of his jacket. “Helping Mum, and then… Look, we talked, and we decided something.”
“Decided what?” Emily froze, a cold shiver running down her spine.
Daniel took a deep breath and spoke. As his words spilled out, Emily’s face hardened with fury and disbelief.
She couldn’t remember the last time Daniel had spent more than an hour at home. He left at dawn and returned past midnight, often when she was already asleep—if he returned at all. Spring had arrived, and Daniel seemed like a different man. In winter, he’d hurry home, burrow under a blanket, and grumble at her suggestions for a walk. Now, he vanished for days.
His mother, Margaret Whitmore, had disliked Emily from the start. At their first meeting, Emily had sensed Margaret’s cold scrutiny, as if assessing merchandise. At dinner, Margaret spoke only to Daniel, ignoring his wife. Emily pitied his father, Edward—a weary man who spoke timidly, flinching at his wife’s sharp words.
Emily had known then that living under the same roof with them would be a nightmare. Luckily, she had her own flat, and after the wedding, Daniel moved in with her. Margaret hadn’t objected, even helped him pack, as if relieved to have him out of her home.
For their housewarming, Margaret had dropped by briefly, scrutinised the flat, sipped tea, and left. A year into their marriage, Emily could neither boast nor complain—her life was routine: work, home, the occasional holiday. Her own parents lived in another town, inviting her to visit, but she valued her independence. Here, she had a job, friends, a home, and a husband. She thought her marriage was fine—Daniel was undemanding, they lived modestly but comfortably.
Sometimes they helped Margaret if she asked. Once a month, they might dine out, plan the future. Emily dreamed of children, but Daniel never responded. She understood—dreaming was easy, raising a child another matter. Daniel dreamed of a car. Emily agreed it would be useful, but too costly. She refused to take a loan or ask family—it would mean scrimping for years, barely affording a used car.
Daniel explained his absences simply:
“Mum needs help. The gardening season’s started—she’s at the allotment every day, and I go with her. Family should support each other.”
“And what about me?” Emily snapped. “How many times have I asked you to fix the tap? The balcony door’s hanging off!”
“Em, don’t compare—it’s my mum!” he’d say, waving her off.
These arguments grew frequent. Emily was tired of being a weekend wife—when he even showed up. Even Saturdays, he left for his parents’. She was glad she wasn’t dragged to the allotment but wondered—why?
Once, at Margaret’s, she tried homemade pickles. They were so delicious she ate half a jar.
“Did you make these?” she asked, impressed.
“Of course,” Margaret said proudly. “Slaving all spring and summer so we have proper food in winter.”
“My mum doesn’t make preserves—I’d forgotten how good they taste,” Emily hinted, hoping for a share.
Margaret ignored it.
“Odd family, yours. How can anyone not make preserves? I bottle veggies and jam every year. Hard work, but winter’s table is never bare. Lazy folk end up with empty plates,” she chided, eyeing Emily.
Emily never brought it up again. On the way home, she bought a jar of pickles, fried potatoes, and ate alone.
That evening, Daniel was late again. Emily stormed around the flat, clutching her phone. She was sick of dining alone, sick of waiting like a loyal dog. The door opened, and she braced to unleash her anger. Daniel entered with daisies, smiling sheepishly.
“Sorry, Em,” he said, handing them over.
Silently, she put them in a vase, hoping for a romantic evening. But Daniel sat down, gave her a sly look, and said,
“Mum and I talked. Why keep this flat? Let’s sell, buy somewhere cheaper.”
Emily went rigid. Oblivious, he continued:
“You’re always cross I’m never home. If we sell, we’ll get a smaller place, use the difference for a car. And we’ll be closer to Mum’s allotment—easier than her taking the train and walking three miles.”
Emily stared, a storm brewing in her chest. What kind of husband was he? An extension of his mother! She bit back a scream, forcing out,
“Darling, are you hungry?”
“No, ate at Mum’s. Roast chicken tonight—absolutely divine,” he sighed dreamily.
Something inside Emily snapped. This man would never be a husband or father.
“Here’s a better idea,” she said coldly. “Sell the allotment, buy your car. Then no more ferrying Mum, and you might actually stay home.”
“What?” Daniel gasped. “Mum would never agree! Where would we—she and I—go in summer? Dad hates the place.”
“Then another idea,” Emily straightened, voice firm. “Pack your things and move in with Mum and Dad. Tomorrow, we file for divorce. I need space. When I return, don’t be here.”
Daniel nodded dazedly. Emily grabbed her coat and left. She sat in a café till closing, replaying their life. Was this right? But it felt inevitable—Daniel wouldn’t change. Returning home, she found him gone.
Morning brought a knock. On the doorstep stood Daniel and Margaret. Emily stared, stunned.
“Enough silliness—make up!” Margaret ordered. “Honestly, like children!”
Daniel shuffled, eyes darting between them.
“Danny, leave us,” Margaret said. He obeyed, shutting the door. “Emily, please, take him back. Keep the flat—just don’t abandon him. He’s driving me mad at the allotment!” Her voice cracked with frustration.
Emily burst out laughing.
“Sorry, Margaret, but I don’t want him either. I tried, but I can’t be married to a man who’s still tied to his mother’s apron strings.”
Margaret opened her mouth, then nodded and left. From the hallway came her exasperated cry:
“Stop following me, Danny—enough!”
Emily shut the door, exhaled, and felt an unbearable weight lift. She was free.
Sometimes, letting go is the bravest step toward happiness.
