**Shattered Dreams: Emily’s Story**
Emily paced anxiously around their flat in Sheffield, glancing at her phone every few seconds. Oliver was late—*again*—and her patience was hanging by a thread. *Where the hell is he?* she muttered, gripping her phone so tight her knuckles whitened.
The front door clicked open, and there he was—Oliver, tired but sheepish, clutching a small bouquet of daisies. “These are for you,” he said, holding them out. “Sorry, lost track of time helping Mum.”
“Lost track?” Emily’s voice trembled with anger. “You couldn’t even call? I’ve been worried sick!”
“It slipped my mind,” Oliver mumbled, fidgeting with his jacket. “Mum needed help, and then… Look, we had a chat, and we’ve decided something.”
“Decided *what*?” A chill ran down her spine as she froze, bracing herself.
Oliver took a deep breath and started talking. Emily listened, her face hardening with disbelief and fury.
She couldn’t remember the last time Oliver had spent more than an hour at home. He left at dawn, stumbled in past midnight—if at all—long after she’d gone to bed. Spring had arrived, and with it, Oliver had changed. In winter, he’d rush home, burrow under a blanket, and grumble if she suggested a walk. Now, he was practically a stranger, vanishing for days.
From the moment she’d met his mother, Margaret, Emily had felt an instant dislike. Margaret had eyed her like a piece of furniture at their first meeting, speaking only to Oliver while ignoring her. Emily pitied Oliver’s dad, Thomas—a quiet, worn-out man who flinched at Margaret’s every sharp word.
Emily had known then: living under the same roof as them would be a nightmare. Thankfully, she had her own flat, and after the wedding, Oliver moved in with her. Margaret hadn’t objected—she’d practically *packed* his bags, as if relieved to have him gone.
When Margaret visited their new place, she’d stayed just long enough to critique everything, sip tea, and leave. A year into their marriage, Emily couldn’t complain—but she couldn’t brag, either. It was just… life. Work, home, the occasional outing. Her own parents lived in another city, always inviting her to visit, but she liked her independence. Here, she had friends, a job, a home, and a husband. She’d thought she was doing alright. Oliver was easygoing; they lived modestly but comfortably.
Sometimes they helped Margaret if she asked, maybe went out for dinner once a month, made plans, dreamed a little. Emily wanted kids—Oliver dodged the topic. He fantasised about a car, something practical but pricey. Emily refused to take out a loan or ask family for help, which meant scrimping for years just to afford something second-hand.
Oliver’s excuses for his disappearances were always the same: “Helping Mum. She’s at the allotment every day now—needs the support.”
“And what about *me*?” Emily would snap. “How many times have I asked you to fix the bathroom tap? The balcony door’s hanging off!”
“Em, come on, it’s *Mum*,” he’d sigh, brushing her off.
Those fights became routine. Emily was tired of being a weekend wife—when he even bothered to show up. Saturdays, he’d vanish to his parents’. She told herself she was glad not to be dragged into their allotment chores, but sometimes she wondered: *why doesn’t he want me there?*
Once, at Margaret’s, Emily tried her pickled courgettes. They were so good, she polished off half the jar. “Did you make these yourself?” she’d asked, impressed.
“Of course,” Margaret said proudly. “Slaving away all spring and summer so we’ve got proper food in winter.”
“My mum never bothers with preserves,” Emily admitted, hoping for an offer to share.
Margaret just scoffed. “Strange family, yours. How can you *not* make your own? Lazy people end up with empty cupboards.” She’d given Emily a pointed look.
Emily never brought it up again. On the way home, she bought a jar of courgettes, fried potatoes, and ate alone.
That evening, Oliver was late *again*. Emily fumed, pacing, phone in hand. She was sick of eating alone, sick of waiting like some loyal dog. The door opened—she braced to unload on him. Oliver walked in with daisies, smiling guiltily.
“Sorry, Em,” he said, offering the flowers.
She silently put them in a vase, hoping for a cosy night. But Oliver flopped into his chair, gave her a sly look, and said, “Mum and I had a think. Why keep this flat? Let’s sell it, buy something cheaper.”
Emily went still. Oblivious, Oliver prattled on: “You’re always mad I’m never home. If we sell, we get a smaller place on the outskirts, use the extra for a car. Closer to Mum’s allotment, too—easier than her dragging shopping bags on the train.”
Emily stared, a storm brewing in her chest. What kind of husband was he? An *accessory* to his mother. She bit back a scream, forcing out, “Darling, are you hungry?”
“Nah, ate at Mum’s. Her roast chicken tonight—proper lush,” he sighed dreamily.
Something inside Emily snapped. This man would never be a husband—or a father.
“Here’s an idea,” she said, voice icy. “Sell the allotment. Buy the car. Then you won’t need to chauffeur Mum, *and* you might actually stay home.”
Oliver gasped. “Mum would *never*! Where would we go in summer? Well, *I* would. Dad hates the allotment.”
“Then here’s plan B,” Emily stood straighter, voice shaking with resolve. “Pack your things and move in with your parents. Tomorrow, we file for divorce. I’m leaving—need to clear my head. Don’t be here when I get back.”
Oliver nodded dumbly. Emily grabbed her coat and left. She sat in a café till closing, replaying their marriage. Was this the right choice? But it felt *necessary*—Oliver wouldn’t change. When she returned, he was gone.
The next morning, a knock. Oliver and Margaret stood on the doorstep. Emily stiffened, staring at this “delegation.”
“Right, sort it out, quick!” Margaret barked. “Honestly, like children.”
Oliver shifted awkwardly, eyes darting between them.
“Ollie, leave us alone,” Margaret ordered. He slunk out, closing the door. “Emily, love, forgive him. If you don’t want to sell, fine—just take him back. He’s *clinging* to me at the allotment!” Her voice cracked with frustration.
Emily laughed—sharp, sudden. “Sorry, Margaret, but I don’t *want* him. I tried understanding, accepting—but I can’t. I don’t need a husband who’s a lapdog.”
Margaret opened her mouth, then just nodded and left. Her voice carried from the hallway: “For God’s sake, Oliver, stop following me!”
Emily shut the door, exhaled, and felt the weight lift. She was free.
