*Friday, 16th June*
“She really does look lovely. Funny how I stopped noticing,” Victor mused.
The morning was as chaotic as ever. Emily had cooked breakfast and woken little Beatrice while he commandeered the bathroom, forcing her to wash their daughter at the kitchen sink. A careless flick of the tea towel sent a mug crashing to the floor. At the noise, Victor appeared, and Emily handed him Beatrice so she could sweep up the shards.
“Right, that’s everything,” she muttered, rushing to get dressed.
“I’m off—you’ll drop Bea at nursery, yes? Big day today,” she called from the hallway, tugging up the zip on her boots. “Presenting my proposal. If it goes well, I’ll lead the project. More money, experience, references…”
She threw on her coat, gave a final critical glance in the mirror, grabbed her handbag, and dashed out before Victor could protest.
He finished his coffee and toast while Beatrice stood watching.
“Want some?”
She nodded.
“No, you won’t eat your porridge at nursery.”
At the mention of porridge, she pulled a face.
“Plenty of things I don’t like either,” Victor sighed, dropping his plate in the sink. “Like your mum bolting out the door. Seems we’re stuck with that.”
Dressing Beatrice was a battle—tights twisted, mittens vanished (later found drying on the radiator). Flushed and frazzled, they finally made it out. Victor scooped her up and jogged downstairs.
At the nursery, the teacher tried explaining something, but he cut in—”Sorry, running late!”—and fled, shamefully. Only in the car did he breathe. A moment to recover from the madness, then off to work.
The drive was spent reminiscing about simpler days—Emily at home, a tidy flat waiting, dinner simmering. No stress. Now, everything was a sprint. It couldn’t go on.
Most women would kill to stay home. Not her. She needed independence, a career. Why marry, then? Should’ve stuck to work. They weren’t short on money. He’d talk to her tonight. The thought lifted his mood.
Work distracted him until Emily’s midday text: *Running late. Can you get Bea?*
Brilliant. There went his evening pint with mates. Rare enough as it was. His mood plummeted.
That evening, he was frying potatoes when Emily burst in, radiant. “You’ll never guess—my presentation killed it! I’m project lead!” She offered her cheek. He kissed it.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” She caught his gloom.
“Thrilled. Wife’s climbing the ladder. No time for us. Perfect,” he snipped.
“Oh, what now? Jealous I’m succeeding while you’re still a middle manager?”
“Jealous? Bea barely sees you! Don’t we earn enough?”
“Don’t shout. This isn’t about her—it’s you. Yes, I’ll outearn you. That burns, doesn’t it? I want to work, to feel alive. That’s the woman you fell for. Or did you forget?”
Victor floundered. It was true.
“That was then. Now we have a child. She needs her mother,” he countered.
“She needs her father too. Men love dumping it all on women. *You* look after her,” Emily shot back.
The row escalated. Neither budged. They slept angry, back-to-back—yet in the night, her hand found his chest, and his covered it softly. Asleep, they still loved.
Next morning, Victor rose early, hoping to escape first. But Emily was already scrambling eggs, waking Beatrice. He sighed and shaved. The chaos repeated: coffee spilled, Beatrice tangled in tights, Emily halfway out the door.
“I can’t pick Bea up today—” The door slammed.
“Damn it!” He hurled his shirt onto the bed.
This wasn’t the family he’d imagined. His mum had stayed home—cooked, waited, helped with homework. No fights. Why couldn’t they have that?
At work, Margot cornered him. They’d had a fling years back—before Emily. Truthfully, he’d left Margot *for* Emily.
“Why so tense lately?” she purred.
“Tense?” He stirred instant coffee.
“Grumpy, dishevelled. Married life not the dream?”
“We’re fine. Just adjusting to Emily working.”
Her glossed lips curved. “I could help. Pick up Beatrice, maybe? You could collect her from mine…” Her fingers grazed his collar.
He caught her wrist. Imagined Beatrice telling Emily, *Aunt Margot fetched me…*
“No. We’re done. That’s final.” He left his coffee and walked out.
That night, Emily was late again. They didn’t argue—just silence. She knew why he was upset, where this was heading. She didn’t want to lose him. But she loved her job. Later, she reached for him. He turned away.
Staring at the ceiling, she weighed it all. Quitting now, just as she was thriving? But two more years at home—who’d hire her then?
Yet Victor had a point. She’d been glued to her laptop weekends. They hadn’t gone anywhere. More money meant proper holidays, no scrimping.
And Victor was handsome. Plenty of women at his office, Margot included, would pounce if he strayed. He’d been honest about his past—no surprises.
*No. Others manage. Why can’t I? No more late nights. Meetings in mornings. And why do I do everything? We’re a team. Time they pulled their weight.* Decision made, she settled into sleep.
Next day, Emily was on TV—touted as a rising star. Asked how she balanced work and family, she smiled. “I’ve a wonderful husband. Couldn’t do it without him.”
*She really does look lovely. Funny how I stopped noticing,* Victor thought.
Margot found him later. “Saw your missus on telly.”
“Stop chasing me,” he said, catching the spite in her eyes.
She smiled sweetly. “And if I am? Women like her don’t deserve men like you.”
“Enough, Margot. Try Alex—he’s mad for you.” He walked off, leaving his coffee.
His mum called after seeing the segment. “So you’re cooking and cleaning now? Going hungry? A wife should be home—”
“Stay out of it, Mum. I remember Dad’s ‘business trips’. You thought playing housemaid would make him stay. It didn’t.”
A pause. “Do as you like. It’s your life.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean that. Come round Sunday? Or we’ll visit. Your pancakes are unbeatable. Teach Emily. I love her. No one else.”
Next evening, Emily didn’t ask him to collect Beatrice. Assuming she’d forgotten, he went. The nursThe nursery teacher smiled and said, “Oh, her mum already picked her up—left half an hour ago.”
