“You’re just sitting at home, doing nothing—”
“Mum, come play cars with me, you promised…” piped up five-year-old Oliver, peering into the kitchen yet again.
Emily glanced first at her son, then at the towering pile of unwashed dishes and the chicken patiently waiting its turn on the chopping board. Her eyes flicked back to her little boy, who fixed her with an expectant stare—half plea, half challenge.
“Ollie, just hang on a bit longer, okay? Mummy will come soon,” she murmured, though even she didn’t believe that elusive “soon” would ever arrive.
“You always say that, and then you never come! I don’t wanna play alone—I don’t!” Oliver wailed before storming off to his room.
The commotion woke baby Grace, who promptly announced her awakening with an impressive set of lungs. Emily slumped onto a chair, pressing her hands to her head as if trying to block out the world. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second.
…Emily had always wanted children—adored them, truly. But right now, she’d give anything to be utterly alone. No endless cleaning, nappies, speech therapy appointments, walks to the park, bath time chaos, bedtime stories…
Plenty of mums lived like this, sure—but most had grandparents helping out, partners who pitched in. Not Emily. Her parents lived miles away, and her mother-in-law was too busy with her yoga classes and book club to bother with grandkids. As for her husband, George—well, he rarely walked through the door before the kids were in bed. He’d wolf down dinner, then park himself in front of the telly or his laptop. Helping? What was that? Lately, things between them had grown tense—worse, brittle.
“Muuuum…” came the drowsy whimper of little Grace.
“Coming, love, coming!” Emily hurried to the nursery.
She wrangled the kids, tidied up a bit. After lunch, Oliver had his speech therapist session—while he practiced his consonants, Emily and Grace ambled round the playground.
By the time they got home, dusk was creeping in. She bathed the children, fed them dinner (skipping her own, opting for a hasty cuppa), then looked at that wretched chicken and declared it a lost cause. Instead, she boiled some store-bought dumplings for George.
He rolled in around nine—unsurprisingly, not in the best of moods.
“I’m home! No welcome party, then?” he barked from the hallway.
“George, shh—Grace just nodded off,” Emily replied, straining to keep her voice light.
“Brilliant. A warm homecoming this is,” George grumbled, stomping off to wash up.
She set the table—dumplings, sour cream, a sad sprinkle of parsley. Kettle on, bread sliced.
“Emily, did you bulk-buy these dumplings just to punish me? Am I doomed to eat this slop till they’re gone?” George sneered.
“George, I’ll fry the chicken tomorrow, like I said—”
“Today’s the last time. I swear. We had these on Monday, and now again? It’s a joke!” He scowled, stabbing at his food.
Not once did he ask if she’d eaten. Lately, it seemed she’d become invisible to him.
“George, put the phone down for five minutes. How was work?”
“Oh, what’s there to say? Same rubbish. I’m exhausted, and now you want me to relive it at home?” He didn’t even glance up.
“Right. Well, enjoy your dinner. I’ll check on the kids.”
“Fine.”
She tucked them in, switched off the nightlight, and trudged back to the kitchen.
“I’m off to bed,” George muttered, eyes glued to his screen as he left.
“Night,” Emily whispered to no one.
Once, he’d kissed her goodnight unprompted. Once, they’d lingered over tea after putting Oliver down, chatting about nothing and everything. Once, they’d curled up in bed with a film.
Those days felt like someone else’s life now. George was always buried in work—or something else. Emily, worn thin by toddler-wrangling and speech therapy runs, barely remembered what rest felt like.
She glanced at the clock—10:30 p.m. Dishes to clear, a quick wash, then bed.
By the time she slipped under the covers, George was snoring. His phone chimed—a text.
“Who texts this late?” she wondered, then shrugged. Probably his bank or some promo.
The alarm blared what felt like minutes later.
“Half five already? Feels like I never slept,” she groaned, dragging herself up.
She splashed water on her face, gulped coffee, then fried eggs and toast. George appeared at six sharp.
“Eggs again? Can’t you make pancakes for once?” he griped before even sitting.
“Morning to you too.”
“My mum used to do proper breakfasts—not this sad scramble.”
“George, it’s a weekday. Weekends, I cook. And eggs are fine—Oliver loves them.”
“Right. While you laze about all day, I’m stuck with this rubbish.”
“Laze? Are you joking? And keep your voice down—you’ll wake Grace.”
“Every excuse with you. Forgotten the eggs, too busy—pathetic. No wonder I dread coming home.”
“Ah, so your mum’s been filling your head again?”
“Leave her out of this! Go tend to the kids, yeah?”
Grace’s cries cut him off.
By the time Emily returned, George had vanished—no goodbye, just the slam of the front door.
The day blurred: dressing kids, breakfast, cleaning, cooking lunch while fielding endless requests. Naptime. Then the park.
“Mum, let’s go to the swings!” Oliver tugged her sleeve.
They wandered over—only to bump into Sarah, an old friend, with her son.
“Emily! Long time! You look knackered—you okay?”
“Just tired. Two kids, you know…”
“Love, you need a break. Doesn’t George help? I make Tom pull his weight—fatherhood’s a two-person job!”
“George works late…”
“So does Tom! Doesn’t mean he gets a free pass. Anyway, we’re off to the shopping centre—new play area. Come with!”
“Oh, I—we’re budgeting. George wants a new car.”
“Another one? Saw his flashy motor just last week. Spares no expense for himself, but penny-pinches for his kids?”
Emily stiffened.
Sarah’s expression darkened suddenly.
“Em… isn’t that George? With… someone?”
Emily turned. There he was—lips locked with a blonde by the escalators.
Emily burst into tears.
–––––
“You texting her?” Emily asked that evening as George devoured the (finally) fried chicken.
“What? Talking nonsense again?”
“I saw you today. At the mall. Buying her gifts?”
A pause.
“Spying on me now? Maybe I should ask why you were gallivanting there when the house is a tip? Yeah, I’ve met someone—so what? Look at yourself! Would you take you anywhere?”
“I want a divorce.”
“Don’t be daft! You’ll never—”
But she did. The court granted her custody. She moved back to her hometown, stayed with her parents, found a job, got a mortgage.
“You can’t take my kids!” George roared when she told him.
“I can. Visit anytime—I won’t stop you. But we both know you wouldn’t, even if we lived next door. Because you don’t care. Neither does your mother.”
George said nothing. For once, he had no comeback. Probably because he knew she was right.
