“Fancy some bangers or scrambled eggs?” asked Emily. Oliver sat at the table, scrolling through his phone, barely glancing up.
“Sausages. Just keep it simple this time,” he muttered.
Emily sighed. Little Matilda squirmed in her arms, making cooking near impossible.
“Could you hold Matilda for a bit?” she asked carefully.
“Just a sec, let me finish this,” Oliver dismissed, flicking through headlines.
Matilda started to fuss. Emily bounced her gently while flipping the bangers. One caught and blackened at the edge.
“Burnt again?” Oliver frowned. “Maybe pay attention?”
“Maybe you could lend a hand?” she shot back.
“Here we go… I work, you know. I support this family.”
“And what do I do? My shift never ends—no weekends, no breaks.”
Silently, Emily slid a plate in front of him. Once, they’d been partners. Now she dragged the weight alone.
Days blurred into weeks. One evening, Emily finally spoke up.
“Ollie, we need to talk. You’re always busy—work, games, your phone. What about me? What about Matilda?”
“Em, not this again. I do everything for you.”
“But it’s not *everything*. Family isn’t just money. It’s care. It’s being there.”
“That’s your job,” Oliver shrugged.
“I need you to be part of this. I can’t do it all myself.”
“I’m knackered from work, Em. I need time to unwind.”
“And I don’t?” Tears pricked her eyes.
From the nursery, Matilda wailed. Oliver didn’t move.
When Emily returned to work, mornings began at five. Oliver didn’t lift a finger. One night, she came home late to darkness, a tower of dishes in the sink. Oliver lounged on the sofa.
“Dinner sorted?” he asked instead of hello.
“Seriously? I’m late, and you couldn’t wash a plate?”
“I’m tired.”
“Where’s Matilda?”
“Asleep. I got her pizza.”
Emily walked to the kitchen, hands trembling. Later, checking her account, she found Oliver had taken £500 from her savings for a new laptop.
“*Your* money? We share everything,” he said.
“Shared? Then why is *your* contribution the only one that matters?”
The final straw was Matilda’s birthday. Emily planned for weeks. Oliver promised to come early.
*”Sorry, stuck at work. You’ll manage,”* he texted an hour before.
Something inside her snapped. That night, tucking Matilda in, she made her choice.
Oliver returned late.
“Em, iron my shirt for tomorrow. And where’s dinner?”
She turned slowly.
“Sort your own meals, your own mess. I’m not your maid.”
She strode to the bedroom, pulling out a pre-packed bag.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” Oliver blocked the door.
“Not going—*waking up*. I’m done.”
“What’s the big deal? We’re normal!”
“Normal? Lonely together? You checked out ages ago, Ollie. I’m just the help.”
She lifted a drowsy Matilda from her cot.
“Stop!” Oliver barred the way. “We’re a family!”
“Were. Now we’re strangers.”
The tiny rented flat was quiet. Oliver’s calls came in waves—pleading, raging.
“I’ll fix it,” he swore.
“No. You won’t. You don’t even know what’s broken.”
Weeks passed. Emily settled in. For the first time in years, she woke without exhaustion. Oliver’s calls grew fewer. One day, he appeared at her work with flowers.
“Let’s try again. I get it now.”
“Too late,” she said softly. “Promises don’t feed hope.”
She signed up for courses, met friends, rediscovered herself. Now, in that small flat, Emily wasn’t lonely. She was free. And no fear could outweigh that.
