**The Return Came Too Late: Emily Had Already Made Up Her Mind**
James scowled as he twisted spaghetti around his fork. Emily watched him, trying to hide her worry, but finally broke the silence:
“Does it taste bad, James?”
He just frowned and kept eating without looking up.
“I followed the recipe properly…”
“It’s fine,” he muttered.
“Then what’s wrong? What happened?”
James slammed down his fork, exhaled sharply, and began pacing the kitchen.
“I’m sick of it all!” he snapped. “Life’s turned into a rut! Work, home, you in a dressing gown, porridge, the kid—it’s not living, it’s a prison!”
Emily froze. His words stung worse than a slap. He carried on:
“Just look at yourself! You used to be pretty, now…” He trailed off, searching for the right insult. “A worn-out housewife. Tom’s wife—now there’s a woman! Even on maternity leave, she hits the gym, earns extra cash, and still looks sharp!”
“They’ve got his mum helping—you just sleep in on weekends. I never have time,” Emily said quietly.
“Always excuses! The truth is, you’ve just latched onto me and let yourself go. I need space. A break. I’m moving out. Alone. Don’t know for how long. Maybe forever.”
“What about Oliver?”
“I’ll pay what I owe. Visit too. You won’t be left struggling.”
James stood. Emily, snapping out of her shock, blocked his path:
“And what about *my* break? Am I not a person? Why do only *you* get to walk away?!”
He leaned in, voice dripping with irritation:
“You’re a *mother*. Full stop. Stay with your child.”
With that, he left, slamming the door behind him. Emily sat at the table, weeping into her hands. Her mind reeled—how would she go on? Cold as he was, James had at least been *there*. Now, the stability she’d relied on was gone.
He hadn’t even said goodbye to Oliver. Clearly, he’d gone straight to his bachelor flat.
The first night, Emily didn’t sleep a wink. But by morning, exhausted, she made a choice: she wouldn’t beg. She’d manage alone.
And she did. Oddly, it got easier. No more picking up after a man, catering to his moods, washing endless shirts. James sent money—it was tight, but enough.
The real pain was the heartache. Especially when she saw his social media posts: James laughing with another woman, grinning for the camera. Her best mate tried to console her: “You’re better off without him.” Then her mum arrived—took leave just to help. Quiet, never judging, though her fists clenched at the mention of her son-in-law.
With her mum’s support, Emily came alive again. A salon visit, new clothes. She even smiled sometimes. Gifts from her mother whispered: *You deserve joy.*
True to form, James never visited Oliver. Just photos of how *happy* he was without them. Emily waited, half-hoping he’d snap out of it. But slowly, she understood: he wasn’t a man—just a coward running from responsibility.
Three months later, a knock came. James. Luggage in hand, grinning like he’d won something.
“Hello, love! I’m back. What’s for dinner?”
Emily barred the door:
“You don’t live here anymore.”
“What? I’m your *husband*!”
“Not anymore. I filed for divorce. Expect the papers. You never saw Oliver, like you promised. Your things are boxed up—I’ll help you carry them.”
James turned furious:
“I have *rights* to see my son!”
“Of course. The court will sort a schedule. I’ll tell them how you forgot him for three months. And show them your party photos.”
He did see Oliver eventually. The boy just stared, wary. No joy, no excitement.
James had hoped it was just a lesson. But Emily stood firm. Her mum’s support, love for Oliver, realising her own worth—it all made her stronger.
Now, she and Oliver had a new life. And James? Left with pots he’d have to scrub himself and shirts no one would iron. Some *break* he had.
**Lesson learned: Some men don’t leave a marriage—they just step out of it long enough to realise they were never holding it together.**
