The Return Was Late: Emily Had Already Made Up Her Mind
Drew gloomily twirled spaghetti around his fork. Emily watched him, masking her unease until she couldn’t hold back any longer:
*”Is it not to your taste, Drew?”*
He merely scowled and kept eating without meeting her eyes.
*”I followed the recipe exactly…”*
*”It’s fine,”* he muttered.
*”Then what’s wrong? What happened?”*
Drew flung his fork down with a clatter, exhaled sharply, and paced the kitchen like a caged animal.
*”I’m sick of this!”* he burst out. *”My life’s turned into one endless slog! Work—home—you in that dressing gown—porridge—the kid. It’s not living, it’s bloody servitude!”*
Emily froze. His words stung worse than a slap. He wasn’t done.
*”Look at yourself! You used to be beautiful, and now…”* He trailed off, searching for the right insult. *”A tired housewife. Take Liam’s missus—she’s dynamite. Still fit after childbirth, hits the gym, freelances, and looks like a million quid!”*
*”They’ve got his mum helping. You just sleep in on weekends. I don’t have the time,”* Emily said quietly.
*”There’s always an excuse with you! Truth is, you’ve latched onto me like dead weight and let yourself go. I need space. A break. I’m moving out. Alone. Don’t know for how long. Maybe forever.”*
*”What about Jack?”*
*”I’ll pay my share. I’ll visit too. You won’t starve.”*
Drew stood. Emily, snapping out of her shock, blocked his path.
*”What about *my* break? Am I not human? Why do *you* get to escape?”*
He stepped close, voice dripping with irritation.
*”You’re his mother. That’s it. Stay with your kid.”*
With that, he left, the silence behind him thick and suffocating. Emily slumped at the table, tears streaming. Her mind raced—*how do I move on?* Yes, Drew had been distant, but he was *there*. Safety. Stability. All crumbling now.
He hadn’t even said goodbye to Jack. Clearly headed to his bachelor flat.
The first night, she didn’t sleep. By dawn, exhaustion hardened into resolve—she wouldn’t beg. She’d manage alone.
And she did. Surprisingly, it got easier. No more picking up after a grown man, catering to his moods, washing endless laundry. The child support helped—she budgeted, but it was enough.
The pain was only in her pride. Especially when social media showed Drew laughing with some woman, grinning for the camera. A friend tried to console her: *”You’re better off without that one.”* Then her mum arrived, taking leave just to help. No lectures, just quiet support—though sometimes she clenched her fists at the mention of her son-in-law.
With her mum there, Emily revived. A salon visit, a wardrobe refresh. She even smiled again. Gifts from her mother whispered: *you deserve joy.*
Drew, true to form, never visited Jack. His photos told a happy tale—he was thriving without them. Emily waited, hoping he’d come to his senses, but with each passing day, she saw the truth: he wasn’t a man—he was a coward, fleeing responsibility.
Three months later, a knock at the door. Drew. Luggage in hand. Swaggering like a conquering hero.
*”Hello, love! I’m back. What’s for dinner?”*
Emily barred the doorway.
*”You don’t live here anymore.”*
*”What? I’m your husband!”*
*”Not anymore. I filed for divorce. Expect the papers. You didn’t see Jack, just like you promised. Your things are packed.”*
Drew turned livid.
*”I’ve got rights to my son!”*
*”Of course. The courts will decide visitation. I’ll tell them how you forgot him for three months. And show them your party photos.”*
He did see Jack. The boy eyed him warily. No joy. No excitement.
Drew had hoped this was just a bluff. But Emily didn’t waver. Her mother’s support, her love for Jack, the slow reclaiming of her worth—it all made her stronger.
Now, she and Jack had a new life. And Drew? Left with saucepans to scrub and shirts no one ironed. Some bloody breather.
