James kicked off his shoes in the hallway, tossed his keys onto the side table, and marched straight to the kitchen without a word. Emma stood by the stove, stirring a pot of tomato soup—their children’s favourite.
—Where’s the mop?— he snapped over his shoulder, the edge in his voice sharp as a blade.
—What mop?— Emma turned, bewildered.
—The one for cleaning. Or have you not noticed the state of this place?— he scoffed and stormed out before she could reply.
Emma stood frozen, staring at the empty doorway. This wasn’t the James she knew—the man who used to call her *Emmie* and insisted on doing the dishes so she could rest.
It hadn’t always been like this. Once, James would come home from work, roll up his sleeves, and vacuum without a second thought. There were no *his* or *hers* chores—just *theirs*. After dinner, he’d pull her close, whispering how she deserved a break, while he scrubbed the plates.
Life had been vibrant. Pubs, films, weekends with friends. Then came their daughter, Lily, and two years later, their son, Alfie. Everyone envied them—*the perfect couple, the perfect life*.
—You’ve got a keeper, Em,— her friends would say.
She *had* believed it.
But slowly, the warmth faded. James returned home sour-faced, exhausted. The kindness had drained away.
—Why is this place a mess?— he’d demand. —I’m out working all day, and you can’t even make dinner? What *do* you do?—
She’d explain—how Alfie had spilt his juice, how Lily had chased him, smearing sticky handprints everywhere, how she’d spent hours cleaning, soothing, *surviving*. But James never listened. He was too tired. Too angry. Too distant.
One evening, as she chopped onions, she couldn’t tell—were her tears from the knife, or the ache in her chest?
—Mum warned me…— she whispered. —*Don’t spoil him. Love’s not enough. Bend too far, and you’ll break.*—
She had thought they were made for each other. That she knew him better than anyone. But now… it felt like a dream slipping away.
And James? He *felt* her silence. Took it as guilt. Declared himself judge of their home. Emma could *feel* the walls closing in.
Then—salvation.
A call from work. A promotion. Better pay, better hours. A colleague had retired—the job was hers if she wanted it.
Her mother offered to watch the kids. Emma, breathless with hope, got a haircut, bought a new blouse. It was time to reclaim herself.
And James? His firm collapsed. He was jobless, lost. But still, he squared his shoulders:
—I’ll handle the kids. Updating my CV already. If I need help, we’ll call your mum.—
Emma said nothing. Just nodded. For the first time in months—she felt *steady*.
Two weeks in, she settled into work. At home, things *seemed* fine. But by month’s end, she noticed—dirty laundry piled up, unwashed dishes, the kids whining. James was snappish.
—Seems you’ve let things slide,— she remarked, voice calm but firm. —I’m working now. The house shouldn’t be a wreck.—
He *flinched*.
That night, he confessed:
—Em… I was an idiot. Today, the kids fought over a toy. I burnt the toast. Spilt milk everywhere. Then a video call—*for an interview*—and I was a mess. But… I got the job. Start next week. Your mum can watch them till then?—
Emma smiled. A quiet, knowing smile.
He *understood*.
Later, they sat with tea. Lily drew at the table. Alfie stacked blocks.
James caught her gaze.
—Sorry I was blind,— he murmured. —Can I make dinner tomorrow?—
—Fine,— she smirked. —But leave the mop. It’s *my* crown now.—
They laughed. And for the first time in so, so long—it *felt* like laughter again.
