The return was late, but Emily had already made up her mind.
James was gloomily twirling spaghetti on his fork. Emily watched him, trying not to show her unease, but she couldn’t hold back.
“It’s not good, James?”
He just scowled and kept eating in silence.
“I followed the recipe exactly—”
“It’s fine,” he muttered without meeting her eyes.
“Then what’s wrong? What happened?”
James shoved his fork aside, exhaled sharply, and began pacing the kitchen.
“I’m sick of it all!” he blurted. “Life’s turned into a slog! Work, home, you in a dressing gown, mashed potatoes, the kid. This isn’t living—it’s drudgery!”
Emily froze. His words stung worse than a slap. He kept going.
“Look at yourself! You used to be lovely, and now—” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “Some tired housewife. Liam’s missus is on fire—manages the gym, picks up extra work, still looks the part, even with a baby!”
“They’ve got his mum helping. You sleep in on weekends. I’ve no time to breathe,” Emily said quietly.
“Always excuses! Truth is, you’ve just leeched 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 Noah?”
“I’ll pay what’s due. Visit too. You won’t be left struggling.”
James stood. Emily, snapping out of it, rushed to block his path.
“And my break? Am I not a person? Why do only you get to walk away?”
He stepped close, irritation sharp in his voice.
“You’re the mother. Full stop. Stay with your kid.”
With that, he left, the kitchen sinking into heavy silence. Emily sat, tears streaming, her mind racing. How would she manage? Yes, James was cold, but he was there—support, stability, all crumbling now.
He hadn’t even said goodbye to Noah. No doubt he’d gone straight to his bachelor flat.
That first night, she didn’t sleep, but by morning, exhausted, she resolved: no begging, no grovelling. She’d manage alone.
And she did. Surprisingly, it got easier. No more picking up after a man, catering to moods, mountains of laundry. James sent money—tight, but enough.
The pain was only in her heart. Worse when she saw his social media—grinning with some woman, living it up. A friend tried to console her: “You’re better off without that one.” Then her mum arrived, taking leave just to help. Silent, never judging, though her fists clenched at the thought of her son-in-law.
With her there, Emily revived. She visited the salon, refreshed her wardrobe. Even smiled again. Her mum’s gifts were reminders—she deserved joy.
True to his word, James never visited Noah. Only photos showed how carefree he was without them. Emily waited, hoping he’d come to his senses, but each day made it clearer—he wasn’t a man, just a coward running from responsibility.
Three months later, a knock at the door. James. With bags. Swaggering like a victor.
“Hello, darling! I’m back. What’s for dinner?”
Emily blocked the doorway.
“You don’t live here anymore.”
“What? I’m your husband!”
“Not now. I filed for divorce. Expect the papers. You never visited Noah like you promised. Your things are packed—I’ll help you carry them.”
James turned furious.
“I’ve got rights to see my son!”
“Of course. The court will arrange it. I’ll tell them how you forgot him for three months. And show them your party photos.”
He did see Noah—once. The boy eyed him warily. No joy, no excitement.
James had hoped she was just teaching him a lesson. But Emily stood firm. Her mum’s support, love for Noah, realising her own worth—she’d grown stronger.
Now, she and Noah had a new life. And James? Left with pans he had to scrub himself and shirts no one ironed. Some holiday, that.
