April 23
I cant help but replay the argument that started it all. Danny, seriously? Roses again? I said, pulling the bouquet apart, my lips twisted. Ive told you a hundred times I love peonies. Peonies, you hear me? Do you even listen to me? His cheeks flushed a rosy pink, and his eyes flashed that guilty, bewildered lookthe one that says hed do anything for my smile.
Sorry, love, Ill remember. Next time there will be peonies, I promise. He stood in the doorway, frozen.
I tossed the flowers onto the kitchen table without even sniffing them. The roses were lovelyfull, deep burgundy, droplets of water clinging to the petalsbut I didnt care.
My mother, Margaret, recalled the first time Id brought Danny home. He was tall, broadshouldered, with an open face and calloused handsa civil engineer from Manchester. He looked at me as if I were the greatest marvel on earth. My father, Henry, gave a approving nod behind my mothers back: Good lad, serious type.
The first year and a half were smooth. Danny drove me to the coast, bought me jewellery for birthdays and for no reason at all, and patiently listened to my endless stories about friends and work. But gradually Mom began to notice something odd: I talked about him condescendingly, sometimes with bored, barely concealed irritation. Danny brought a cake, can you believe it? Im on a diet. Hes calling again, clinging like a leech. I handled his gifts as if they were a tax bill, not tokens of affection.
In the second year the fights beganwell, I started them. I was bored to death. Do you even love me? Really? Id ask nightly, eyes narrowed. It doesnt feel that way. Hed try to explain, swear, beg. Id simmer for a day or two, then, mercifully, let it go. Hed bring flowers, the novel Id mentioned, theatre tickets. The peace would settleuntil the next spat.
Anything could spark it. A careless comment, a missed glance, forgetting to like a photo, staying late at the office. Respond too quickly to a message and he was accused of ignoring work; too slowly and I called him indifferent. Enough! Were breaking up! became a refrain, and each time Danny was the first to beg for forgiveness. Id lingerdays, weeksbefore thawing.
One afternoon Mom asked gently, Emily, do you really love him, or is it just convenient? I scoffed, Mom, what kind of question is that? Of course I love him. Hes just a little pest sometimes, thats all.
Five years passed in that endless waltz of passion, argument, separation, reconciliation. Dannys hair silvered at the temples before he hit thirty, he lost weight, smiled less. Yet he held on. For what? Hope, perhaps, that someday things would smooth out, become easier, calmer.
In the sixth year he proposed. The ring was simplea thin gold band with a clear diamond. Hed booked a table at a nice restaurant, arranged for a small string quartet, even written a speech on a slip of paper that he read aloud, blushing. I said yes halfheartedly, as if someone had offered me a biscuit with my teapleasant but not thrilling. I slipped the ring on, snapped a photo for Instagram, called the girls.
Mom wrapped Danny in a motherly hug, Danny, Im delighted. Truly delighted. Dad shook his hand, Welcome to the family, officially now.
The wedding plans kicked off instantly. I took charge: a dress from a boutique in Chelsea, a photographer with celebrity portfolios, fresh orchids for the tables. Danny nodded at every suggestion, offered his credit card, agreed to every whim. He wanted the day to be perfectfor his future wife.
A month before the date everything collapsed. Whats this? I jabbed at the printed menu. Rainbow? I asked, incredulous. You really chose Rainbow? Danny tried to defend it, The foods brilliant, Em. We tried it before, you liked it. I snapped, I said White Garden with a terrace and river view! Not a greasy joint! He replied that the venue was already booked for another wedding. You should have sorted it out, offered more money! I exploded, Thats it! Cancel the wedding! Im done! I flung the menu on the floor and stormed out, expecting the usual: a remorseful Danny, a few days of sulking, then a sweet reconciliation. This time he didnt apologise; he seemed simply exhausted.
The next morning he came for his things, gathering his razor, charger, jacket. Are you serious? I asked, still in shock. Are you just walking away? Leaving me? He zipped his bag, stared at me for a long, unreadable moment, then said, Be happy, Em. Really and walked out.
I waited a week, then two. The phone stayed silent. No texts, no calls, no surprise visits. I opened the chat a few times; the cursor blinked in an empty field, but pride stopped me. Danny always came back first. He never had before.
A month slipped by. Maybe hes ill? I muttered, pacing the kitchen. Or on a business trip? Should I call? Mom, chopping stew, said quietly, Emily, you let him go. He left. I didnt let him go! I just What? I could not answer.
Two months later, Sophie from accounts, almost by accident at lunch, mentioned, I saw Danny yesterday with a new girl, quite pretty, blonde. I dropped my fork. Who? Im not sure. She seemed fresh, they were laughing, holding handsso cute, it made my teeth hurt. That night I dug through his social feeds. Hed never set his accounts private. No new pictures, but a new friend appeared: Katherine Clarke, a twentysomething with a soft smile, posted landscape photos and cats. I scrolled until three in the morning.
Mom watched the change in me. My confidence faded, the cold sarcasm in my eyes vanished. I lost weightnot the graceful kind, but a sickly one; dark circles grew under my eyes, irritation hovered at the edge of hysteria. Its all his fault! I shouted at my parents. Six years! Six years of my life, and he just walks away for some insignificant mouse? Mom whispered, You left him, Emily. Thats different! I snapped. How is it different? I couldnt explain.
The year slipped by, a painful blur. I stalked Dannys life on my phone: a barbecue with Katherine, a concert, a post captioned Weve moved!a shared flat, a domestic life he always wanted. Then a photo of a ring on a delicate finger, captioned I said yes! with three hearts.
Mom stumbled upon the post while scrolling, Katherine beaming, Danny smiling with the same bright eyes he had before all the joy was drained from him. Well done, Danny, Mom thought, finally.
Meanwhile, I tried new relationships. Igor lasted four months before a birthday party argument over tardiness. Serge lasted two before I caused a scene in a restaurant and he fled. All men are the same! I complained to the kitchen table, unreliable, selfish! Dad chewed his meatloaf in silence, Mom poured tea, both watching me stare at my phone, scrolling through strangers happy moments.
Mom eventually smiled, relieved that Danny had escaped my grip. Hes lucky to be free, she mused, but I know what kind of woman you are. At a family dinner, I brought up an old record. At least Danny was patient. These guys cant take a joke without getting offended! Dad muttered, Maybe its not them? I asked, What, dad? He shrugged, Just a third bloke this year walking out. Strange coincidence. I flared, So its my fault, right? Parents fell silent; sometimes silence says more than words.
Later, Mom thought about how to explain the obvious to me: love isnt a video game where you can hit save forever and return to a comfortable checkpoint. Patience isnt infinite. Manipulation erodes trust like rust eats metal.
I kept blaming the world, waiting for a prince on a white horsesomeone who would tolerate my whims forever. Mom dried the last plate, put it away, and watched me in the living room, thumb scrolling through other peoples lives. She knew Id seen Dannys pictures with Katie, their smiling faces, the lovefilled glances. Thirty years ago she cradled a tiny newborn, swearing to shield me from every hurt. Yet I have trapped myself in solitude. If I ever want happiness, Ill have to change, or Ill never know what its like to be a wife and a mother.
