James slumped into his armchair, staring blankly at the floor. His temples throbbed from the shouting match, fury still simmering in his chest. He felt lost, wounded. When he’d stumbled through the door late that evening, exhausted after another gruelling day at the office—mind still reeling with spreadsheets and deadlines—the sight of their cluttered flat had snapped his last nerve.
“Emily, why can’t you just pick up after yourself?” his voice had cracked like a whip, louder than he’d intended. The words hung thick between them, turning the air stifling. Emily had replied with icy detachment, but he’d caught the glint of tears in her eyes. Guilt had clawed at him, yet the words to soothe her lodged in his throat. Instead, he’d kept yelling, pouring out weeks of pent-up frustration.
Perched on the edge of the bed, Emily’s fingers twisted into the duvet. Her eyes were raw, her pulse frantic, as if her heart might burst free. Just yesterday, she’d been happy. Now, the same old argument had crushed that illusion.
“Why?” she whispered, the word sharp as glass. “Why do men think we exist to wait on them?”
It was the same every time. James expected her to handle everything—laundry, meals, his misplaced keys—while she juggled her own job, her own exhaustion. And when she dared mention it? Predictable fury. Accusations. The cruel snap of his tongue.
Her gaze drifted to the pile of laundry she’d meant to tackle this morning. Meaningless now. His voice echoed in her skull: *”Got nothing better to do?”* *”Typical—you never think of me!”* Familiar as her morning tea, but today, it left a bitterness she couldn’t swallow.
“I don’t owe him excuses,” she muttered, studying her reflection. Dark circles, but her eyes burned with resolve. “I work just as hard. My money is *mine*.”
She remembered the dress—silky, cobalt blue, a rare splurge. The joy had withered the second James saw the receipt. *”Selfish! You only care about yourself!”* The words still stung.
Worst of all? He refused to see her side. His messes were *her* responsibility. Every discarded sock, every takeaway box left out—tiny cuts that bled their relationship dry.
“Enough.” She stood abruptly, fists clenched. “I deserve better. I’m not his maid. I want *my* life.”
At the window, cool air brushed her face. The decision crystallised. No more compromises. No more swallowing her voice.
“Tomorrow,” she vowed. “Tomorrow, I end this. Let him learn to fend for himself. Let him taste the loneliness he’s earned.”
Sleep didn’t come. Tossing under the duvet, she imagined freedom—no guilt over her choices, no demands smothering her desires. For the first time in months, she breathed easy, even with the storm ahead.
Dawn crept in early. Neatly folded shirts waited on the dresser—*the last time*, she thought, tucking them away. Today began a new chapter. Hard? Yes. But it would lead her where she belonged: somewhere she was loved, *truly*, for who she was.
