The kitchen smelled of frying pork chops. Emma flipped them skillfully in the pan, aiming for that perfect golden crisp. Little Oliver dozed quietly in his cot in the next room. The day had been exhausting—sleepless nights, laundry, cleaning, cooking, nappies again. All on her own.
Then—a wail. That cry that turns a mother’s heart to ice.
“James, come see to Oliver!” she called without turning, hoping for some reaction from her husband.
Silence.
She tossed the spatula aside, left the pan on the hob, and rushed to the nursery. Scooped her son up, soothed him, rocked him gently. When she returned—burnt chops. The bitter smell filled the kitchen.
“That’s it, straight in the bin. Cheers for that, James,” she muttered bitterly.
Oliver started whimpering again. James? Still glued to the telly, watching his precious football match.
“James! I can’t keep up! Take your son!” Emma raised her voice this time. Then—an ecstatic roar from the living room:
“GOOOOOOOOAL!”
Oliver shrieked louder.
Emma dashed back, pressed him tight to her chest. Fatigue was gone—now everything inside her seethed. She slumped at the kitchen table, eyes shut, then marched over to James.
“James, please. Take Oliver for a walk. I need to finish in here—just a moment to breathe.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” He didn’t even glance away from the screen.
“Right. I’ve had enough,” Emma said coldly. “Enjoy your freedom, Jamie. I’m leaving. To Mum’s.”
She packed their things, bundled up the baby. A neighbor helped with the pram as she stepped out. An hour later, she stood on her mum’s doorstep.
“Mum, Oliver and I need to stay awhile.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steel.
“Stay as long as you like,” her mother said. “Had a row?”
“No. I’m just worn out. You’re on holiday—just help me a bit, yeah?”
That evening, her phone buzzed. *James* flashed on the screen.
“Emma, where’ve you gone?” he asked, baffled.
“I told you when I left. Or was the match more important?”
“Didn’t hear a thing…” he mumbled.
“That’s your problem—you don’t *hear*. Me. Our son. Just yourself and that bloody ball.”
“Here we go again,” he grunted, hanging up.
An hour later, another call:
“Where’s dinner? Why’s nothing made?”
“Why didn’t you help? I didn’t have time. Know why? Because it’s *all* on me.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Don’t know. Maybe a month. Maybe two.”
“Why’d you even get married if you can’t leave your mum?!”
“Why?!” Her voice sharpened. “To cook for you, clean up after you, wash your clothes, and listen to you drone on about football?! Dream come true!”
“Expect me to do *women’s* work? Forget it! I’d rather divorce than be henpecked!”
“Fine. Go on, then. Divorce me.” She ended the call.
Her mum, listening from the next room, came in.
“Had a proper blow-up, then?”
“Mum… I’m not his maid. I haven’t slept in weeks. I’m not asking much—just *help*. And he shouts, ‘Divorce!’ Let him rot.”
“Emma, don’t be hasty. He’s wrong, but Oliver needs his dad. Maybe there’s a way back.”
A week passed. The phone rang.
“Emma, I miss you… Come home,” James whined.
“I’m just starting to breathe again. Thanks to Mum.”
“So you’re not coming back?” His tone hardened instantly.
“I will. If you help. I’m not asking for nights. Just weekends. You’re his *father*.”
“Not a chance! I’m a man, not a nanny! Women’s work is for women!”
A month later, Oliver finally slept through the night. Emma exhaled. One Saturday, she told her mum:
“Mum, I’ll go see James. Try to mend things. Then we’ll fetch Oliver together.”
“About time, love. Give it another go.”
Emma arrived home. Her key still worked. She stepped inside, kicked off her shoes—then spotted a pair of heels in the hallway.
Her heart froze.
She walked into the bedroom. There he was. Not alone.
She turned on her heel, face pale.
“Emma! Wait! This—it’s nothing! I only love you!” James scrambled after her.
She didn’t look back. Those words meant nothing now.
She might’ve forgiven indifference, laziness, even his football obsession. But not this. Not with their son alive. Not in the home she’d hoped to return to.
Sometimes all a woman needs is to be *heard*. Not for the shouting. For the silence where her child sleeps peacefully. For a home where she doesn’t shoulder everything alone. For a man who isn’t afraid to hold his child—and his wife—close.
But if all he holds is a remote, not responsibility—don’t complain when she walks away. And doesn’t come back.
Even if the chops don’t burn anymore.
