The kitchen smelled of frying pork chops. Lily flipped them deftly in the pan, waiting for that perfect golden crisp. Baby Oliver murmured softly in his cot in the next room. The day had been exhausting—another sleepless night, laundry, endless cleaning, cooking, nappies. All alone.
Then—a scream. That piercing cry that makes every mother’s heart clench.
“James, could you check on Oliver?” Lily called, not turning around, hoping for any reaction from her husband.
Silence.
She tossed the spatula aside, left the pan sizzling, and rushed to the nursery. Scooped her son into her arms, rocking him gently until his cries settled. When she returned, the smell hit her first—burnt. The chops were blackened.
“Well, that’s dinner ruined. Thanks, James,” she muttered bitterly.
Oliver started whimpering again. And James? Still glued to the telly, where his beloved football match played.
“James! I can’t do everything myself! Please, just take him!” Her voice cracked this time. Then, from the living room, a booming shout:
“GOOOOAAALLL!”
Oliver shrieked louder.
Lily ran back, clutching her son to her chest. Exhaustion was long gone—now there was only fury. She returned to the kitchen, sinking into a chair with her eyes shut. Then she marched to her husband.
“James, please. Just take Oliver for a walk. I need to finish here. I need—just one damn minute to breathe.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” He didn’t even glance her way.
“Right. That’s it.” Her voice was ice. “Enjoy your freedom, love. I’m leaving. Taking Oliver to Mum’s.”
She packed a bag, bundled the baby up. A neighbour helped with the pram on the way out. An hour later, she stood on her mother’s doorstep.
“Mum… we’re staying. For a while.” Her voice trembled, but her face was steel.
“Stay as long as you need,” her mother said. “Did you two have a row?”
“No. I’m just tired. You’re on leave—help me. Just for a bit, yeah?”
That evening, her phone buzzed—**James**.
“Lily, where’d you go?” He sounded baffled.
“I told you when I left. Or was the match more important?”
“I didn’t hear—”
“That’s your problem. You don’t hear anything. Not me. Not your son. Just yourself and that bloody game.”
“Here we go again,” he grumbled before hanging up.
An hour later, another call:
“Where’s dinner? Why isn’t it ready?”
“Why didn’t you help? I didn’t have time. Know why? Because I do everything!”
“When are you coming back?”
“Dunno. Maybe a month. Maybe two.”
“Then why’d you even marry me if you’re still glued to your mum’s apron strings?”
“Why?” Her voice rose. “To cook, clean, and listen to you ramble about football? Dream come true, that.”
“You want me to do ‘woman’s work’? Not bloody likely! I’d rather divorce than be henpecked!”
“Fine. Go on, then. Divorce me.” She ended the call.
Her mother, listening from the next room, stepped closer. “So you did row.”
“Mum… I’m not his maid. I haven’t slept in weeks. I just wanted help. And he threatens divorce? Let him rot.”
“Lily, don’t be hasty. He’s wrong. But Oliver needs his father. Maybe it’s not over yet.”
A week passed. Another call.
“Lily… I miss you. Come home.” His voice was pitiful.
“I’m just starting to feel human again. Thanks to Mum.”
“So you’re not coming back?” His tone hardened.
“I will. If you help. I’m not asking for nights. Just weekends. You’re his father.”
“Not happening! I’m a man, not a nanny! That’s women’s work!”
A month later, Oliver finally slept through the night. Lily breathed for the first time in ages. One Saturday, she turned to her mother.
“Mum, I’m going to James. To talk. We’ll come back for Oliver together.”
“About time, love. Try again.”
Lily arrived home. Her key still worked. She stepped inside, kicked off her shoes—and froze. A pair of women’s heels sat by the door.
Her heart turned to stone.
She walked into the bedroom. There he was. Not alone.
Without a word, she turned and left, her face white.
“Lily! Wait! It’s nothing—just a fling! You’re the one I love!” He stumbled after her, desperate.
She didn’t look back. Those words meant nothing now.
She could’ve forgiven a lot—his laziness, his ignorance, even the bloody football obsession. But not this. Not while their son lived. Not in the home she’d hoped to fix.
Sometimes, all a woman needs is to be seen. Not for her shouts, but for the quiet moments when her child sleeps soundly. For a home where she doesn’t shoulder everything alone. For a man who isn’t afraid to hold his child—or his wife.
But if he’d rather clutch a remote than responsibility, don’t be surprised when she leaves. And doesn’t come back.
Even if the pork chops never burn again.
