The kitchen smelled of frying beef patties. Emily briskly flipped them in the pan, chasing that perfect golden crisp. Little Oliver dozed quietly in his cot in the next room. It had been an exhausting day—sleepless nights, laundry, cleaning, cooking, more nappies. All of it alone.
Then—a cry. That particular wail that makes a mother’s heart clench.
“James, can you check on Oliver?” Emily called over her shoulder, hoping for a response.
Silence.
She dropped the spatula, left the pan sizzling, and rushed to the nursery. Scooped her son into her arms, soothed him, rocked him. When she returned, the patties were burnt. The bitter smell filled the kitchen.
“Well, that’s dinner ruined. Thanks, James,” she muttered bitterly.
Oliver started whimpering again. And James? Still glued to the telly, watching his precious football match.
“James! I can’t do everything! Look after your son!” Her voice rose sharply. Then, from the living room, came a booming shout:
“GOOOOAAAAAL!”
The sudden roar sent Oliver into fresh howls.
Emily rushed back, cradling him tightly. Her exhaustion had turned to fury. She returned to the kitchen, sank into a chair, and shut her eyes. Then she marched over to her husband.
“James, please. Just take Oliver for a walk. I need to finish up here and catch my breath.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” He didn’t even glance up.
“Right. I’ve had enough,” Emily said coldly. “Enjoy your freedom, love. I’m leaving. To Mum’s.”
She packed a bag, bundled Oliver into his pram. The neighbour—just heading out—helped her down the steps. An hour later, she stood on her mother’s doorstep.
“Mum, we’re staying a while.” Her voice trembled, but her eyes were steel.
“Stay as long as you need,” her mother said. “Have you two had a row?”
“No. I’m just tired. You’re on holiday—help me out a bit, yeah?”
That evening, her phone rang. “James” flashed on the screen.
“Emily, where’ve you gone?” He sounded baffled.
“I told you when I left. Or was the match more important?”
“I didn’t hear anything—”
“That’s your problem. You don’t hear me. Or your son. Just yourself and that bloody football.”
“Here we go again,” he grumbled, then hung up.
An hour later, another call:
“What about dinner? Why isn’t it ready?”
“Why didn’t you help? I didn’t have time. Know why? Because everything’s on me.”
“When are you coming back?”
“I don’t know. A month, maybe two.”
“Why did you even get married if you can’t leave your mum’s?!”
“Why?” Her voice shot up. “To cook for you, clean up after you, do your laundry, and listen to you blather about football? Dream come true, that.”
“You want me doing ‘women’s work’? Not a chance! I’d rather divorce than be henpecked!”
“Fine. Go on, then. Divorce me.” She ended the call.
Her mother, listening from the next room, came in. “So you did row.”
“Mum… I’m not his maid. I’m up all night. I’m not asking much—just some help. And he yells, ‘I’ll divorce you!’ Let him, then.”
“Don’t be hasty, love. He’s wrong, but Oliver needs his dad. Maybe there’s still hope.”
A week passed. Another call.
“Emily, I miss you. Come home.” His voice was pleading.
“I’ve only just started feeling human again. Thanks to my mum.”
“So you’re not coming back?” His tone hardened instantly.
“I’ll come back. If you help. I’m not asking for nights. But weekends—yes. You’re his father.”
“Not a chance! I’m a man, not a nursemaid! Women’s work is for women!”
A month later, Oliver was sleeping through the night. Emily finally breathed. One Saturday, she told her mother:
“Mum, I’ll go see James. Try to sort things out. Then we’ll fetch Oliver together.”
“About time, love. Give it one more go.”
Emily arrived home. Her key still worked. She stepped inside, slipped off her shoes—then froze. A pair of women’s heels sat in the hall.
Her stomach dropped.
She pushed open the bedroom door. There he was. Not alone.
She turned on her heel, pale.
“Emily! Wait! This—it’s nothing! I only love you!” James scrambled after her.
She didn’t look back. His words meant nothing now.
She could’ve forgiven his laziness, his indifference, even his blasted football obsession. But not this. Not while her son still needed him. Not in the home she’d hoped to rebuild.
Sometimes all a woman needs is to be heard. Not through shouting. But through the quiet where her child sleeps soundly. Through a home where she doesn’t carry everything alone. Through a man who isn’t afraid to hold his child—and his wife—close.
But if he’d rather grip a remote than responsibility, then don’t complain when she walks out. And doesn’t return.
Even if the beef patties aren’t burning anymore.
