The kitchen was thick with the scent of frying beef patties. Emma flipped them deftly in the pan, chasing that perfect golden crisp. Little Oliver dozed softly in his cot in the next room. It had been an exhausting day—sleepless nights, laundry, cleaning, cooking, nappies again. All on her own.
Then—a cry. That piercing wail that turns a mother’s heart to ice.
“James, could you check on Oliver?” Emma called over her shoulder, hoping for any reaction from her husband.
Silence.
She tossed the spatula down, left the pan sizzling, and rushed to the nursery. Scooped her son up, shushed him, smoothed his curls. When she returned, the patties were burnt. The bitter smell hung in the air.
“Right. Dinner’s ruined. Cheers for that, James,” she muttered.
Oliver whimpered again. And James? Glued to the telly, where his precious match played out.
“James! I can’t do everything! See to your son!” Emma raised her voice. Just then, a roar erupted from the living room:
“GOOOOAL!”
The sudden shout sent Oliver into fresh tears.
Emma hurried back, cradled him close. The exhaustion had drowned in the heat of her fury. She sat at the kitchen table, eyes shut tight, then marched over to James.
“James, please. Take Oliver for a walk. I need to finish up here, just—just breathe for a second.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” He didn’t even glance away from the screen.
“That’s it. I’m done,” Emma said flatly. “Enjoy your freedom, love. I’m leaving. Off to Mum’s.”
She packed a bag, bundled Oliver up. A neighbour helped with the pram on the way out. An hour later, she stood on her mother’s doorstep.
“Mum, we’ll stay awhile. Just till things settle.” Her voice wavered, but her eyes were steel.
“Stay as long as you need,” Mum said. “Had a row, then?”
“No. Just tired. You’re on holiday—help me a bit, yeah?”
That evening, her phone buzzed. James’s name flashed up.
“Emma, where’ve you gone?” He sounded baffled.
“I told you when I left. Or was the match more important?”
“Didn’t hear a word…” he mumbled.
“That’s your problem. You never hear me. Or Oliver. Just yourself and that bloody football.”
“Here we go again,” he grumbled before hanging up.
An hour later, another call:
“Where’s dinner? Why’s there nothing cooked?”
“Why didn’t you lift a finger? I didn’t have time. Know why? Because I do everything.”
“When are you coming back?”
“Don’t know. A month. Maybe two.”
“Why’d you even marry me if you’re just running back to your mum?”
“Why?” Her voice sharpened. “To cook for you, clean up after you, listen to you yammer on about football? Childhood dream, that.”
“You want me doing ‘woman’s work’? Not a chance! I’d rather divorce than be some henpecked bloke!”
“Fine. Go on, then. Divorce me.” She ended the call.
Her mother, eavesdropping from the next room, stepped in. “So it *was* a row.”
“Mum… I’m not his maid. I’ve had no sleep. I’m not asking much—just help. And he shouts, ‘I’ll divorce you!’ Let him, then.”
“Emma, don’t be rash. He’s wrong, but Oliver needs his dad. There’s still hope.”
A week passed. Then another call.
“Emma, I miss you. Come home,” James pleaded.
“I’m just starting to feel human again. Thanks to Mum.”
“So you’re not coming back?” His tone turned cold.
“I will. If you help. I’m not asking for nights—just weekends. You’re his father.”
“Not happening! I’m a man, not some nanny! Women’s work stays women’s work!”
A month later, Oliver was sleeping through the night. Emma finally breathed. One Saturday, she told her mother:
“Mum, I’ll go see James. Try to patch things up. We’ll fetch Oliver together.”
“About time, love. Give it one more go.”
Emma arrived home. Her key still worked. She stepped inside, slipped off her shoes—then froze. A pair of women’s heels sat by the door.
Her heart dropped.
She pushed the bedroom door open. There he was. Not alone.
She turned on her heel, pale.
“Emma! Wait! It’s nothing serious! I—I only love you!” James stammered, scrambling after her.
She didn’t look back. Words meant nothing now.
She could’ve forgiven indifference, laziness, even his football obsession. But not this. Not with their son alive and waiting. Not in the home she’d hoped to return to.
Sometimes, all a woman needs is to be heard. Not for the shouting—but for the quiet where her child sleeps safe. For a home where she doesn’t tug the weight alone. For a man who isn’t afraid to hold his child—or his wife.
But if a man clutches a remote instead of responsibility, don’t be shocked when she walks out. And doesn’t return.
Even if the beef patties never burn again.
