*”Why are you looking at me like that? Fine, I don’t want kids. Is it so bad, just the two of us?”* Emily asked her husband.
The first ray of sunlight crept into the kitchen, painting stripes of light and shadow across the floor, the wall, the table. It reached Oliver’s face, cutting across his tired, bloodshot eyes. He flinched, sliding his chair sideways into the shade where the light couldn’t reach him. The sun, as if offended, ducked behind the block of flats opposite, plunging the kitchen into gloom.
Then—the click of the front door. Oliver stiffened, straining to hear the hushed sounds in the hallway. Bare feet padded softly, hesitated in the living room, then moved toward the kitchen.
*”Oliver? You’re awake?”* Emily’s voice was tight, surprised.
*”Where were you?”* His own voice was rough, lips dry.
She took too long to answer. If it had been quick, he might have believed her. But the pause stretched.
*”Just out with Sophie. Got a bit drunk, lost track of time. Ended up crashing at hers,”* she lied.
*”Why didn’t you call?”*
*”I told you—I was drunk. Didn’t want to wake you.”* Her tone smoothed over, rehearsed.
*”You hoped I’d be asleep and not notice,”* Oliver muttered, not looking at her.
*”God, what’s your problem? Can’t I have one night out? Just one?”* Her voice rose, defensive.
*”One?”* He turned to her.
Emily blinked first, glancing away.
*”I’m tired. Let’s talk later,”* she sighed, turning to leave.
Oliver’s hand shot out, clamping around her wrist. He yanked hard—she gasped, knees buckling against him before she wrenched free.
*”Let go! You’re hurting me!”* she hissed.
His grip tightened.
*”Were you with him? Tell me.”*
*”Yes! Happy now?”* Emily spat, wrenching herself away. She staggered back, elbow smacking the doorframe with a sharp cry.
*”Get out,”* Oliver said, cold.
*”Oliver, just—”*
*”Go. To him, to hell, I don’t care. Come back for your things later.”* He slumped against the wall, eyes shut, refusing to watch her leave.
*”Fine. I’m gone.”* She rubbed her bruised elbow, voice cracking from the hallway. *”You’ll regret this.”*
*”Piss off,”* he growled, snatching a mug from the table and hurling it against the wall. Ceramic shattered. The front door slammed.
Sunlight returned, stretching its fingers across his hunched shoulders like a slow, indifferent caress.
────
They’d married three years ago. Bright, laughing Emily—not classically beautiful, but magnetic. At first, it was effortless. The world bent around her. She hated cooking; he didn’t mind. Coffee and toast in the mornings, lunches at the café near work, evenings with friends and takeaway. Weekends spent lazing in bed till noon, drifting into pubs or dinners that bled into late nights.
Then, one by one, their friends had kids. *”What’s the rush?”* Emily would scoff when Oliver brought it up. *”We’ve got years for nappies and tantrums.”*
But her irritation grew. Arguments flared—she’d storm out, vanish for hours. One night, Oliver found her in a café with a man—a *former classmate*, she’d said, too quickly.
Now, she hadn’t come home. He’d known the excuse before she gave it. *Just friends*. But he didn’t check. Didn’t even have their numbers.
────
The weeks blurred. Friends pitied him; wives side-eyed him now, uneasy. Without Emily, he was dull, his jokes falling flat. *Why didn’t you tell me sooner?* he’d asked. *Would you have believed us?* they’d replied.
He stopped visiting.
One evening, queuing at the corner shop, he overheard a woman at the till. *”Ethan’s poorly. Left him home alone just to grab this.”*
Oliver followed her out—small, limping, struggling with bags. He carried them to her flat. A boy, maybe five, peered from the doorway.
*”Are you my dad?”* Ethan asked.
The grandmother—Margaret—shooed him off, but Oliver stayed for tea.
*”My daughter…”* Margaret hesitated. *”She was attacked. Years ago. Couldn’t bear the baby at first. Now she works in London, sends money. But she can’t love him.”*
Oliver returned days later with sweets, a toy fire truck. He and Ethan built it on the floor. *”You’d make a good father,”* Margaret said.
Then the call: Ethan was ill. *”I can’t leave him to fetch the medicine.”*
Oliver read to him until he slept. The boy’s feverish warmth, his quiet breaths—something cracked open in Oliver’s chest.
Emily came for her things. She looked hollow. *”Sophie and I are going to Spain. Nanny jobs.”*
His brow arched. *”You hate kids.”*
*”I never said that. I just didn’t want them* yet.”
He let her go.
────
Winter came. Weeks later, in a shopping centre, Oliver heard Ethan’s voice—small, trembling. *”Mummy, don’t go.”*
The boy’s mother, Kate, crouched before him, helpless.
Oliver stepped in. *”Oi, none of that. Big boys don’t cry.”*
He walked them home. Kate’s face glowed under streetlights, young and fragile. *”Tomorrow’s his school play. Would you…?”*
*”Wouldn’t miss it.”*
Ethan beamed.
Oliver walked home, lighter. A tree to buy. Presents to wrap.
New Year’s Eve was coming.
It had to be better.
