The June morning began peacefully. In their spacious London flat, Emily brewed coffee slowly, savouring the rich aroma that filled every corner. She cherished these quiet moments—before the world demanded more than she could give.
Her husband, James, appeared in the doorway, looking impeccably polished but with the usual hint of corporate exhaustion. He offered a brisk “Morning,” grabbed his mug, and took a sip before dropping the news:
“Mum wants to know if you can take her to the doctor tomorrow. She’s got an early appointment.”
Emily froze. Tomorrow was the presentation she’d spent two weeks preparing. Missing it meant kissing her promotion goodbye.
“James, you know I can’t—”
“It’s just Mum,” he cut in, a shade of reproach in his voice. “You’re her daughter-in-law, not some random stranger. Family helps family.”
First, it was his mother’s request. Then came the call from Sophie, his sister, who “desperately needed a break” from the kids—just as Emily had planned to visit her own parents, whom she hadn’t seen in weeks.
“Please,” Sophie wheedled. “You’re so good with them. You can see your parents any time.”
Emily gave in. Again. And, again, no “thank you.”
A week later, it was her father-in-law, Richard:
“Emily, love, the car’s conked out. Fancy lending us yours for a fortnight?”
“But how will I get to work? My meetings are all across town—”
“Take the Tube. You’re young. We’re family.”
Once more, the words “you should” and “we’re family” echoed, empty of warmth.
Later, when she got her promotion and excitedly told James, dreaming of a holiday, he just shrugged.
“Mum and Dad are doing up the house. Charlotte’s wedding’s coming up. Since you’re earning more, you’ll chip in, yeah?”
Emily stared.
“So we cancel *our* plans—again—for *your* family? Those were *our* dreams.”
“Well, who else will help? You’re not an outsider.”
The phrase “not an outsider” rang louder each time—not with love, but obligation.
Then, a week before their anniversary, James crossed the line:
“You *owe* it to my family. You’re my wife!”
Emily looked at him silently. Here was a man who saw her not as a partner, not as someone he loved, but as a utility—expected to cater to everyone’s needs.
That night, she lay awake. By morning, she packed a suitcase. And left.
She returned to the tiny flat she’d bought with her own money. It became her sanctuary.
Three months passed. James called, asking to meet. Said he’d “understood everything,” promised to change.
“Too late,” she replied.
He’d missed the point. It wasn’t the refusals that broke them. It was him forgetting she was a person—not a function. All the care, the support, the love? Drowned in demands where she was simply “supposed to.”
He even forgot their anniversary.
That day, Emily bought herself peonies, strolled along the South Bank, and sat by the Thames. For the first time in ages, the air in her lungs felt lighter. Not because life was easier, but because she was living for *herself* now.
The next morning, she booked a ticket. One-way—to Rome. Alone.
Because she didn’t need to be *convenient* anymore. Just happy.
