**Shattered Dreams: Emily’s Turmoil**
Emily paced the living room of their Manchester flat, her eyes darting to her phone every few seconds. Her husband was late—again—and her patience was stretched taut as a bowstring.
“Where the devil is he?” she muttered, gripping her phone so hard her knuckles turned white.
The click of the front door lock broke the silence. Oliver appeared in the hallway, exhausted but wearing a sheepish smile. In his hands was a small bouquet of daisies.
“These are for you,” he said, offering the flowers. “Sorry, got caught up helping Mum.”
“Caught up?” Emily’s voice trembled with hurt. “You couldn’t call? I’ve been out of my mind worrying!”
“Lost track of time,” Oliver mumbled, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. “Helped Mum out, then… Listen, we had a talk and decided something.”
“Decided what?” Emily froze, a chill creeping down her spine.
Oliver took a deep breath and began to speak. With every word, Emily’s face hardened into icy disbelief.
She couldn’t remember the last time Oliver had spent more than an hour at home. He left at dawn, returned past midnight—if at all. Spring had arrived, and with it, Oliver had become a stranger. The man who once grumbled about winter walks, who burrowed under blankets beside her, now vanished for days without explanation.
Oliver’s mother, Margaret, had made Emily uneasy from the start. When they first met, Margaret’s assessing gaze had swept over her like a shopkeeper weighing merchandise. At dinner, she spoke only to Oliver, ignoring Emily entirely. Emily pitied Margaret’s husband, Arthur—a weary man who shrank from his wife’s sharp tongue.
Emily had known then: living under the same roof as them would be unbearable. Thankfully, she had her own flat, and after the wedding, Oliver had moved in with her. Margaret hadn’t objected—she’d even helped pack his things, as though relieved to be rid of him.
When they moved in, Margaret had visited briefly, sipped tea, and left without warmth. A year into their marriage, Emily had little to complain about—but little to celebrate, either. Work, home, the occasional outing. Her parents lived in another city, but she cherished her independence. Here, she had her job, her friends, her home—and Oliver.
He was undemanding, their life modest but comfortable. They helped Margaret when she asked, dined out once a month, dreamed of the future. Emily longed for children; Oliver dodged the subject. He, meanwhile, fantasised about a car. Emily agreed it would be useful—but expensive. Loans were out of the question.
“Helping Mum,” Oliver would say when she questioned his absences. “The garden season’s started—she needs support.”
“What about me?” Emily snapped. “The bathroom tap’s been leaking for weeks!”
“Come on, Em, it’s Mum,” he’d sigh.
The arguments grew fiercer. Emily was tired of being a weekend wife—when Oliver even bothered to show up. Saturdays meant trips to his parents’. She was grateful Margaret never invited her to help—but why?
Once, at Margaret’s, Emily tasted homemade pickles so delicious she couldn’t stop.
“You made these?” she marvelled.
“Of course,” Margaret said smugly. “Slaving away all summer means proper food in winter. Lazy folk eat scraps.” Her eyes flicked to Emily with disdain.
Emily never mentioned it again. That night, she ate alone, frying potatoes and opening a jar of shop-bought pickles.
When Oliver returned late again, Emily was seething. The door opened, and he walked in with daisies and a guilty smile.
“Sorry, Em.”
She arranged the flowers silently, hoping for romance. Instead, Oliver flopped into an armchair, eyes gleaming.
“Mum and I talked. Why keep this flat? Sell it, buy a cheaper one—use the difference for a car. Closer to her place, too, no more trains.”
Emily stared. Was this her husband—or Margaret’s errand boy? She forced her voice steady.
“Darling, are you hungry?”
“Had dinner at Mum’s. Roast chicken—perfection.” He sighed dreamily.
Something inside Emily snapped. This man would never be her partner—never a father.
“Here’s a better idea,” she said, her tone glacial. “Sell the garden plot. Buy the car. Then you won’t need to chauffeur Mum—and you might actually stay home.”
Oliver gasped. “Mum would never! Where would we go in summer?”
“Then here’s another plan,” Emily stood tall, her voice firm. “Pack your things. Go live with them. Tomorrow, we file for divorce.”
Oliver blinked. Emily grabbed her coat and left. She sat in a café until closing, replaying their marriage. Had she done right? Yes. Oliver would never change.
When she returned, he was gone.
The next morning, the doorbell rang. Oliver stood there—with Margaret.
“Make up, now!” Margaret barked. “Honestly, like children!”
Oliver shifted awkwardly.
“Oliver, leave us,” Margaret ordered. He obeyed. Margaret turned to Emily. “Take him back. Keep the flat—just don’t abandon him. He’s driving me mad!”
Emily laughed bitterly.
“Margaret, I don’t want him. He’s not a husband—he’s a lapdog.”
Margaret opened her mouth—then nodded and left. Her voice carried from the stairs:
“Stop following me, Oliver!”
Emily shut the door, exhaled, and felt the weight lift. She was free.
