“Just sitting around doing nothing, are you?”
“Mum, come play cars with me, you promised…” piped up five-year-old Archie, peeking into the kitchen for the umpteenth time.
Emily glanced first at her son, then at the mountain of unwashed dishes and the chicken patiently waiting its turn on the chopping board. She looked back at the boy, who was staring at her expectantly, his expression caught between a question and a plea.
“Archie, love, just wait a bit longer, alright? Mum’ll be there soon.” She said it quietly, probably because she didn’t quite believe that elusive “soon” would ever arrive.
“But you always say that, and then you never come! I don’t want to play alone! I don’t!” He stomped off to his room, wailing.
The noise woke little Poppy, who immediately signalled her displeasure with a piercing cry. Emily slumped onto a chair, cradling her head in her hands as if trying to block out the world. She squeezed her eyes shut for just a second.
…Emily had always wanted children. And she adored them madly. But right now, she’d give anything to be utterly alone—no endless cleaning, no cooking, no nappies, no speech therapy appointments, no park runs, no evening baths, no bedtime stories…
Plenty of women lived like this, sure, but most had grandparents nearby, husbands who pitched in. Emily’s situation was a bit different. Her parents lived a thousand miles away, her mother-in-law was too busy with her own life to bother with grandkids, and her husband, James, practically strolled in from work just as the children were being tucked in. He’d eat, then plant himself in front of the telly or computer. Zero help. And lately, things between them had grown tense, strained—almost painful.
“Muuuum…” came the drawn-out wail of one-year-old Poppy.
“Coming, love!” Emily called, hurrying to the nursery.
She juggled the kids, tidied up a bit. After lunch, Archie had his speech therapy session. While he was busy, Emily and Poppy trudged to the playground.
By the time they got home, evening was creeping in. Bathtime, dinner, more cleaning—Emily barely ate herself, just gulped down a quick cuppa. She eyed the chicken and sentenced it to tomorrow’s menu. Instead, she boiled some frozen dumplings for James.
He rolled in just before nine. These days, Emily was used to him arriving in a foul mood.
“I’m home! No welcome committee?” he barked from the hallway.
“James, please don’t shout—Poppy’s just gone down,” Emily forced her voice to stay sweet, refusing to poke the bear.
“Brilliant. Hello, sweet home. Walk in and it’s a library,” he grumbled, stomping off to wash up.
Emily laid the table—dumplings on a plate, herbs and sour cream on the side. Boiled the kettle, sliced some bread.
“Em, did you bulk-buy these dumplings? Am I doomed to eat them till the pack’s gone?” James sneered.
“Love, just tonight. Tomorrow, like I said, I’ll do the chicken,” she replied, guilt creeping in.
“Last time I’m having them. No way tomorrow. We had these Monday and now again! Ridiculous!” He scowled but dug in anyway.
Not once did he ask if she’d eaten. Lately, it was like she’d vanished from his radar entirely.
“James, put the phone down for five minutes. How was work?”
“Work’s work. I’m knackered, and you want to chat about it here too?” He snapped, eyes glued to his screen.
“Right. Well, enjoy your dinner. I’ll check on the kids.”
“Go on, then.” Curt. Cold.
She tucked them in, switched off the light, and returned to the kitchen.
“I’m off to bed,” James muttered, still scrolling, and disappeared.
“Night,” Emily whispered to the empty room.
There’d been a time when he’d kiss her goodnight, whisper sweet dreams. Back when they’d talk for hours after putting Archie to sleep, sharing tea, watching telly together.
Now? Those moments felt like someone else’s life.
James was buried in work, in things Emily wasn’t part of. Meanwhile, she was drowning—exhausted since Poppy’s birth. They’d hoped Archie could start nursery, but the speech therapy group was full, so he stayed home with private sessions instead.
Emily sighed, checked the clock. Half-ten already! Dishes, a quick wash, then bed.
By the time she crawled in at nearly midnight, James was already asleep. His phone pinged—a text.
*Who texts this late?* Probably his mobile provider. Or the bank.
The instant she shut her eyes, the alarm blared.
*Five-thirty already? Feels like I never slept.*
She dragged herself up, splashed water on her face, gulped coffee, and started breakfast. At six, James surfaced.
“Porridge *again*? And toast?” he groaned, scowling before even fully entering the kitchen.
“Morning, love!”
“My mum used to make pancakes or crumpets. From you? Nothing.” He shoved the porridge bowl aggressively.
“James, weekends I cook proper. Weekdays—it’s quick. And porridge’s good for you and Archie.”
“Right. So I’m stuck choking this down. Could’ve at least scrambled some eggs.”
“First, keep your voice down—you’ll wake them. Second, I forgot to buy eggs!”
“What kind of wife are you? Forgot, didn’t have time, couldn’t manage. Sitting at home all day, and basic stuff’s too much? No wonder I dread coming back. My mum was right—”
Poppy’s wail cut him off.
“I *knew* your mum was poisoning you against me,” Emily snapped.
“Don’t you drag her into this! Go deal with the kids!” He shoved his chair back and stormed out.
While Emily tended to Poppy, James thundered off to work without a word. The slam of the front door echoed through the flat.
She regretted the fight. Things were rocky enough without petty squabbles.
The day whirred on—washing faces, breakfast, cleaning. She prepped dinner and lunch simultaneously, fielding endless requests.
After lunch and nap time, they headed out.
“Mum, let’s go to the playground with the slides,” Archie begged.
“Alright, love.”
They wandered to the next neighbourhood’s park.
“Emily! Blimey, it’s been ages!” a familiar voice called.
“Sophie! Hi! Look how big your lot are!” Emily ruffled Sophie’s son’s hair.
“And yours! But you—you’ve lost weight. You alright? Look peaky.”
“Oh, fine. Just busy with two under five.”
“Listen, you *got* to make time for yourself. Doesn’t James help? I boss Simon around—his kids too!” Sophie laughed.
“Soph, James works late…”
“So? Simon’s not unemployed! But it’s *his* child too. Where you off to?”
“The playground. You?”
“The shopping centre—new soft play opened. Fancy it?”
“Ah, no. Money’s tight. James is eyeing another car.”
“Another? He just got one! Saw him parked at the centre last week. Buys himself motors but won’t spare a quid for the kids?”
Emily stayed silent. Sophie wasn’t wrong.
“Come on, we’re treating you. No arguments! We’ll have a natter.”
At the centre, the older kids tackled the play zone while Emily, Sophie, and Poppy hit the café—ice cream for the little one, coffee and cakes for them.
“Em, you’re jumpy. Everything alright?” Sophie eyed her.
“Just tired.”
“Tell James to pull his weight. You’ve let him—” Sophie suddenly froze.
“What? See someone?”
“Isn’t that James with some girl?”
Emily turned. A few seconds later, she looked away, tears spilling. There he was—kissing a woman, strolling towards the escalator.
“The *nerve*! Not even hiding it! Em, *do* something!”
Emily covered her face and sobbed.
*****
“Texting your girlfriend?” James looked up from his fried chicken and phone.
“What? Talking rubbish now?”
“*Me*? I saw you today. At the centre. Buying her gifts?”
Silence. Then—
“You *followed* me? I should be asking what *you* were doing there! Gallivanting all day, then too knackered to cook. Yeah, I’ve got a girlfriend. So? Look at yourself—scruffy, frumpy. Embarrassing.”
“I want a divorce.”
“What?! Don’t be daft, you daft cow!”
She filed days later. The court granted her full custody. Emily moved back to her hometown, first with her parents, thenEventually, Emily built a life where the chaos was hers alone—no one to dismiss her exhaustion, no more waiting for help that would never come, just the quiet strength of knowing she’d done it all herself and still found her way back to happy.
