“She really does look lovely. And I stopped noticing,” thought Victor.
The morning was its usual whirlwind. Vicky had made breakfast and woken little Vera. Her husband had commandeered the bathroom, so she washed Vera’s face at the kitchen sink. A careless swipe of a towel sent a cup crashing to the floor. At the noise, her husband rushed in. Vicky handed him Vera and knelt to gather the shards.
“Phew, that’s it.” Vicky dashed off to get dressed.
“I’ve got to run—you take Vera to nursery. Big day today,” she called from the hallway, zipping up her boots. “I’m presenting. If it goes well, I’ll lead the project—more money, experience, references.”
She flung on her coat, gave herself a last critical glance in the mirror, grabbed her handbag, and bolted. Victor didn’t even get a chance to protest.
He finished his sandwich and coffee while Vera stared at him.
“Want some?”
She nodded.
“No, you’ll spoil your appetite for nursery porridge.”
At the mention of porridge, Vera grimaced.
“Lots of things I don’t like either. Like how Mummy always runs out the door. Seems there’s no fixing that.” Victor set his empty mug in the sink.
Tights were a battle—they twisted every which way. Then the mittens went missing, only to turn up on the radiator. Flustered and frazzled, they finally left. Victor scooped Vera up and raced down the stairs.
At the nursery, he handed Vera over, but the teacher started explaining something.
“Sorry, running late,” he interrupted, fleeing the cloakroom in shame.
Only in the car did he exhale. He took a minute to recover from the morning madness before heading to work.
The whole drive, he thought about how peaceful it had been when Vicky stayed home. He’d left for work and returned to a tidy flat smelling of dinner. No stress. Now? Everything was a sprint. This couldn’t go on.
Plenty of women would kill to stay home. But she needed independence, a career. Why marry then? Should’ve stuck to her career. He’d talk her out of it tonight. Weren’t they comfortable enough? His mood lifted at the thought.
Work distracted him from the morning chaos. At lunch, a text from Vicky: *Running late, can you pick Vera up?*
There it was. He’d hoped to meet friends at the pub. They barely saw each other anymore. His mood plummeted again.
That evening, Victor was frying potatoes when Vicky bounced in, radiant. Still in her coat, she beamed from the kitchen doorway.
“You won’t believe it—my presentation knocked it out of the park! I’m project lead now! Congratulate me.” She stood on tiptoe, offering her cheek. He kissed it.
“Aren’t you happy for me?” She noticed his gloom.
“Thrilled. Brilliant! Wife’s climbing the ladder. No time for her family now. Just fantastic,” he snipped.
“Why the attitude? Jealous I’m nailing my job while you’re still a manager?”
“Jealous? You barely see Vera. She’ll forget who you are! Don’t we earn enough?”
“Don’t shout. This isn’t about her—it’s about you. Yes, I’ll outearn you. That burns, doesn’t it? I want to love my work, not just stay home. I want to look good. That’s who you fell for, isn’t it?”
Victor wavered. It was true.
“But that was then. Now we’ve got Vera. She needs her mum.”
“She needs her dad too. Men love dumping everything on women. *You* take care of her.”
The argument escalated. Raised voices, neither backing down. They went to bed angry, turned away from each other. Yet in sleep, Vicky’s hand found his chest, and his covered hers. In dreams, they still loved.
Next morning, Victor rose early, hoping to slip out first. But Vicky was already making breakfast and waking Vera. He sighed and went to shave.
Same chaos: coffee spilled, Vera tangled in tights, Vicky ready at the door.
“I can’t pick Vera up today—”
The door slammed.
“Damn it!” He hurled his shirt onto the bed.
This wasn’t the family he’d imagined. His mum stayed home, cooked, waited for Dad, helped with homework. No fights, no scenes. Why couldn’t they have that?
At work, Margot approached. Once, they’d had a fleeting affair—before Vicky. He’d left Margot *for* Vicky.
“Why so tense lately?” she asked.
“Tense?” He spooned instant coffee into a mug.
“Grumpy, dishevelled. Married life not as rosy as you thought?”
“We’re fine. Just adjusting to Vicky working.” He poured boiling water, glancing up.
Margot’s glossy lips curved knowingly. She looked stunning, straight off a magazine cover.
“You’re always so busy. Need help?”
“With what?”
“Picking Vera up, maybe. Take her to mine, you collect her later.” She leaned closer, eyes promising paradise. “Not as stubborn as your wife.” Her fingers brushed his collar.
He caught her wrist. “No. We’re over. I’ve got work.” He left, coffee forgotten.
That evening, Vicky was late again. They didn’t argue—just silence. She knew his grievances, feared where this was heading. She loved her job but didn’t want to lose him.
That night, she tried to hold him. He turned away.
Lying awake, she wondered: quit now? But she was good at this. Wait two years, stay home—then who’d hire her?
But she got Victor’s side too. Weekends glued to her laptop. No outings. More money meant holidays without scrimping.
And Victor was handsome. Plenty of women at work would pounce if he were free. Margot, for one. He’d confessed their affair early to avoid surprises.
*No. Others juggle it. So can I. No more late nights. Morning meetings only. And why do I do everything? Delegate. That’s it.* She settled into bed.
Next day, Vicky was on TV—the rising star, discussing her project. When asked how she balanced work and family, she smiled. “I’ve a brilliant husband. Couldn’t do it without him.”
*She really does look lovely. And I stopped noticing,* Victor thought.
“Caught your wife on telly,” Margot cornered him again.
“Stop following me.” He saw the spite flash in her eyes before it vanished.
She smiled, claws sheathed—for now. “So what if I am? Your wife told the nation what a gem you are. Men like you shouldn’t belong to just one woman.”
“Margot, quit it. Alex fancies you. Go bother him.” He left, coffee abandoned.
Victor’s mum saw the segment and called.
“So you’re cooking and cleaning now? Starving? What about Vera? A wife should be home.”
“Stay out of it, Mum.”
“I did what was right! Your father—”
“I *know* about Dad. His ‘business trips.’ You thought martyring yourself worked? He strayed. I know you confronted his mistress.”
“Do as you like. It’s your life.” She sniffled.
“Mum, I’m sorry. I love you. Visit this weekend. Teach Vicky to make your pancakes.”
Next day, Vicky didn’t ask him to collect Vera. Assuming she’d forgotten, he went after work.
“Your wife picked her up,” the teacher smiled.
*Really?* He hurried home.
“You’re early! Project axed? Fired?”
“No. Just trying to reset. But I’m itching to call and check in,” she confessed.
“They’ll manage. Smells amazing—” The doorbell rang.
“Mum?”
She scanned the flat—clean, ironed shirts, Vicky cooking proper food, Vera chopping salad. Not the disaster she’d feared.
After dinner, while Vicky and Vera washed up, Victor and his mum talked.
“You’ve got it good. I raised you right—because I was *there*.”
“Mum, don’t.”
“No, you’re right. Kids should outdo their parents. I thought duty meant staying home. But it’s teamwork. Vicky’s wonderful for teaching Vera to help. A wife should be wise *and* loved. I’m proud of you.”
With time, things smoothed. Vera dressed herself. Vicky delegated, kept weekends free. Victor stopped nagging. They learned to listen.
To all men: cherish your loves. Help them. Don’t leave your kids.
Happy holidays to you all.
