Hard Choices
Im writing this late again the office kept me past six, and now the kitchen clock reads 11. Emily sits at the kitchen table, staring at the cold roast chicken that has been cooling for an hour. The scent of thyme and pepper still lingers, mingling with the faint smell of the candle she lit two hours ago; the wax drips in uneven beads, like slowmoving tears. The television mutters something about the forecast, but Im not listening. My ears are on the groaning lift in the hallway and the soft thump of footsteps on the landing is that him?
The flat door refuses to open.
She could have called, said Where are you? or Im getting worried. But why? He always answers the same way: a terse Soon or an irritated Dont bother me. Then hell stroll in, stare at his phone, and a heavy silence will settle between us, as if were two people sharing one space but living apart.
Weve been together for five years.
Yesterday Charlotte, my workmate, posted a photo of her sons christening. Happy faces, a pretty dress, her husband Mark holding the baby. Today another wedding picture from our mutual friends popped up on my feed.
Whens your turn? they asked.
Were not in a rush, Andrew brushed off.
Emily is tired of that not in a rush line.
Do you actually intend to marry me? she asked.
I just walked in, shrugged off my coat, and reached for a can of lager in the fridge. The question caught me off guard my hand froze halfway.
Of course I do, I said, but my voice sounded flat, as if the words were stuck somewhere in my throat. Its just not the right moment to bring that up.
What would be the right moment? she replied, clutching her fork as if seeing it for the first time. When you buy a flat? When you get a promotion? Or when were both forty?
I turned away, searching for refuge in the label on the bottle.
Dont get worked up, alright? Im exhausted.
I am too, she whispered.
Hed already headed for the shower, leaving a silence thick as London fog, one weve both been lost in for years.
I grew up watching families crumble.
I remembered my dad before the drinking started the funny, strong bloke who used to throw me, a fiveyearold, up against the ceiling. And the dad after the bottles hollow eyes, the smell of whisky on his breath, hurling plates at my mother.
Better a nofather than a dad like that, I once blurted to a mate.
That night I promised myself that if I ever started a family, it would be nothing like that. Only when I was sure I wouldnt repeat the mistake.
But certainty never came.
Emily is the polar opposite of my mother calm, patient, never prone to tantrums. Still…
Every time she cautiously steers the conversation toward marriage, I catch myself thinking:
What if Im wrong? What if theres a monster inside me?
I saw my hands clench into fists after a hard day just like my fathers. I felt irritation rise when Emily asked for something. Id never raised my voice or my hand, but the fear lived deep down:
What if this is only the beginning?
One evening, after a particularly harsh argument, Emily asked bluntly:
Are you scared of becoming like your father?
I wont be like him, I snapped.
Then whats the problem?
Its that Im not sure I can be good enough to replace him.
She fell silent, then took my hand:
No one expects perfection. I just want you to try.
But for me, trying meant risking another lifes ruin. That fear outweighed love.
I need to stand on my own first, I told her, stepping out of the shower, towel around my shoulders, eyes heavy after a twelvehour shift. I want everything to be perfect for us.
Emily sat at the table, waiting. Her look held a mix of understanding and weary disappointment a conversation wed had a hundred times.
What does perfect look like to you? she asked, no accusation in her tone, only genuine curiosity.
I froze. Id uttered that word so often without ever defining it. In my head swam images: a spacious flat in the centre of London (even though we already shared a cosy twobed flat near the tube), a brandnew electric car (while my reliable used Toyota had served me well for five years), a directors title (even though I already earned three times the average London salary).
I didnt answer. Because I realised my idea of perfect was like an advertising billboard glossy on the outside, empty inside. I was waiting for a magical moment when stars aligned, finances doubled, and I would magically become the ideal husband, father, provider.
Emily watched my face shift, knowing this was my usual trap locking myself into unrealistic expectations.
You know, she finally said, choosing her words carefully, the perfect moment will never arrive. We can be happy right now, just as we are.
I glanced around our flat the bookshelves wed built together, photos of our trips, Milo the cat, curled up in the armchair. For the first time I wondered if perfect was less about conditions and more about the two of us. Yet the fear of stepping into the unknown kept me silent.
I reached for the remote, turned off the TV, and picked up my phone, signalling that the conversation was over.
I love Emily.
I love the way she laughs at my stupid jokes over breakfast. I love how she mutters in her sleep when I tug the blanket over her. I love the trail of halffilled tea mugs she leaves around the house each one makes me smile.
But I also love the silence.
The silence that falls when she drives to her parents for the weekend. I love my habits tossing socks on the floor, leaving the lights off, staying up playing video games until three in the morning, snapping off on a sudden fishing trip with the lads.
Why do we need a marriage licence? Id ask while hugging her as she washed the dishes. Were already together. Isnt that enough?
Emily wanted more. Not diamond rings or a lavish banquet, but something intangible yet vital the feeling of choice. She wanted me each morning to decide consciously to be with her, not out of inertia, not because it just happened, but because I truly wanted to.
The licence isnt about obligations, shed say, looking straight into my eyes. Its about choosing this life among all the possible ones. Choosing us.
I looked away. Id already chosen her long ago, but the word forever still frightened me, as if signing the marriage register would bury the carefree lad who could bolt at any moment.
What if we divorce? the question burst out, as if Id been holding it for months and it finally slipped out. I stood by the window, back to Emily, watching the city lights, but my mind drifted to lawyer fees, split assets, empty rooms.
What? Emily stopped midsentence.
Well its pricey. Mortgage, alimony, I rattled off like a business plan, You know how my colleague ended up, gave away half a flat and still pays for the child
Emily rose slowly, a bitter, almost mute laugh escaping her more a sigh than a giggle, the last bubble of air from a sinking ship.
Youve already plotted the divorce, yet youre scared to marry, she said, no anger, only weary clarity. The funny thing is, youre more afraid of the divorce than losing each other now. Divorce is numbers, paperwork, concrete loss. Losing love is an abstract thing for you, isnt it?
I turned, confusion plain on my face. Id prepared for a fight, for tears, maybe a cold silence, but not this piercing honesty.
I just I began, but the words stuck. What could I say? That I was trying to protect us? That I was covering all bases? It would sound like an excuse, and we both knew that.
Emily moved closer, stopping an arms length away. Her expression was calm, but a new resolve shone in her eyes.
If youre already thinking about how well split, she whispered, then were already split. Just not on paper yet.
She turned and left the room, leaving me alone with my calculations, my fears, and a sudden realization: my attempts to predict the future were already destroying the present.
We broke up on one of those unremarkable weekdays when nothing seems to change. No shouting, no broken dishes just Emily arriving home an hour early and quietly packing. I caught her as I walked in.
You leaving? I asked, frozen in the doorway.
She folded sweaters into a suitcase the ones I always loved on her. Her movements were precise, indicating this wasnt a spurofthemoment decision.
Yes, she replied, eyes fixed ahead. Ive got a flat in the city centre.
The floor seemed to drop from under me. I had imagined this moment a hundred times, but now I knew I wasnt ready. Not at all.
We could, I started, but Emily cut me off:
No, Andrew. We cant. I gave us a month after that talk. You never even tried.
She closed the suitcase with a soft click that sounded louder than the door slamming shut.
Emily didnt leave because she stopped loving me. Love is a strange thing; it doesnt vanish instantly. She left because my fear of commitment outweighed my love. I wasnt scared of marriage itself I was scared to make a deliberate choice, to say yes not just to her but to the life that would follow.
I never expected lifelong promises, she said at the door. All I asked was for you to choose us now. You never did.
I was left alone. The flat suddenly felt too large, the freedom too loud. My phone held her number, dialed, erased, dialed again, erased five times. I was free. Completely free. I could do anything weekend trips with the lads, late nights at work, socks everywhere. Yet that very first night I lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, recalling how Emily muttered in her sleep when I tugged the blanket.
I never figured out what was scarier losing her or losing myself. Now, with her gone, a chilling thought rose: perhaps the real me is the man who laughed at her jokes over breakfast, while the free Andrew I cling to is just a boy hiding behind excuses.
In the morning I found her favourite tea mug on the kitchen shelf. I washed it, put it back in the cupboard, and only then realised there would be no more mugs left halffilled around the house.
Lesson: Freedom without choice is just another form of fear.
