My husband told me I had to look after his mates, so I slipped out for a walk in the park.
Emily, why are you dawdling? The lads will be here in half an hour and we havent even got a roast on yet. Hurry up. Fry the potatoes with onions, the way they like them, get the pickles the ones Mum used to give us. Slice the bacon thin, but make it look nice, not in big chunks like last time.
James was standing in the kitchen doorway, already in his comfy joggers and a stretchedout tee, glancing at his watch with a sour expression. Emily had just hauled two heavy grocery bags into the flat, setting them down with a thud on the tile. Her shoulders ached, the soles of her winter boots were burning shopping had been a nightmare, the preholiday rush had everyone swarming the shelves.
James, who are these lads? she asked softly, unzipping her puffer coat. Her fingers were numb from the cold while she waited for the bus. Its Friday evening, Im barely hanging on. I thought wed just have dinner and watch a film.
Oh, here we go, he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. Barely hanging on, tired. Everyone works, Emily. Im not just lounging around. Mark called, he, Tom and Harry are passing by, decided to pop in. Its been ages. What, am I not supposed to let friends into the house? That would be, what, disrespect?
Could you have given me a headsup? A call during the day?
It just happened spontaneously! Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill? All we need is a snack. Theyre not coming to eat a feast, just to chat. Weve got the bottle in the bar, remember? Just get the table set quick. A simple salad, maybe a potato salad or a crab one, you know the drill. And definitely some hot food the guys are starving after work.
Emily felt a hot swell of resentment rising in her chest, right around the solar plexus. Typical. She knew this meant she would have to dash to the stove, juggle the sink and the pan, chop salads, set the table, then spend the whole night clearing dishes, refilling glasses, making sure the lads had bread, and endure their greasy jokes and loud chuckles. By midnight, shed be left with a mountain of pots, a smoky kitchen and a sticky floor.
Im not cooking tonight, she said firmly, looking him straight in the eye. Im exhausted. I just want a shower and a nap. If your friends are hungry, order a pizza. Or make some dumplings yourself.
James blinked, his eyebrows shooting up.
Whats wrong, Emily? Pizza? They want homemade food. I already promised my hostess would set the table. Mark still talks about your pasties. Dont embarrass me in front of people. What will they think? That I cant provide?
Provide? Emily repeated, feeling a chill run down her spine. Am I a servant now?
Dont twist this! James snapped, his voice getting harsher. Youre the lady of the house. Its your duty to welcome guests. I earn the money, I bring home the bills do I have the right to sit with my mates once a month? To have my wife tend, serve, make the place cosy? Is that too much? Just stop making things up. Here, the bags are down, unpack them. Pop the chicken in the oven while you wash the potatoes itll cook itself. And stash the vodka in the freezer so it chills.
He turned toward the living room, shouting as he went:
And tidy up, you look like a garden scarecrow. Toms new girlfriend is coming, I dont want you looking pale beside her.
The bedroom door stayed open and the TV blared from inside. James flopped onto the sofa, thinking the conversation was over. To him, the plan was set: Emily had her orders, and shed dash to the kitchen battleground.
Emily stood in the hallway, listening to the news presenters mumble. She pulled off her beanie. Her hair, truly disheveled and staticcharged, fell over her face. Garden scarecrow. Jamess words rang in her ears. Twenty years of marriage. Twenty years trying to be the perfect housewife, the caring wife, the understanding partner. Shed endured his latenight gatherings, his mothers endless advice, his scattered socks and his constant complaints that the soup was underseasoned. Shed thought that was family life compromises, patience, smoothing out the edges.
She looked at the grocery bags. Inside were the chicken shed planned to roast tomorrow, veg for a salad, milk, bread all heavy, all dragging her down.
She lowered herself, not to unpack the bags, but to zip up her coat again, put the hat back on, tuck her hair under it, adjust her scarf.
She peeked into the bedroom for a second.
James.
He, not looking away from the screen, waved a hand.
Anything else you need? Cant find the salt? Its in the top drawer.
Im leaving.
Where to? he finally turned, genuine confusion on his face. To the shop? Forgot something? Got the bread, have the mayo?
No. Im going for a walk. To the park.
Which park? James even got up from the sofa. Are you mad? Its seven oclock, dark, cold. The guests will be here in twenty minutes! Whos going to set the table?
You, Emily said calmly. You invited them, you set it up. The potatoes are under the sink, the chicken is in the bag, the knife is in the block. Youll find a recipe online.
Emily, wait! James shouted, jumping up. What are you doing? Which park?! Come back! Get dressed and go to the kitchen! I told you!
But Emily didnt listen. She slammed the heavy metal front door, the lock clicking like a gunshot. She bolted down the stairs, not waiting for the lift, fearing James would burst out and drag her back. The landing was quiet he must have been stunned by her exit, frozen with his mouth open.
Outside, fine, prickly snow fell. The wind slipped under her collar, but she didnt notice. Inside, adrenaline and a longforgotten taste of reckless freedom surged. She walked fast, almost ran, away from the house, past the lit windows where James was probably frantically trying to think of what to tell his mates.
The park was two blocks away an old city park with wide avenues and tall lime trees now bare and swaying in the wind. Few people were out: a couple of dogwalkers, some workers hurrying home, a teenage pair glued to their phones on a bench.
Emily turned onto a side path where the streetlights flickered on every other lamp, casting odd shadows on the snow. She slowed, breathing shallow, heart pounding in her throat.
What have I done? a panic thought rushed through her.
Shed always feared conflict. Since childhood shed been taught to be easygoing. Endure and youll be loved, Silence is golden, The husbands the head, the wife the neck. Her mum always said: Emily, dont argue, be wiser. Feed and praise your man and the house will run smooth. So she fed, praised, even when James sat on her neck with his jokes.
Her phone vibrated. She saw a photo of James with the caption James. She let it ring, then ignored it. Another buzz, then another. She pressed the power button, slipped the dark screen back into her pocket. Silence. Only the wind and the crunch of boots on snow.
She reached the pond. The water was black, not yet frozen, with ducks paddling. A thin rim of ice clung to the edge. She leaned on the cold railing and looked down.
She remembered the last time those friends had been over. Tom got drunk and smashed her favourite vase, a gift from her sister. James laughed it off: Oh well, for luck! Well get a new one. They never bought a new one. And Mark, that night while she was washing dishes, slapped her thigh and winked sloppily: Lucky you, Tom, such a handy wife, feeding and pampering. James pretended not to see, or chose to ignore. Shed wanted to crawl into the floor out of disgust, but she held her tongue, forced a smile, and went back to the kitchen. Dont embarrass me, she’d thought.
I wont Emily whispered into the dark. Never again.
She kept walking. The cold nipped her cheeks, oddly comforting. Her head cleared. She realised she hadnt eaten lunch. Her stomach growled.
In the centre of the park a small kiosk glowed warm yellow, selling coffee and pastries. Emily stepped up to the window.
Good evening, the girl behind the counter, wearing a knitted hat, smiled. What can I get you? Something to warm you up?
A large cappuccino, please. And Emily glanced at the display. That cinnamonsprinkled scone. And a chicken sandwich.
Great choice. Ill heat it up for you.
Emily cupped the steaming cup with frozen fingers, feeling the heat spread through her hands. She took a seat on a nearby bench, right under a streetlamp.
The sandwich was hot, cheese pulling, chicken juicy. It was the best meal shed had in ages, not because it was fancy, but because she ate it alone, in peace, without anyone to please. She watched the snow fall, sipped her coffee, and felt strangely alive.
An elderly couple shuffled by, arminarm. The man told a story, the woman laughed, adjusting his scarf.
Oh, youre catching a chill, Tom, youll get sick, the lady teased gently.
Im warm enough with you, dear, the man replied with a grin.
Emily thought, Will James and I ever be like that? Walking together in old age, hand in hand? The honest answer scared her. Probably not. More likely James would stay ahead, muttering that she was too slow, while shed haul the grocery bags and wonder if his back hurt.
Her smartwatch buzzed again. She realized shed hit 10,000 steps irony, huh? Shed left the house just to meet her daily activity goal.
Two hours later, after circling the park three times, her legs throbbed from the walk, not from fatigue but from the long stride. Coffee was finished, the scone gone. The cold seeped through her coat. She knew she had to head back; she wasnt planning to spend the night on a bench.
The closer she got to home, the slower she walked. The flats lights flickered on in every room kitchen, living room.
She took the lift, fumbled with her keys, hands trembling. She inhaled deeply, like before a jump, and opened the front door.
A thick smell of burnt oil, tobacco smoke (shed begged James a hundred times not to smoke inside) and cheap aftershave hit her nose.
In the hallway were strangers shoes. So the guests had arrived after all. A pile of jackets on the coat rack.
From the kitchen came loud voices and laughter.
Im telling her, dont mix up the margins! Mark shouted. A woman should know her place! And James, good lad, didnt lose his cool!
Emily slipped off her boots, hung her coat, and walked into the kitchen.
The scene was both depressing and pitiful. The table was a disaster: open tins of sardines and sprats lay in their tins, sliced bangers rested on a newspaper (apparently James hadnt found any plates), a pan in the centre held burnt, black potatoes. Around it were empty beer bottles and a halfempty vodka bottle.
At the table sat three men: James, Mark and Tom. Harry and his lady were missing perhaps theyd been turned away.
James sat back to the door, waving a fork with a pickled cucumber stuck on it.
She just ran to the shop, he lied, tonguetied. For delicacies. Shell be back, set the table like a queen. My Emily, a golden girl, just shy.
Emily coughed.
The men fell silent, turned toward her.
Oh! Shes finally showing up! Mark bellowed, grin oily. Our hostess! Weve been waiting! James, you were off for brandy?
James turned slowly, his face flushed, eyes hazy. Seeing his wife, he first looked scared, then remembered his role, and scowled.
Where have you been?! he roared, trying to stand, wobbling and sitting back down. The lads are here, starving! The potatoes are burnt! Youve set me up, Emily!
Emily stared at the mess: spilled beer, cigarette butts in her favourite mug turned ashtray.
Good evening, gentlemen, she said icily. The banquets over.
What? Tom stammered. We just started. Emily, were fine, can you at least make an egg? The potatoes are killing Jamess stomach.
I said, everyone out, Emily raised her voice. Its ten oclock. Ive got work tomorrow. James, see the guests out.
You dont get to tell me what to do! James slammed his fist on the table. The fork jumped up and clattered to the floor. This is my house! My friends! Who do you think you are? Get back to the kitchen and cook! Otherwise
Otherwise what? Emily stepped forward. You hit me? Fine, Ill call the police. Ill file for divorce tomorrow. You want that?
A ringing silence fell over the kitchen. Even drunk Mark stopped grinning. Theyd never seen Emily like this. Usually sweet, compliant, now she stood tall, eyes cold, a fierce force that made everyone uneasy.
James, Tom muttered, rising. Maybe its time. The wives are worried too.
Stay! James roared. No ones leaving! Emily will fix everything. Ill count to three. One
Count to a million, Emily said, opening the kitchen window. A gust of icy air slammed the room. It needs freshening. It smells like a stable.
Have you lost your mind? James tried to stand, overturning his chair. I fed you, clothed you, and you
Fed? Emily laughed bitterly. I work two jobs, James, so we can pay the car loan. Remember? You never gave a penny for my coat that I bought three years ago with my bonus.
Mark and Tom, sensing things were heating up, grabbed their jackets and headed for the door.
Well be off, cheers. See you later, love. they shouted as they left.
James and Emily were left alone. He leaned on the table, breathing heavily. His bravado faded with the departing crowd.
So what did you achieve? he asked, voice tinged with hurt. Youve embarrassed me in front of the lads. Now theyll call me a henpecked husband.
Youre the henpecked one, James. Not me, but your ego and your friends opinions. You care more about what Mark thinks than the fact Im exhausted.
I thought you loved me cared
I did love you. I cared. But caring is a twoway street. Ive spent twenty years playing the same role.
Emily looked at the mountain of dirty dishes, the ash in the mug, the stains on the tablecloth.
Clean up, she said.
What? James stared, eyes wide.
Clean all of this. My floor, my dishes. Ventilate. I want the kitchen sparkle by morning.
And if I dont? he tried to look threatening, but sounded pitiful.
Then youll be sleeping on the sofa tomorrow. Im not joking. This flat came from my gran, James. Youre on the lease, but you have no rights. My patience snapped today when you called me a scarecrow and sent the potatoes to the oven instead of asking how I felt.
Emily turned and locked herself in the bathroom, turned the water on, and stood under the shower for ages, washing away the nights grime, the tobacco smell and the lingering guilt.
When she emerged, wrapped in a bathrobe, the kitchen lights were on and dishes clinked. James, muttering to himself, was awkwardly scrubbing a plate with a sponge. He was angry, a bit tipsy, but he was washing.
Emily headed to the bedroom, pushed the duvet onto the sofa in the living room.
Youll sleep there, she told James as he passed.
He said nothing, just glared sideways.
Morning came, quiet. Saturday. No work. She stretched, feeling her body finally relax. Usually shed be at the stove making pancakes, but today she took it slow, applied a face mask, brewed fresh coffee.
The kitchen was relatively tidy. The floor still had some streaks, the stove bore a few greasy spots, but the dishes were washed and piled neatly. James slept on the sofa, his head buried in a pillow.
Emily sat at the table with her coffee, looking out at the snowcovered courtyard, atShe smiled, feeling finally free, and walked out into the crisp morning, ready to rewrite her own story.
