Broken Dreams: Emily’s Heartache
Emily paces the living room of their flat in Manchester, her eyes flicking to her phone again and again. Her husband is late—*again*—and her patience is stretched thin, like a frayed thread.
“Where on earth is he?” she mutters, gripping her phone so tightly her knuckles turn white.
The front door clicks open, and James steps inside, looking weary but offering an apologetic smile. In his hands is a small bunch of daisies.
“These are for you,” he says, holding them out. “Sorry, love. Got held up helping Mum with something.”
“Held up?” Emily’s voice trembles with frustration. “You couldn’t call? I’ve been worried sick!”
“Lost track of time,” James mumbles, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. “Listen, Mum and I had a chat, and we’ve decided something.”
“Decided what?” A cold shiver runs down Emily’s back.
James takes a deep breath and starts explaining. With every word, Emily’s face hardens into stone.
She can’t remember the last time James spent more than an hour at home. He’s out at dawn and back past midnight, if at all. Spring has swept through the city, and with it, James has changed. In winter, he’d rush home, burrow under a blanket, and grumble about going for a walk. Now, he’s an entirely different man—vanishing for days on end.
From the moment she met James’s mother, Margaret, Emily felt uneasy. There was a coldness in her gaze, as if she were sizing Emily up like a bargain at a shop. At dinner, Margaret spoke only to James, barely glancing at Emily. She pitied James’s father, Edward—a tired, timid man who flinched at his wife’s sharp words.
Emily knew then: living under the same roof as his family would be unbearable. Thankfully, she had her own flat, and after the wedding, James moved in with her. Margaret didn’t object—if anything, she seemed relieved to have him out of the house.
When Margaret visited their new home, she barely stayed long enough to sip her tea. A year of marriage passed, and Emily couldn’t say she was happy or miserable. It was just life—work, home, the occasional holiday. Her own parents lived hours away, but Emily liked her independence. Here, she had a job, friends, a home, a husband. It felt like she was doing *alright*.
James was easygoing, their life modest but comfortable. They helped Margaret when she asked—once a month, they’d go out to a pub, making plans, dreaming of the future. Emily wanted children, but James dodged the subject. He dreamed of a car. Emily agreed it’d be useful but expensive. She refused to take a loan or ask family for help. Saving up would mean years of scrimping—enough for a second-hand car at best.
James justified his absences simply:
“Mum needs help. It’s gardening season—she’s at the allotment every day, and I go with her. Can’t leave her to manage alone.”
“And what about *me*?” Emily snaps. “How long have I asked you to fix that leak in the bathroom? The balcony door barely stays shut!”
“Em, come on. It’s *Mum*,” he dismisses.
These arguments flare up more and more. Emily’s tired of being a “weekend wife,” if even that. Even Saturdays, James is off to his parents’. She’s relieved she’s not dragged along to the allotment—but sometimes, she wonders *why*.
Once, at Margaret’s, Emily tries her pickled courgettes. They’re so good she nearly finishes the jar.
“Did you make these yourself?” Emily asks, impressed.
“Course,” Margaret says proudly. “Work all spring and summer so we’ve got proper food in winter.”
“My mum never bothers with preserves. I’d forgotten how good homemade tastes,” Emily hints, hoping Margaret might offer some.
But the hint sails right past her.
“Strange, that. How d’you manage without proper stores? I do this every year—jars of tomatoes, jams, pickles. Lazy folk always end up with empty cupboards.” She gives Emily a pointed look.
Emily never brings it up again. On the way home, she buys a jar of courgettes, fries up some potatoes, and eats alone.
That evening, James is late—*again*. Emily fumes, pacing, gripping her phone. She’s sick of eating alone, sick of waiting like some loyal pet. The door opens, and she braces herself to let him have it. James walks in with daisies, wearing that same guilty smile.
“Sorry, Em,” he says, offering them.
She silently puts the flowers in a vase, hoping for a quiet night. But James sits down, gives her a knowing look, and drops the bomb:
“Mum and I had a think. Why keep this flat? Let’s sell it, buy a cheaper place, use the extra for a car.”
Emily goes still. James, oblivious, keeps talking.
“You’re always upset I’m not around. If we move further out, closer to Mum’s allotment, I can drive her instead of taking the train and walking.”
Emily stares at him, a storm brewing in her chest. What kind of husband is he? An *accessory* to his mother! She wants to scream, but chokes out:
“Darling, are you hungry?”
“Nah, ate at Mum’s. Roast chicken tonight—proper lush,” James sighs dreamily.
Something inside Emily *snaps*. This man will never be a husband—never be a father to her children.
“Tell you what,” she says, voice icy. “Sell the allotment. Buy the car. Then you won’t have to chauffeur her, and you’ll be home more.”
James gasps. “*What?* Mum’d never agree! Where’d we go in summer? Well, me and Mum. Dad hates the allotment.”
“Then here’s another idea,” Emily straightens, voice trembling with resolve. “Pack your things and go live with them. Tomorrow, we file for divorce. I’m going out. When I get back, you’d better be gone.”
James nods, stunned. Emily grabs her coat and leaves. She sits in a café till closing, replaying their marriage. Was this the right choice? It’s the *only* choice—James won’t change. When she returns, he’s gone.
The next morning, there’s a knock. On the doorstep stand James and Margaret. Emily freezes, staring at this “delegation.”
“Right, sort it out, quick!” Margaret barks. “Acting like children!”
James shifts awkwardly, eyes darting between them.
“James, leave us,” Margaret orders. He obeys, shutting the door behind him. “Emily, love, please take him back. If you don’t want to sell the flat, fine—but he’s *your* husband!”
Emily laughs—sharp, sudden.
“Sorry, Margaret, but I don’t *want* him. I’ve tried to understand, to accept him, but I can’t. I don’t need a husband who’s still tied to his mother’s apron strings.”
Margaret opens her mouth—then just nods and walks out. On the landing, her voice rings out:
“*Leave it*, James, stop following me!”
Emily closes the door, exhales, and feels a heavy weight lift from her shoulders.
She’s free.
