“She really does look lovely. And I stopped noticing,” thought Victor.
The morning was as chaotic as ever. Vicky made breakfast and woke up little Emily. Her husband had commandeered the bathroom, so she washed their daughter at the kitchen sink. Absentmindedly, she knocked a mug off the table with a towel. The noise brought her husband running. Vicky handed Emily to him and knelt to gather the broken pieces.
“Right, that’s everything.” Vicky dashed off to get dressed.
“I’ve got to run—you take Emily to nursery. Big day today,” she called from the hallway, zipping up her boots. “I’m presenting my pitch. If it goes well, I’ll lead the project. That means more money, experience, and credibility.”
She threw on her coat, gave herself a final critical glance in the mirror, snatched her handbag, and bolted out the door before Victor could protest.
He finished his sandwich and coffee while Emily stared at him.
“Want some?”
She nodded.
“No, you’ll spoil your appetite for breakfast at nursery.”
At the mention of porridge, Emily wrinkled her nose.
“There’s a lot I don’t like either. Like your mum racing out the door every morning. Seems there’s no fixing that.” Victor dropped his empty cup in the sink.
He wrestled Emily into her tights, which kept twisting, then spent ages searching for her mittens—only to find them drying on the radiator. Flustered and sweaty, they finally left. Victor scooped Emily into his arms and hurried down the stairs.
He handed her over at nursery, but the nursery teacher started explaining something.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he interrupted, escaping the cloakroom like a guilty man.
Only in the car did he breathe easy. He sat for a moment, recovering from the morning rush, then drove to work.
The whole way, he thought about how peaceful life had been when Vicky stayed home. He’d left for work relaxed and returned to a tidy flat smelling of dinner. No stress. Now it was all frantic. No—this couldn’t go on.
Plenty of women would love to stay home. But she wants independence, a career. Why even get married then? She should’ve focused on work from the start. He needed to persuade her to quit. Weren’t they comfortable enough? Victor decided to talk to her that evening. His mood lifted instantly.
Work distracted him from the morning’s chaos. After lunch, a text from Vicky: *Running late—can you pick Emily up?*
Brilliant. He’d hoped to meet mates at the pub. They barely saw each other these days. His mood plummeted again.
That evening, as Victor fried potatoes, his wife came home glowing with triumph, still in her coat.
“You won’t believe it—my presentation was a hit. They made me project lead! Congratulate me.” She tilted her cheek for a kiss. He obliged.
“Not happy for me?” She caught his sullen expression.
“Oh, thrilled. Absolutely brilliant. My wife’s climbing the corporate ladder. No time left for her family. Just perfect.” His voice dripped sarcasm.
“What’s your problem? Jealous I’m succeeding while you’re stuck as a middle manager?”
“Jealous? Emily barely sees you anymore. She’ll forget who you are. Do we need more money?”
“Don’t shout. This isn’t about Emily—it’s about you. Yes, I’ll earn more than you. And it stings. Why can’t you see? I want to do what I love, not stay home. I want to feel good about myself. That’s the woman you fell for. Wasn’t it?”
Victor faltered. She was right.
“Back then, yes. Now we have a child. She needs her mother,” he countered.
“She needs her father too. Men love dumping everything on women, then blaming them when things go wrong. Step up.”
Their bickering escalated into a full-blown row. Neither would yield. They went to bed simmering, turned away from each other. But in sleep, Vicky’s hand found his chest, and he covered it gently with his own.
Next morning, Victor rose early, hoping to slip out first. But Vicky was already making breakfast, waking Emily. He sighed and went to shave.
The routine repeated: coffee boiled over, Emily tangled in her tights, and Vicky stood ready by the door.
“I can’t pick Emily up today—” The door slammed before he finished.
“Bloody hell!” He threw his shirt onto the bed.
This wasn’t the family life he’d imagined. His own mum had stayed home, cooked, waited for his dad, helped with homework. No fights. Why was his life so different?
At work, Margot cornered him. Once, they’d had a fiery fling—before Vicky.
“You’ve been off lately,” she said.
“How?” He spooned instant coffee into a mug.
“Grouchy. Family life not what you expected?”
“It’s fine. Vicky’s back at work, and we’re adjusting.” He poured boiling water, glancing at Margot—her lips glossed, flawless as a magazine cover.
“You’re always swamped. I could help.”
“How?”
“Pick Emily up sometime. You could swing by after.” She leaned closer. “I’m not as stubborn as your wife.” Her fingers trailed toward his collar.
Victor caught her wrist. He pictured Emily telling Vicky, *Aunt Margot picked me up…*
“No. We’re done. I’ve got work.” He left the break room, coffee forgotten.
That evening, Vicky was late again. They didn’t argue—just stayed silent. She knew his resentment could break them. She loved her job but didn’t want to lose him.
That night, she tried to hold him. He turned away.
Lying awake, she weighed her options. Quitting wasn’t an option—she was good at this. But Victor had a point. They never went out anymore. More money meant better holidays, no loans.
And he was handsome. Women at work circled like vultures—Margot, especially. He’d confessed their past early on to avoid surprises.
*No. Others balance it. So can I. No more late nights. Meetings in mornings. And why should I do it all? We’re a team. They’ll pull their weight too. Decided.* She settled into her pillow.
Next day, Vicky appeared on TV as a rising star. When asked how she juggled work and family, she smiled. “I’ve a wonderful husband who supports me.”
*She really does look lovely. And I stopped noticing*, Victor thought.
“Caught your missus on telly,” Margot said later.
“Stop following me.” He saw anger flash in her eyes before it vanished.
“And if I do? Your wife told the whole country what a gem you are. Men like you shouldn’t be tied down.”
“Enough, Margot. Focus on Alex—he’s smitten with you.” He left his coffee behind.
His mum called after seeing the segment.
“So you cook and clean now? Bet you’re starving. A wife should be home—”
“Stay out of it, Mum. I remember Dad’s ‘business trips.’ You thought being a doormat was noble. He just looked at women who had lives.”
She sniffed. “It’s your life.”
“Sorry. Come visit Sunday. Your pancakes are the best.”
Next evening, Vicky surprised him by picking Emily up early.
“Project cancelled? Fired?” he joked.
“No. Just trying to reset. But I’m itching to check in,” she admitted.
“They’ll manage. Smells amazing—” The doorbell rang.
“Mum?” Victor blinked at his mother on the doorstep.
She inspected the tidy flat—ironed shirts, Vicky cooking proper food, Emily chopping salad with a kid-safe knife. Not the disaster she’d imagined.
Later, as Vicky and Emily did dishes, his mum whispered, “You’re happy. I thought being home was everything. But you’re right—it’s about teamwork. She’s clever, your Vicky.”
With time, they adjusted. Emily dressed herself. Vicky delegated more, saved weekends for family. Victor stopped pushing. They learned to listen.
To all men—cherish your partners. Help them. Never walk away from your kids.
Happy holidays.
