“I’m leaving for good!”
— I’m walking out on you, James! — Emily’s voice trembled with resolve, though a flicker of guilt flashed in her eyes.
James froze, not so much from shock as from the sharp sting of betrayal. He’d felt their marriage fraying, but her words hit like a hammer.
— What about Ollie? Are you abandoning him too? — he asked hoarsely, fists clenched.
— He’ll stay with you for now. We’ll see… — Emily looked away, then jutted her chin up defiantly. — Why should I be the only one raising him? I’m working myself to the bone, keeping this house running! The cooking, the laundry, the cleaning—it’s all on me!
James winced like he’d been smacked. *Maybe it’s for the best,* the treacherous thought slipped in. Her cooking was a trial at best, and her idea of “clean” left him dreaming of a professional cleaner.
—
James loved Emily. Not for anything specific—*despite* everything: her sharp tongue, her endless complaints. But Emily saw herself as flawless—destined for better than their modest life. She demanded the impossible.
— James, I’m breaking my back! I bring home a wage, run this house, gave you a son! And for what? Ollie’s inheritance is your two-bed flat in a postwar block? That rattletrap car? A garden shed held up by hopes? I want to *live*, James! Holidays abroad, not bent over some veg patch!
— What do you want me to do, rob a bank? — he snapped, anger boiling in his chest.
— As if that’s the only way to live decently! Get a better job!
— I *like* my job! The pay’s fair! What more do you want?
— *Everything!*
Their rows always ended with slammed doors. James would retreat to the garage; Emily would stew in her resentment. That’s when she must’ve decided to look elsewhere.
—
Ten years ago, newlywed Emily had been over the moon. Escaping her cramped flat—where her bitter mum and disciplinarian stepdad made life hell—she’d moved into James’s tidy two-bed. Surveying his bachelor pad, she’d frowned.
— It’s *clean*… dishes done…
James just shrugged. His mum had died young; his dad worked to the grave. He’d learned to fend for himself.
— Still needs a woman’s touch, — Emily declared. — No cosiness here. Bet you live on ready meals. Don’t worry—I’ll fix that! I’m a proper homemaker. Mum hammered that into me.
James didn’t argue. Let her play house if it made her happy—even if his cooking and cleaning were spotless. Her first meal was a disaster. The food was inedible, but she watched him, eyes shiny with expectation, so he choked it down.
— Thanks, love. Delicious.
Emily beamed.
— Told you I’m a natural! I’ll do the washing-up!
She dumped the plates in the sink, swiped the table with a grimy cloth, sweeping crumbs onto the floor. James bit his tongue. *She tried. Don’t hurt her.*
That set the pattern. Emily’s meals turned stomachs, but James ate and praised. Her “cleaning” made him itch to call a professional. Her ironing left scorch marks. Yet she swanned about, proud as punch. He stayed silent, fearing her temper.
When Ollie was born, Emily took maternity leave. She changed—rounded out, stopped bothering with herself.
— It’s temporary! — she’d tell the mirror. — Back at the supermarket, I’ll slim down. Got to look presentable—can’t swan about in a dressing gown!
James, overhearing, ventured:
— Em, maybe start now? I’ll cheer you on.
Emily flushed.
— I thought you understood! I’m raising our son, keeping this house! — she waved at the chaos. — And you’re *criticising* me? For *what*? For slaving for you?
— I could help—
— Help? Your salads are fit for a hamster! And laundry—like some sacred ritual! Sorting, folding, hours wasted! You’re hopeless!
James stopped offering.
—
Ollie grew; Emily returned to the supermarket. There, she befriended Stacey—young, glamorous, forever boasting.
— Em, me and Dave ate at this *posh* place! Divine!
— Dave got me this designer bag—cost a fortune! He spoils me rotten!
— We’re off to Marbella! Costs a bomb, but Dave says I’m worth it!
Emily smiled stiffly, jealousy gnawing at her. Should she admit her last “date” was a chippy with the family? That her bag was a sale rack special? That “holiday” meant picking strawberries at a farm? She stayed quiet but took it out on James. He refused to switch jobs for more money. So Emily decided to find her own happiness.
A distinguished older man—Victor—often shopped there.
— Proper loaded, that one. Big house, drives a Range Rover. Widower. No clue why he shops here, — Stacey whispered. — If I weren’t with Dave, I’d give it a shot!
Emily pondered. She had no “Dave.” And James wouldn’t chase her dreams.
—
Soon, Emily treated work like a catwalk—makeup, new outfits, even shed weight by ditching biscuits. Her bored checkout glare melted into a radiant smile—for one customer. It worked.
— You’re a vision! I always queue for your till, — Victor smiled, extending a hand. — Victor Hartley.
— Emily, — she cooed, admiring her fresh manicure.
Their flirtation began innocently—smiles, chats, coffees after shifts. She kept it secret, terrified Victor might change his mind. But her excuses grew flimsy; James grew suspicious.
— Late *again*? Ollie needs his mum. I need my wife. Where *were* you?
— Just with Stacey! Can’t I have a break?
— Every other night? What’s going on?
— Back off! I work, I run this house!
Soon, Victor invited her over.
— Blimey, this place! — Emily gasped, stepping into his marble-floored penthouse.
— Empty without a woman, — Victor sighed.
— How? You’re handsome, wealthy! Surely women queue up!
— Gold-diggers, the lot. Want a free ride. None can keep a home. I need a proper homemaker—not some leggy airhead.
Emily’s pulse raced. That was *her*! A seasoned housewife, trained in marriage!
— You seem the homemaking type, — Victor mused. — But I heard you’re married?
— In name only. We’re strangers now.
— Kids? I’m not fond of them.
— His son. We don’t get on.
— Then here’s my offer, — Victor leaned in. — If you’re nearly free, let’s build a life. Think it over.
Emily was giddy. Just secure this palace—Ollie could come later.
—
That night, after tucking Ollie in, she blurted:
— I’m leaving, James.
He was hurt but unsurprised.
— And Ollie? You’re ditching him too?
— He’ll stay with you. We’ll sort it. And don’t *look* at me like that! You’re his dad—step up! I’ve carried this family!
James swallowed his anger. Her cooking, her “cleaning”… Maybe life *would* be easier without her. But his heart ached. He loved her.
—
Emily moved in with Victor. James drowned his grief in whisky, then snapped out of it—work and Ollie kept him grounded. The divorce was quick. Ollie stayed with him.
— Dad, will Mum come back? — Ollie asked once.
— Dunno, mate. Might take a while.
— Good. Your cooking’s better. And my school shirts aren’t singed. Miss her, but not loads. Is that bad?
James ruffled his hair, lost for words.
The pain faded, leaving bitter resentment.
—
Emily’s new life soured fast.
— What *is* this slop? — Victor poked at her stew.
— My mum’s recipe!
— It’s vile. Next course.
Emily served salad and roast potatoes.
— These chunks could choke a horse! — Victor flung down his fork.
— James *loved* my cooking!
— Eat it yourself.
Her housekeeping fared no better.
— You *burned* my shirt! Floors are sticky, dust bunnies everywhere! Sabotage?
After eight months, Emily snapped.
— Enough! I’m a *brilliant* homemaker! James adored it! You’re just impossible! You want a maid, notShe moved back in with her mother, where her burnt toast and lumpy custard were endured in sour silence, and the only company she had left was the echo of her own regrets.