Oh man, let me tell you about Emma and her silent treatment saga.
“He wont even talk to me!” Emma was nearly in tears on the phone. “Ive apologised five times, even bought three types of his favourite cheese! Nothing. Just sits there glued to his laptop like I dont exist.”
“Stop dancing around him, just come over,” offered Sophie. “Let him stew. Mums baking sausage rollsmy absolute favourite. And yours! Smells like heaven in here, not frostbite.”
Emma smiled. She could practically taste Aunt Roses flaky pastry, the way she and Sophie used to devour them after school. Sophie had been her neighbour, classmate, and ride-or-die since forever.
Theyd spent hours dreaming up futurescareers, princes, raising kids side by side. Emma adored Sophies housealways noisy, always warm. Maybe a bit messy, but full of laughter, love, and Aunt Roses legendary cooking.
Her own home? Spotless. Silent. Mum was strict, friends werent allowed over, and if she got upset? Weeks of icy silence. Dad too. Emma remembered hating that hollow quiet as a kid, how shed once hurled a book at her mum just for a reaction. Sixteen, desperate. Mum had just raised an eyebrow and walked out. That day, Emma swore shed never live like that.
Now her husband, James, was doing the exact same thing.
Oh, thered been red flags before the wedding. Bells, even.
Once, James joked with mates that Emma “hit the jackpot” marrying a bloke with a flat, and shed laughed, firing back, “Dunno whos luckier here.” Hed been mortally offended. Three days of stony silence.
Another time, shed gone to bed early instead of staying up with his friends. A full week of sulking. But back then, love goggles made it all seem trivial
The day Emma called Sophie, James hadnt spoken in four days. Reason? Shed forgotten his fancy cheese for breakfast. Not on purposejust slipped her mind. Humiliated, guilty, invisibleit was her mums playbook all over again. The one shed sworn to burn.
Sausage rolls won. Emma bolted out the door. If James wanted space? Fine. His wife would enjoy actual company. Aunt Rose took one look at her and got the whole story. “Listen, love,” she said, shaking her head, “if you dont nip this silent act now, youll spend years tiptoeing. Bet his family resolved things by sulking. He doesnt know any better.”
“Mine too,” Emma muttered.
“And were they happy? Dyou want that?”
“No. But he just says leave me alone.”
“Then do. Cook for one. Go out with the girls. Make sulking pointlesshe wants an audience. No audience? No show.”
“You think itll work?”
“Dunno. Id try. If not? Bin him. Lifes too short for frosty bedrooms.”
Next morning, watching Jamess turned back, Emma felt something newnot hurt, but cold resolve. “Nope,” she told herself. “Not my mum. I wont live like this.”
She remembered Sophies parents: “Theyll bicker for hours over roast vs. mash, but silent treatment? Never. Mum shouts, Dad cracks a jokedone in two hours flat.”
Two hours. Sounded unreal. But that was the goal.
That evening, after James ate alone (again), she switched off the telly: “We need to talk. Not about cheese. Us.”
He reached for his phone.
“Im done playing. Silence isnt conflict resolutionits cruelty.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Fine. But know this: from tomorrow, I opt out. You sulk? I live my life. Cook for me. See friends. Youll be my flatmate. Cool with that? Carry on.”
She walked away. No begging, no tearsjust new rules: his silence wouldnt pause her world.
James huffed and turned the telly back on.
Next morning? No breakfast. Coffee, then he left. No dinner after work. Emma chatted loudly about weekend cinema plans. Later, she approached him:
“Youre angry. Fair. But lets cap ittwo hours. Its 7pm. At 9, we talk calmly. If not? Then the problems your communication skills, not me. And Ill act accordingly.”
He blinked. His best weapontimewas being confiscated.
“Thats ridiculous.”
“No, ridiculous is adults pretending the other doesnt exist. Two hours. 9pm.”
He didnt come at nine. But at 11, in bed, he broke first: “You sound like a bad rom-com. Its pathetic.”
Emma breathed deep. A week ago, shed have snapped. Now? “Silence makes me feel invisible. Ill apologise if Im wrong. But I wont spend days guessing.”
James stayed quietbut it was thoughtful, not icy.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Forgetting the cheese was disrespectful.”
“I disrespected you by forgetting cheese?” she asked gently. “Or am I human and forget things sometimes?”
He had no comeback. His gripe sounded daft out loud. Next morning, he made breakfast for two.
“Truce?” she checked.
A nod.
“Brilliantactions over words! Ill make your favourite fish pie tonight.”
Six months on, the silent treatment hasnt vanishedold habits cling. But now? Rules.
“You sulking?” Emma asks when James clams up. “Cool. Two hours. Then we talk.”
Andmadlyit works. He stews, but only for his allotted time. Sometimes a whole day. She doesnt fussjust leaves him to it, waits for his peace-offering fry-up.
Emmas learned this: escaping a family script isnt enough. You rewrite ittogether.
