“Make sure dinner is proper tonight,” said James, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “My boss is coming over, and I want to make a good impression.”
Emily nodded silently, spreading butter on toast. A lump formed in her throat when he added,
“And do try to look presentable. Its embarrassing to be seen with you like this.”
The door slammed, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and the bitterness of unspoken words. Emily caught her reflection in the kettleforty-three, laugh lines, greying roots she never had time to dye. When had it happened? When had she turned from the spirited girl whod won young engineer Jamess heart into the tired housewife he was ashamed to introduce to his boss?
The flat greeted her with its usual silence. Eighteen-year-old Daniel was already at university, and fourteen-year-old Sophie was staying at a friends. Only she remained, facing the kitchen and its endless to-do list: laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping, cooking that “proper dinner.”
At the shop, Emily mechanically added meat, vegetables, and the expensive wine James liked to serve to the trolley. Ahead of her at the till, a young mother soothed her fussing toddler, whispering gentle words. Emily remembered rocking her own children, remembered James wrapping his arms around her from behind, saying,
“We have the best family in the world.”
What had changed? When had he stopped holding her? When had he last said he loved her?
At home, unpacking groceries, she stumbled across old photos that had slipped from the drawer. There they were at graduation, laughing, his hand in hers. Their weddingher in white, his gaze never leaving her. Daniels birthJames kissing her forehead, radiant with joy. Sophies first stepsboth of them on the floor, cheering her on.
Where had that happiness gone? Lost between mortgage payments and car loans? Sleepless nights with sick children? His career ambitions and her domestic duties?
She started cookingroast in the oven, salad, appetisers. Automatic motions, perfected over years. Then the phone rang.
“Em? Its Sarah.”
Her friends voice felt like a lifeline in an ocean of grey routine.
“Sarah! How are you?”
“Dont ask,” Sarah laughed. “Finalising the divorce.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. Just realised I was tired of being invisible in my own life. Fancy coffee soon?”
“Cant tonight. James has his boss over.”
“Again? Em, when did you last do something for yourself?”
Emily hesitated. She couldnt remember.
“Its different, Sarah. I have a family, responsibilities.”
“And I didnt? But heres what I realisedwhile youre living someone elses life, your own passes you by.”
The words lingered as Emily finished cooking. By six, the table was set, her best dress on, hair done. She checked the mirrorperfectly presentable. Why had James said it was embarrassing to look at her?
The guests arrived on time: Jamess boss, Mr. Thompson, with his wife and another colleague. Emily smiled, served, made conversation. All was fine until work came up.
“And what does your wife do?” asked Mrs. Thompson.
“Housewife,” James said shortly, his tone almost apologetic.
“How lovely! And before that?”
“I was an accountant,” Emily began, but James cut in.
“That was years ago. Once the kids came, we decided it was best for her to stay home.”
*We* decided? Emily remembered the truthmaternity leave with Daniel, then his illnesses, then Jamess mother moving in. Then Sophie. By the time the children were older, James had said,
“Why work? I earn enough. Focus on the house.”
And she had. Laundry, cleaning, cooking, shopping. Days blurring into an endless cycle.
“An old friend of ours was a housewife,” Mrs. Thompson continued. “Now she runs a florist. Says shes never been happier.”
“Not everyones cut out for business,” James chuckled. “Emilys happiest at home.”
*Happiest?* The word twisted inside her. When had anyone asked if she was happy?
The evening dragged. The guests left, praising the food and hospitality. James was pleased.
“Made quite the impression,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Mr. Thompson said Ive got a brilliant wife.”
“Brilliant housekeeper, you mean?”
“Whats wrong with that? You stay homedo the job properly.”
“James, remember what we dreamed of when we married?”
“Whats that?”
“Travelling. Me learning French. You said youd support anything I wanted.”
“Were adults now, Em. Kids, responsibilities. No time for nonsense.”
“Nonsense?” Her voice shook. “My life is nonsense?”
“Your life *is* our family. Isnt that enough?”
She wanted to scream that it wasnt, that she was suffocatingbut stayed silent, as always.
The next morning, James left early without a word. Emily sipped coffee, flipping through old photos. One showed her holding a professional certification. Back then, shed wanted to grow, build something of her own.
The doorbell ranga courier with roses.
“Emily Clarke?”
“Yes?”
“The card reads, Thank you for last night. Youre a wonderful hostess and fascinating company. Best, Mr. Thompson.”
She arranged the flowers, wondering when James had last bought her roses. She couldnt recall.
Later, Sophie called: “Mum, can I stay at Lilys? Were seeing a play tomorrow.”
“What about homework?”
“Mum, its *Sunday*!”
Emily had lost track. The days all blurred.
That evening, James came home late and shut himself in the study. She knocked.
“Eating dinner?”
“Later,” he muttered, eyes on his screen.
She ate alone, cleared up, went to bed. He came in after shed fallen asleep, turning his back without a word.
Sunday morning, she woke alone. James had gone to his parents without inviting her.
“Youd be bored,” hed said.
Wasnt she bored at home?
She dressed in the bright sundress James called “too young,” applied makeup, and stepped outsidejust to walk, no chores, no lists.
The park was full of families, couples, laughter. A young mother pushed her giggling child on a swing. An elderly man bought his wife an ice cream, their eyes bright with shared jokes.
When had she and James last laughed together?
“Emily? Emily Clarke!”
She turned to see Andrew, a school friend she hadnt met in fifteen years.
“Andrew! Is that you?”
“None other!” He grinned. “How are you?”
They talked for hours. Hed divorced recently, moved back, worked as a travel photographer.
“Remember,” he laughed, “you swore youd see the world? Paris, wasnt it?”
She hadcollecting postcards of far-off places.
“Childish dreams,” she waved it off.
“Dreams dont age. Im forty-five and only saw Paris last year.”
They talked till evening. His photos were breathtakingvibrant, alive. For the first time in years, Emily felt awake.
At home, James was asleep. She lay awake, replaying the day.
The next morning, James was furious.
“Where were you? I calledno answer.”
“Walking. Phone died.”
“Walking? And who was cleaning here?”
She glanced at two cups in the sink, a newspaper on the table. “James, I need breaks too.”
“From what? Sitting at home?”
“From living by your schedule.”
He spun around. “*My* schedule? I work all day to support this family, and you complain?”
“I just want to *live*, not just exist.”
“What rubbish! Youve lost it.”
That evening, she went to Andrews exhibition anyway, telling James she was meeting Sarah. The photos were stunningfull of life, colour, emotion.
“You like them?” Andrew asked.
“Theyre incredible.”
“*Youre* incredible. And sad. Trouble at home?”
She didnt answer, but he understood.
“Lifes too short for unhappiness,” he said softly.
She returned late. James was waiting, furious.
“Where were you?”
“Sarahs.”
“Liar! I rang hershe hadnt seen you.”
Her stomach dropped.
“At a photo exhibit. With Andrew. We met in the park.”
Jamess face darkened. “Cheating behind my back?”
“Dont be absurd! It was just art.”
“Just art?” He grabbed her shoulders. “Youre *mine*, understand? You stay home like a decent wife!”
He shoved herhard. Her back hit the wall, pain shooting through her.
“Dont lie to me again,” he hissed, storming off.
She stood there, tears fallingfor the pain, the humiliation, the life shed lost.
The next day, James acted as if