**The Loud Silence**
“He just wont speak to me!” Emily nearly sobbed into the phone. “Ive apologised five times, even bought three types of cheese! Nothing. He just sits there, glued to his screen, acting like I dont exist.”
“Well, stop dancing around him. Come over,” suggested Olivia. “Let him stew. Mams baking her famous cheese and onion piesyou remember the smell, yeah? Pure comfort, not this icy silence.”
Emily smiled. She could still recall the warm, buttery scent that wafted from Aunt Roses flat, the way she and Olivia would devour those pies after school every Friday. Olivia had been her neighbour, her classmate, her closest friend since forever.
Theyd spent years dreaming up futurescareers, husbands, familiesalways certain theyd stay friends no matter what. Emily loved visiting Olivias chaotic, laughter-filled home, where the carpets were never perfectly hoovered but the kettle was always on. Aunt Roses cooking was legendary, and the walls echoed with chatter and bad telly.
At Emilys house, things were different. Her mother was stern, the flat spotless, friends rarely allowed over. Her parents never shoutednever even raised their voices. But her mother had a gift for silence. If offended, she could freeze the entire household out for weeks. Emily remembered the suffocating quiet of her childhood, how shed once hurled a book at her mother just to be *seen*. Shed been sixteen. Her mother had merely raised an eyebrow and walked away. That day, Emily swore shed never live like that.
Now her husband was doing the same.
There had been signs before the wedding, of course. Blaring ones.
Once, James joked in front of mates that Emily had “won the husband lottery”landed a bloke with a flat in London. Shed laughed and shot back, “Whos the lucky one, really?” Hed gone stony-faced for three days.
Another time, hed sulked for a week because she went to bed instead of staying up late with his friends. But in the haze of new love, it all seemed trivial.
Now, four days in, James was still silent. The reason? Shed forgotten his favourite cheddar for breakfast. Not on purposejust slipped her mind. Humiliated, guilty, invisible, shed called Olivia, desperate to escape the quiet that felt horribly familiar. This was her mothers script, the one shed vowed never to repeat.
The moment Olivia invited her over, Emily grabbed her coat and fled. If James wanted solitude, fine. His wife would enjoy proper company instead. Aunt Rose took one look at her and sighed.
“Listen, loveif you dont nip this in the bud now, youll spend your life tiptoeing. Some families dont row; they just freeze. Doesnt mean its right.”
“My parents did it. I *hated* it.”
“And were they happy? Dyou want that?”
“No. But he just says, Leave me alone.”
“Then *leave him alone*. Cook for yourself. Go out with friends. Make his sulking pointless. These types need an audience.”
“You think itll work?”
“Dunno. Id try. If not? Bin him. Lifes too short for this nonsense. Fancy sharing a bed with someone who treats you like air?”
The next morning, watching Jamess turned back in bed, Emily felt something newnot hurt, not panic. A cold, clear resolve. *No. This ends now.*
She remembered Olivias parents: “Minell bicker over where to plant the hydrangeas, but silent treatment? Never. Mam shouts, Dad jokes, and its over in minutes.”
*Minutes.* It sounded like a fairy tale. But it was her new goal.
That evening, after James ate alone and slumped before the telly, Emily switched it off.
“Lets talk. Not about cheese. About *us*.”
He reached for his phone.
“Im done playing. Silence isnt conflict resolutionits cruelty.”
“Piss off,” he muttered.
“Fine.” Her voice didnt waver. “From tomorrow, Im opting out. Youre silent? Youre invisible too. Ill cook for one, go out, live my life. If thats what you wantkeep quiet.”
She walked away. No pleading, no tears. Just new rules: his silence wouldnt stop her world.
James scoffed and turned the telly back on.
Next morning, no breakfast waited. He drank black coffee and left. No dinner after work. No questions about his day. Emily rang Olivia, laughing loudly about weekend cinema plans.
Later, she approached him.
“Youre angry. Fine. But lets set a limit. Two hours. At nine, we talk calmly. If you refuse, the problem isnt meits your inability to communicate. And Ill act accordingly.”
James stared. She was stealing his weapon*time*.
“Thats ridiculous.”
“No, *this* is ridiculous.” She gestured between them. “Two hours. Nine oclock.”
At nine, he didnt come. But at eleven, climbing into bed, he broke first.
“You sound like one of your trashy telly therapists.”
A week ago, shed have cried. Now she just breathed.
“Silence makes me feel worthless. Ill listen if youre hurt. But I wont grovel for days over *cheese*.”
James said nothing. But the silence had changedless ice, more thought.
“Fine,” he muttered finally. “Forgetting the cheese was disrespectful.”
“Am I disrespectful for being human?”
He had no answer. His grievance sounded petty aloud.
Next morning, he cooked breakfast for two.
“Truce?” she checked.
A nod.
“Brilliant.” She grinned. “Ill make your favourite fish pie tonight.”
Six months on, the silences havent vanishedold habits die hard. But now, there are rules.
“Youre sulking?” Emily asks lightly. “Two hours. Then we talk.”
And somehow, it works. James fumes, stews, but sticks to his allotted time. Later, hell grumble, “I overreacted,” or “That thing you said annoyed me.” Sometimes he takes a whole day. Emily doesnt mind. She goes out, waits, and knows hell make his signature peace-offering fry-up.
Shes learned the hardest lesson: escaping a family script isnt enough. You have to rewrite itword by word.
