You dont love me!
Friday evening started quietly enough. Beyond the windows of our tower block in a quiet London suburb, the flats began lighting up one by one. I, Matthew, just shy of thirty, had barely stepped over the threshold of my twelfth-floor flat. Hands laden with a supermarket bagthe typical weekend provisions: some crumbly blue Stilton, smoked ham, cherry tomatoes, a bottle of French wine, and a box of cream éclairs covered in chocolatemostly for Emma, of course.
It was suspiciously silent in the hallway. Normally, Emma would greet me boisterously: shed throw her arms round my neck, demand an account of every minute spent outside, but tonightnot a sound. No music from her room, no slap of fluffy bunny slippers down the parquet.
Emma? Im home, I called, easing off my shoes and listening.
Nothing.
I set the shopping down on the coffee table and headed towards the bedroom. The sight that greeted me made my stomach drop. Emma was sprawled across the bed, face buried in the pillow, thin shoulders shaking, her long brown hair splayed across the duvet.
Whats wrong? I ventured, moving closer. Something happened?
With a sudden movement, she rolled onto her back. Her eyes, swollen and watery, stared up at me, mascara smudged in black streaks down her cheeksfull of mute hurt and accusation.
Dont you even guess? her voice trembled, falling into a tragic whisper. I feel awful, Matt. So awful, I dont want to live.
I perched at the edge of the bed, instinctively reaching out to check her forehead, only for Emma to recoil sharply, wrapping herself in her arms.
What hurts? Fever? I tried to keep my tone calm, caringthough a hot tide of frustration, well worn over our six years of marriage, began to rise in me.
My soul hurts! she shouted, burying her face in the pillow and sobbing louder. And you dont even care how Im feeling! You come in from work, dont even come see me, dont give me a hug or a kiss! Im here alone, suffocating, and youre off faffing about in the shops!
Emma, I went to the shops to get food. For you. You wanted these éclairs, I even stopped by the bakery near the tube where theyre always fresh. I kept my voice low, talking to her as if she was a stroppy child.
Oh, éclairs! Now she sat up, flinging her hair back, wounded pride seething in her eyes as if shed just caught me outbribery with pastries. Think thatll cut it? Think an éclair will magic everything better? What I want is a hug when you come in! To hear Im beautiful! To feel loved! Not some bag of groceries! Her voice shook with a blend of grievance and triumph.
I ground my jaw, silent. I knew the scene by heart by now. This was the moment I was meant to fall to my knees, to rush over, dry her tears, apologise for imagined crimes, lift her in my arms all the way to the kitchen for that damned éclair.
But today, I was shatteredcompletely wrung out. My manager was on the warpath at work, clients missing deadlines, tempers fraying. I just didn’t have the energy for this pantomime. Not physical, not mental.
Can we just have a quiet dinner, love? I said, standing up. Im knackered. Lets sit in the kitchen, have some wine, eat your pastries, talk civilly.
Civilly?! she shrieked, her pitch climbing. She leapt to her feet, tiny fists pounding my chest in hysterics. Youre exhausted? You?! Ive been the one slaving away doing a deep clean all day while you were off drinking coffee and chatting up your secretary! My back is killing me, and you cant even offer me a cup of tea or ask how my day was! Selfish, heartless brute!
I caught her wrists, so slenderchildlike, almost. When we first dated, that fragility stirred in me a protective urge. I had no idea her delicacy was the sharpest weapon I’d ever meet.
Let go, youre hurting me! she cried, yanking away. I unclenched my hand; she stalked to the window, staring theatrically at the city lights, shoulders quivering.
Deep breath. I retreated to the kitchen, uncorked the wine, poured a massive glass and downed it, barely tasting. Then another. Delivering a glass to her, I tried: Emma, have some wine.
She spun, eyes dry and hard now. Take it away. Dont try to quiet your conscience with booze. You dont love me. You live here out of pity.
Wheres this coming from? I sighed, setting the glass on the dresser.
Oh, Im not stupid! She advanced, jabbing a finger into my chest. The way you look at me! Like Im nothing! You used to rush home, bring me flowers, treat me like a queen. Now works all you care about. What am Ifurniture?
I bit my tongue, knowing anything I said would be ammunition. This wasnt a conversation; it was a hunt. I was the prey; she the huntress, toying before finishing me off.
Right then, I said at last. Ill have dinner. Join me if you want.
I turned to the kitchen, the weight of her stare heavy on my back. I sliced cheese, cut bread, opened another bottle of wine. Tried not to dwell on what came next.
Of course, I knew what would happen.
Five minutes later, Emma stormed in, snatched the plate of cheese, and hurled it at the floor. Porcelain exploded into dozens of shards, cheese smeared across the tiles.
What the hell are you doing?! I roared, leaping up. Have you lost your mind?
Thats for ignoring me!” she screamed, standing wild-eyed, cheeks flaming. “For playing the silent game while I clean, wait, do everythingand for what? So you can ignore me?!
She lunged for the wine bottle; I caught her arm. Wine splashed over the tiles, mixing with cheese and shards.
Calm down, I gritted, gripping her wrist till she squealed.
Ow! Let go!
I released her. She nearly slipped on the wet floor, just catching herself on the sill. I looked over the mess, feeling only rage.
Look what youve done, I whispered.
What Ive done?! she came at me again. Its your fault! If you were a proper husband, none of this would happen!
Wordlessly, I fetched the dustpan and broom and began sweeping. Emma snatched them away, hurled them into the sink. Dont you dare clean up! Let everyone see what youve done to me!
Who? Who cares, Emma?
The neighbours! Let them know what a monster you are!
Theyre well used to it, I replied bitterly. They know our plates take a daily battering.
True enough. The young couple next door, I reckoned, had by now memorised every overture of our nightly operas. Sometimes I was sure they went quiet just to hear Emma smashing up the place.
Oh, youre laughing now? she shrieked. You find this funny?!
Im not laughing, Emma. My voice was flat. I cant.
I abandoned the broom and flopped into the armchair, closing my eyes as my headache thudded. I remembered how it started: her vibrant presence at a mutual friends birthday. Twenty-two, lively, electricher parents’ only darling: her mother, a retired English teacher; her father, owner of a modest but thriving garage chain. Theyd spoiled her with gifts and attention. If Emma so much as whimpered, Mum and Dad jumped to oblige.
She could be a handful even when we datedpouting if I was late, throwing fits in restaurants if the order was wrong. Love blinded me; I blamed youth and sensitivity. I thought love could change her. I was wrong.
After the wedding, with her parents stepping back, all her demands landed squarely on my head. I wasnt just a husband; I had to be stand-in dad, mum, maid, entertainer, and support crew.
She wanted constant coddling. Mornings, I needed to bring her tea in bed, kiss her nose, tell her how beautiful she was; every evening, plop her on my lap, stroke her hair, and listen for ages about her “grueling” daymeaning scrolling on her phone and a face mask or two. Constant presents, daily treats. Forget to buy her favourite yoghurt, and it was the end of the world.
You dont love me! shed shout. You dont care about my happiness!
If I argued that I was working non-stop, supporting us both, shed turn on the tears. Not ordinary sorrow, but epic sobbing, as if Id just destroyed her favourite childhood toy. Oddly, these tears didnt soften me as romantic comedies predict; they just bred wordless irritationbecause I knew they were crocodile tears, weapons of emotional blackmail.
Lately, Emma realised her tears were losing their edge; Id learned to withdraw, leave the room, let her cry herself out. So she found a new tackher health.
Matt, I feel dreadful, shed murmur, flopping onto the bed. My hearts fluttering, dizzy spell. Must be my blood pressure.
Id dash over, test her blood pressurealways fineoffer to call the GP. But she didnt want the GP; she wanted me fawning by her bedside, stroking her head, bringing her tea, asking every five minutes: How do you feel, darling?
Shed lie there with frail sighs, eyes closed, barking orders in a weakened voice: “Matt, fix my blanket Matt, water, but not too cold Matt, don’t leave me alone, Im scared Matt, rub my temples, my head is pounding
And Id bustle about like some overworked nurse, feeling a cauldron of helpless anger inside. Because the moment I left her side to check an email, the wailing would begin again.
Youve abandoned me! Im dying here, and your WORK is more important?!
The result was always the same. If I didnt fuss to her schedule, suddenly Emma would leap up, miraculously cured, and thunder into the kitchenhurling crockery at the wall, as if it soothed her.
One day, exhausted by the endless carnage, I asked, Why the obsession with bashing up crockery?
Emma answered with genuine puzzlement. What else am I supposed to do? If you wont listen nicely, I have to smash things. Its cheaper than therapy.
Cheaper, I gestured bleakly around the kitchenthird set of dishes this year. Count up what weve spent on plates, love.
Then dont drive me to tears, and therell be no need! she shot back.
I was finished. I wanted an adult marriageEmma greeting me with a smile, not blame; a companion to quietly sit beside, not lecture me for hours; sex to be natural, not a reward for good behaviour and the purchase of trinkets. I wanted a woman, not a perpetually sulky five-year-old in an adults body.
But how do you teach adulthood when someone doesnt see the problem, when this is just normal? Her parents raised her to believe that crying, demanding, smashing thingswould deliver everything she wants. It worked, until she ran up against me.
The next morning was Sunday. I woke early. Emma was still asleep. I brewed coffee, sat quietly in the kitchen staring at the grey sky. My mood was dark. Today, Id speak to herproperly, for what I hoped would be the last time.
She eventually surfaced at eleven, swaddled in a dressing gown, eyes puffy from crying. She poured herself a mug of coffee and sat across from me, staring at the wall.
Emma, we need to talk, I began, keeping my tone even.
About what? she asked, lips tight, staring past me.
About us. About whats happening. I cant live like this anymore.
Oh, YOU cant? she snapped, fresh energy in her stare. I cant! I cant live with someone who doesnt care about me!
Emma, listen to yourself. Dont you think youre acting more like a sulky child than a responsible woman?
A child, am I?” Her voice climbed again. “And who, pray, keeps this place clean? Who cooks? Who looks after you?
Clean? I smiled wryly. We have a cleaner twice a week. Cook? Youve managed eggs a dozen times in six years. And you only ever look out for yourself.
How dare you! She sprang up, knocking over her mug, spreading coffee across the table. After all I do for youungrateful pig!
Emma, sit down. My voice was firm. Listen.
She satnot out of obedience, but curiosity.
I love you, I said, but Im exhausted. I cant stand the endless tantrums, crockery-smashing, having to prove my love every minute of every day. I want a real family. Us as partners, not as a mother and spoilt daughter.
So Im awful, am I? Her lower lip quivered. Im not worthy of you?
I never said youre awful. But we both need to change. Especially you. You have to grow up. Stop using tears and fake ailments as weapons.
Im manipulative?! She nearly screeched. I AM actually ill! My nerves are shot! YOURE killing me!
Emma, whenever you want something, you cry, or faint, and the moment I give in, you recover instantly. Thats not illnessits blackmail.
She stared, wide-eyed, stunned by the resistance. Usually, I caved in to avoid a screaming match. Today, I didnt.
You… youre a monster! she gasped, You never loved meonly married me for my parents’ money!
What money? I blinked. We live in the flat I bought before we met. Your parents dont support us, except Christmas gifts.
Thats what you think! Youre just using me! Now youre throwing me away like rubbish!
Pointless from here. She still heard only what she wanted. Every word twisted, every conversation ending with me the villain.
Im going out, I said quietly, standing. I need some air.
Youre leaving? She blocked the door. Youre not going anywhere! Were not done!
We are, Emma. Ive said everything.
Her face blazed anew. She grabbed her mothers favourite crystal biscuit jar and hurled it at the floor. Glass flew everywhere.
I looked at the sparkling debristhen at her as she watched me, waiting for tears, for me to scoop her up. I said nothing.
Is there more? I asked.
What?
Crockery left? Ill wait. I stepped past her, pulled on my coat and shoes. She rushed after, grabbing my sleeve.
Dont you dare go! You have no right! Youre my husband!
Thats exactly why Im leaving, I said, gently detaching her hand. I cant do this anymore.
In the corridor, something heavy hit the door as I left.
I took the lift, wandered out to the street, leaves swirling at my feet. I walked aimlessly through the autumn night, watching passersby, wondering how it all went wrong. I loved her. I really did.
I ducked into a café, grabbed a coffee and a slice of Victoria sponge. Emma called every five minutes; I rejected each one. Then a barrage of texts: furious, tearful, furious again, then a message from her mum:
How dare you? Where are you? Emmas in hystericsher heart is failingCome home and apologise to my daughter!
I laughed silently. Her motherthe original manipulatorhad always backed Emma, always blamed me, always made excuses. Theyd taught her this.
I didnt reply. Switched off my mobile. Ordered another coffee.
I got back late. The flat was dark and still, glass glinting in the kitchen where Emma had left her latest carnage. She was in the bedroom, face to the wall, feigning sleep. I quietly tidied up, swept the shards, then camped out on the sofa.
MorningEmma emerged, pale, eyes rimmed with red. She sat beside me on the sofa, head on my shoulder.
Matt, Im sorry, she whispered. Im an idiot. I didnt mean it. I got scared when you leftI thought you wouldnt come back.
I said nothing.
I love you, she went on. Ill try to change. Really. Just dont leave, please?
I looked at hersmall, fragile, miserable. Dressing gown, messy hair, swollen eyes. My heart wavered. Again.
Emma, I said, exhausted. I dont know. Youve promised this before. A week later, nothing changes.
This times different, she insisted. Ill see someonea counsellor. Ive already booked it. Look!
She thrust her phone at me, showing a booking. I sighed.
All right, I agreed. But one last chance.
She flung her arms round my neck, kissed me all over, telling me again and again how much she loved me. And, inevitably, I believedor pretended to; because doing otherwise was terrifying. Admitting six years wasted was terrifying. Starting over: even worse.
For two weeks, she actually did see a counsellortwice. Showed me scribbled notes. She tried, honestly. If she felt a temper rising, shed leave the room, breathe deeply, come back and talk. For a while I dared to hope.
But then the old cycle returned. I was an hour late from worktold her in advance. She said: Fine, Ill wait. When I got in, she erupted.
Where were you? she shrieked.
I rangtold you, I was tied up.
You said half an hour, it was an hour! Who were you with?
With a client, then stuck in traffic.
Liar! her eyes flashed. With herRachel in accounts! I know everything!
What, Rachel? I barely know what she looks like.
Oh, so who bought her coffee the other day, then? Steve told me!
Steves a gossip. Sometimes I buy coffee for the team. It meant nothing.
It meant something to me! she screamed. You dont love me! Youre cheating on me! I knew it!
Tears, shrieks, crockery on the line again. This time, my most recent set from John Lewis, barely a week old, went flying.
I watched wordlessly as Emma heaved plate after plate at the floor. She relished every crashsmash!shards scattered everywhere. Smash! Smash! She only stopped when there was barely a plate left intact.
Emma, pack it inits nearly midnight. People are sleeping.
I dont care! she bellowed, grabbing the last plate. Let the world know!
It slipped wetly from her hand, landing on the floor with a sad clink, unbroken. She stared at the intact plate, then at memomentarily bewildered.
I turned and walked to the bedroom, pulled down my old suitcase, and started packingjeans, jumpers, socks, charger, laptop.
Emma appeared silently, deathly pale, mascara streaked.
What are you doing? she asked quietly.
Packing, I said, not turning.
Where will you go?
To my mums. Ill stay there.
How long?
As long as youre here, I wont be back.
She sobbed, shuffling closer, trying to hug me from behind; I shrugged her off, not rudely but firmly.
Dont.
Matt, Im sorry, she pleaded, rushing round to catch my eye. I wont do it again. I know Im a mess. Its my nerves. Just dont leave.
I looked at her: tear-streaked, trembling, reaching for me. How many times, I wondered, had I been here? Hundreds?
Emma,” I said quietly, “You cant change. You were raised this way. Its not your fault, but its not mine either. I cant.
I can! I can change! she screamed. You just wont give me the chance!
I gave you six years, I zipped up my bag. Six years, Emma. Ive nothing left.
What about love? she whispered. You said you loved me.
I did, I replied. I loved you very much. But now? Maybe its gone. You smashed itplate by plate, tantrum by tantrum, tear by tear.
I picked up my suitcase and strode for the door. Emma clung to it, blocking my exit.
“Youre not going! How long will you stay at your mums?”
“For as long as youre still here. You remember the flats mine, bought it long before you.”
She recoiled as if stung. I opened the door, closed it behind me, and summoned the lift.
Matt! she screamed after me. Come back! I cant live without you! Ill die!
The lift arrived. I stepped in, turned.
Call the doctor if you feel bad, I said, calm as ice. Or your mum. Shell buy new plates.
The doors slid shut.
Down in the car, I droveno destination. My mum would only fuss and quiz me. I roamed through empty streets, watched the golden glow of streetlamps, the odd passing car.
Twenty missed calls. Then a message: Youll regret this. I wont let it go.
I smiled, switched off my mobile.
I woke up in the car next morning, stuck in some quiet street, body aching. Found a café, drank three filter coffees, ate a bacon sarnie, and felt almost normal again.
A month later, we divorced. Emma begged, sobbed, said she loved me. The process was quickno children.
Sometimes Id dream of her. In her dressing gown, eyes swollen, hands reaching for me, whispering Im sorry, Matt, I wont do it again. Id wake, heart pounding, stare at the ceilingthen the feeling would pass.
A year on, I met Ruby. She joined our office, quiet, glasses, black coffee no sugar, never shouted. If she got cross, shed go silent, disappear, then come back half an hour later with, Shall we talk this over calmly?
At first I was nervous around her. Sudden noises or gestures still made me jump. But Ruby was different. No tantrums, no broken china, no demands for endless attention.
Two years went by, we married quietlyjust us and both sets of parents at the registry office. On our wedding day, Emma texted, Hope you drop dead, you tosser. I blocked her number and laughed.
Sometimes, walking past the crockery aisle in Sainsburys, Id stop and look at the platesplain white, flowery ones, fancy crystal, fine porcelain. Id marvel at just how many I couldve bought for what Emma destroyed in six years.
Ruby would take my hand, smile softly, Daydreaming again? Come on, we need to get milk.
Id turn away from the plates and follow her, knowing at last what peace and balance felt like. And if these years taught me anything, its this: love only matters when its twinned with respect and grown-up kindness. Theres no point rescuing someone who wont rescue themselves. And sometimes, the most loving thing you can do is walk away.
