June 17th
Emily, what on Earth is this? I pushed my plate away, trying to sound casual but probably failing. Meatballs again. Potatoes again. Do you ever even think about what youre cooking?
Emily paused, fork halfway to her mouth. I could see the exhaustion in her eyes shed been at work all day, then fought through the supermarket, and finally stood over the stove, all for me to act like a disgruntled food critic.
Whats there to think about? she placed her fork gently on the edge of the plate. Its dinner, Peter. A regular, decent dinner.
Regular? I gave a dismissive snort. I cant remember the last time I ate something special. Something cooked with care, you know? I want to come home and know my wifes made an effort. That she loves me, and you can taste that in the food.
Emily leaned back, shoulders tight and distant. There was something prickly in her chest, I could see it.
Are you being serious? Her voice was quiet, but I missed the warning in it.
Dead serious. I want shepherds pie like Mum used to make. I want homemade rolls. I want the house to smell like Sunday roast, not just boiled potatoes.
Emily lifted her hand, palm up.
Hold on. Youre not at the Ritz, love. And Im no chef with a silly hat.
I furrowed my brow and shifted my seat away from the table.
I just want to eat properly. Is that so much to ask?
Id just like it if this family felt like a partnership! Emily stood up swiftly. Her chair squeaked across the wooden floor. A partnership, Peter! Not just me!
I work all day! I raised my voice too. I bring in the money, just so you know!
And what do you think I do? She put her hands on her hips, eyes fierce. Twiddle my thumbs? I work full-time too. After that, I cook, clean, do the laundry all by myself.
I opened my mouth, but she didnt let me speak.
The shelf, she jabbed a finger towards the hallway. Remember the shelf you promised to put up?
What shelf?
The one gathering dust against the wall. Its been a month, Peter!
I grimaced.
I havent got the right tools
You do!
Ive barely had time, Im run off my feet
And Im just lounging around with hours to spare? Emily chuckled bitterly. Clearly, I just watch telly while you slave away.
I folded my arms, staring off to the side.
You twist everything.
Me? Twisting? Emily shook her head. I make dinner for you every single day, after work, knackered. And you sit here harping on about soul and love in meatballs.
The silence stretched, long and heavy. I stared at the wall, jaw tight, annoyed at everything.
You know what, I scraped my chair back abruptly, Im not hungry.
Is that so?
Yeah, thats right.
I got up and strode off to the bedroom. Emily watched me go, caught between laughter and tears at the sheer absurdity.
Minutes later, she was on her phone.
Hi, Jane. Are you in tonight? Mind if I drop round?
Her friend mustve said something reassuring. For the first time that evening, Emily exhaled and sounded relieved.
Yeah, everythings fine. I just just need to get out of here.
She grabbed her coat and slipped out without even looking towards where my wounded pride was sulking. The door closed quietly behind her not a dramatic slam, just a tired sigh.
—
Jane poured out tea, pushed a tin of biscuits across the table, and sat opposite Emily, quiet, listening as Emily poured out all her bottled-up frustration. The meatballs and the missing soul. The shelf gathering dust. How each evening, she came home and felt there was nothing left to talk about, or want.
Emily, Jane eventually set her mug aside, is it really worth sticking through any longer?
Emily just shrugged, fighting for an answer she couldnt quite speak.
She came home late that night. I was already asleep or pretending. Emily lay on the far edge of the bed, facing the wall, eyes following the shadow patterns on the wallpaper for ages, sleep nowhere in sight.
Love? She tried to recall the last time shed been glad to see me come home. When had she waited up? When had she missed me? Itd been a long time far too long. All that remained was habit: our morning coffee, the worn drive to the station. Something automatic, part of routine.
The next few days dragged by wordlessly. I didnt speak to her unless I had to, just grunt an answer: Yeah. No. Hm. Emily didn’t try to break the frost no strength or desire left.
By weeks end, she noticed: I kept shooting her these loaded glances. Expectant. Waiting for her to come over first, apologise. She ignored it. What was there to apologise for? Being tired? Wanting a proper partner, not just a consumer?
On Friday night, I walked in with a flat cardboard box and a bottle of wine.
Pizza, I announced, setting it all down. Your favourite mushrooms.
She looked up from her phone.
See? I sat opposite, pouring wine into glasses, making the effort. For you. For us.
There was a hint of pride in my voice, maybe a trace of accusation. Emily silently picked up a glass.
You havent even said sorry, I leaned back, exasperated. Youve dodged me all week. Im the one extending the olive branch, and you
Excuse me, Emily put the glass down. Sorry? For what?
For everything! I threw my arms wide. You don’t support me anymore. Youre constantly nagging. I come home, and you have that look…
What look?
That look that says youre disappointed, that Im always getting it wrong!
Emily felt the tension rising inside her, that same surge from last week.
The shelf, she said quietly.
What?
The shelf. Still on the floor.
I flinched.
Not this again! Im talking about our marriage, and youre harping on about a shelf!
Because the shelf is exactly that, Peter. I ask you ignore. For a month. Then bang on about support.
I stood up so fast the chair wobbled.
You know what? Ive had enough. Im done.
Peter
No. Thats it. Im leaving.
Emily watched as I went to the bedroom, grabbed a bag, started stuffing things in. Something snapped inside her, but it didn’t actually hurt. She just felt empty.
—
A week later, the divorce papers arrived.
Three months flew by in a strange blur sometimes quick, sometimes excruciating. Emily adjusted to the new pace of her life.
One evening, she was tidying up her room with the music on, humming along. Then, above the beat, she heard a different sound. A soft, insistent scratch at the front door.
Emily lowered the volume, listening. Then a couple of sharp knocks.
She walked to the door, peeked through the spyhole and froze.
Me. Peter. Fidgeting on the landing, shifting weight anxiously, holding a supermarket bag.
Emily opened the door but blocked the entrance.
What do you want?
Emily I tried to step forward, but she didnt move. Let me in we need to talk.
Say what you have to say here.
I sighed and ran a hand through my hair the old nervous habit she knew too well.
So, Ive been thinking I hesitated, scrambling for the right words. Anyway, Ive decided to forgive you and come back.
Emily was quiet for a moment, then burst out laughing a bright, clear laugh, head thrown back. I recoiled.
Forgive me? She wiped away a tear. You forgive me?
Well, yes. I get that you lost it a bit, said things you didnt mean
Peter, Emily interrupted him, still smiling, your forgiveness isnt needed. Keep it; youll need it yourself.
My face fell. Clearly, Id expected something else tears, a hug, gratitude. My eyes darted around the hallway, fixing on the details, until suddenly I noticed something.
Whose shoes are those? I nodded downwards.
Emily didnt look back. She knew whose trainers they were Alexs, size eleven, next to the cabinet.
None of your business.
What do you mean, none of your business? Were still married!
Until tomorrow, Emily folded her arms. Tomorrows the last hearing. Signatures, stamp and were free.
So youve already moved someone in? Into our flat?
My flat.
Doesnt matter! I practically shouted. Were still technically
Emily, came a voice from down the corridor, dinners ready. Want help getting rid of your guest?
Alex emerged, calm, in a worn t-shirt, tea towel slung over his shoulder. He eyed me, neither hostile nor terribly interested. More like youd look at a chair.
Emily shook her head.
No need. Ive got this.
Alex nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. I watched him go, then turned back to Emily. My cheeks flush.
Quick work, you. Three months and a new bloke. Whats he got that I havent?
Emily just looked at me, this stranger Id lived with for five years.
He loves me and he proves it. Every day. Through his actions not empty words about soul in meatballs.
I started to protest, but Emily closed the door. The lock clicked.
A delicious smell wafted through from the kitchen.
—
I guess if theres one thing Ive learnt, its that love isnt about grand declarations or unfulfilled expectations. Its in the effort, the little things, the shelf put up without asking, the dinner made together because you want to not because you have to. Maybe next time, I wont wait for someone else to teach me the value of simple gestures.
