“Dont forget to make a decent dinner tonight,” Richard said, adjusting his tie in the mirror. “The boss is coming over, and I want to make a good impression.”
Emma nodded silently, spreading butter on her toast. The bread caught in her throat when he added, “And try to look presentable, will you? Honestly, its embarrassing to be seen with you.”
The door slammed, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and the bitterness of unspoken words. Emma stared at her reflection in the kettle. Forty-three years old, crows feet at her eyes, grey roots she never had time to dye. When had it happened? When had she turned from the lively girl whod won young engineer Rickys heart into the tired housewife he was ashamed to show off?
The flat greeted her with its usual silence. Eighteen-year-old Daniel had already left for uni, and fourteen-year-old Sophie was staying at a friends. Just her, the kitchen, and the endless to-do list: laundry, cleaning, groceries, cooking that “decent dinner.”
At the shop, Emma mechanically tossed meat, vegetables, and the expensive wine Richard liked to serve into her basket. Ahead of her in the queue was a young woman with a toddler. The little one fussed, and the mother rocked him gently, whispering something sweet. Emma remembered rocking her own children, how Richard used to hug her from behind and say, “Weve got the best family in the world.”
What had changed? When had he stopped holding her? When was the last time hed said he loved her?
At home, unpacking the shopping, she stumbled on old photos that had slipped from the drawer. There they were at graduation, both laughing, him holding her hand. Their weddingher in white, him unable to take his eyes off her. Daniels birthRichard kissing her forehead, pure joy on his face. Sophies first stepsboth of them on the floor, cheering her on.
Where had that happiness gone? Lost between mortgage payments and Richards career ambitions? Between sleepless nights with sick kids and her own fading dreams?
Emma started cooking. Roast in the oven, salad, appetisers. Movements practised over years. Then the phone rang.
“Em? Its me, Lucy.”
Her best friends voice was a lifeline in the sea of grey routine.
“Lucy! How are you?”
“Dont ask,” Lucy laughed. “Finalising the divorce. No turning back now.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. Just realised I was tired of being invisible in my own life. Fancy meeting up? Coffee and a proper chat?”
“Cant. Richards bringing his boss over tonight.”
“Again? Em, when was the last time you did something *you* wanted? Something just for you?”
Emma paused. She couldnt remember.
“Its different, Luce. Ive got responsibilities.”
“So did I. But heres the thingwhile youre living someone elses life, your own is passing you by.”
After the call, the weight on her chest felt heavier. She kept cooking, but Lucys words circled in her mind. *Was* she living someone elses life?
By six, the table was set, her best dress on, hair done. She checked the mirrorperfectly presentable. Why did Richard say it was embarrassing to be seen with her?
The guests arrived on time: Richards boss, Mr. Thompson, with his wife, and another couple from work. Emma smiled, served food, kept conversation flowing. Everything was fine until someone asked, “And what do you do, Emma?”
“Shes a homemaker,” Richard cut in, his tone almost apologetic.
“How lovely!” the wife exclaimed. “Did you work before?”
“I was an accountant,” Emma started, but Richard interrupted.
“That was years ago. Once the kids came, we decided it was best for her to focus on home.”
*We* decided? Emma remembered the truth: maternity leave with Daniel, then his childhood illnesses, then Richards mum moving in. Then Sophie. By the time the kids were older, Richard had said, *”Why bother working? I earn enough. Just take care of the house properly.”*
And she had. Laundry, cleaning, cooking, shopping. Days blurring into each other. Meanwhile, Richard climbed the career ladder, got promotions, rubbed shoulders with important people.
“Funny,” the wife mused, “a friend of mine was a homemaker too. Now she runs a florists. Says shes never been happier.”
“Not everyones cut out for business,” Richard scoffed. “Emmas happy as she is.”
Happy? Something inside her twisted. When had *she* ever said that?
The evening dragged. Finally, the guests left, praising the food and hospitality. Richard was pleased.
“Made a good impression,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Mr. Thompson said Ive got a cracking wife.”
“You mean a cracking *housekeeper*?”
“Whats that supposed to mean? You stay home, so take care of home. Dont see the problem.”
“Richard, remember what we dreamed about when we got married?”
“What?”
“Travelling. Me learning Italian. You said youd support anything I wanted to do.”
“Emma, grow up. Weve got kids, bills. 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 suffocating, that she felt half-dead. But she stayed silent. Like always.
The next morning, Richard left early without a word. Emma sipped coffee, flipping through old photos. One showed her holding a certificate from a course shed takenback when shed dreamed of growing, of starting her own thing.
The doorbell rang. A deliveryman held a bouquet of roses.
“Emma Carter?”
“Yes?”
“Flowers for you.”
The card read: *”Thank you for last night. Youre a wonderful host and fascinating company. Best, Mr. Thompson.”*
She put the roses in a vase. When had Richard last bought her flowers? She couldnt recall.
Later, Sophie called. “Mum, can I stay at Hannahs? Were going to the theatre tomorrow.”
“What about school?”
“Mum, its *Sunday*!”
Emma had forgotten. The days all blurred together.
That evening, Richard came home late and locked himself in the study. Emma knocked. “Eating dinner?”
“Later,” he muttered, eyes glued to his screen.
She ate alone, cleared up, went to bed. When Richard finally came in, he turned his back without a word.
Sunday morning, she woke to an empty bed. Richard had gone to his parents without inviting her. *”Youd be bored,”* hed said.
Wasnt she bored at home? She got up, did yoga for the first time in ages, made breakfast, and realised: she was free. A whole day just for her.
She pulled on the sundress Richard called “too young,” did her makeup, and stepped outsideno shopping list, no chores.
The park was full of life: families, couples, elderly pairs strolling arm in arm. Emma sat on a bench, watching. A young mum pushed her giggling child on the swings. An old man bought his wife an ice cream, their eyes crinkling with laughter.
When had she and Richard last laughed together?
“Emma? Emma Carter!”
She turned. Andrew, a school friend she hadnt seen in fifteen years, beamed at her.
“Andy! Is that you?”
“Guilty as charged! Howve you been?”
They talked for hours. Hed divorced recently, moved back to town for work as a photographer. Hed travelled everywhere.
“Remember,” he laughed, “you swore youd see the world? Dreamed of Paris?”
Emma smiled. Shed collected postcards of far-off places as a girl.
“Kid stuff,” she waved it off.
“Kid stuff? Im forty-five and only made it to Paris last year. Dreams dont expire, Em.”
They talked till dusk. Andy showed her photos on his phonevibrant, alive, full of stories. For the first time in years, Emma felt *awake*.
“Listen,” he said as they parted, “Ive got an exhibition opening tomorrow at the gallery. Come if youd like.”
At home, Richard was already asleep. Emma lay awake, replaying the day. Shed felt *alive*.
The next morning, Richard was grumpy. “Where were you yesterday? I calledno answer.”
“Walking in the park. Phone died.”
“Walking? Who was supposed to tidy up here?”
Emma glanced around. A couple of mugs in the sink, a newspaper on the tablehardly a mess.
“Richard, I need a break sometimes.”
“From what? Sitting at home?”
“From living on *your* schedule.”
He spun around. “*My* schedule? I work my arse off to provide, and youre complaining?”
“Im not
