That morning, her suitcase was by the front door.
“Emily…” James began.
“Dont,” she cut him off. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. James was alone.
He sat at the kitchen table, poking at cold porridge with a fork. Half past six. Emily was an hour and a half late.
The telly in the corner mumbled about another political scandal, but James wasnt listening. His eyes drifted over familiar thingsthe yellow curtains with poppies Emily had hung five years ago, his slippers by the fridge, her knitted cardigan draped over a chair. Everything in its place. Except her.
The front door clicked. Finally.
“Jamie, Im so sorry!” came her exhausted voice. “Dad took poorlywe had to call an ambulance.”
James winced. Those old folks again.
Emily stumbled into the kitchenhair a mess, eyes red.
“What happened?” he asked, not looking up from his plate.
“His blood pressure spiked. The doctor said he needs constant monitoring…” She dropped into the chair opposite him. “Mum was panickingdidnt know what to do.”
“They dont have phones? Cant call an ambulance themselves?”
Emily flinched as if hed slapped her.
“James, theyre in their seventies. They were scared. And theyre my family…”
“And Im not?” He set his fork down. “No one home, dinners cold. I come back from work, and youre”
“Sorry,” she whispered, reaching for the stove. “Ill heat it up.”
But frustration was bubbling inside him. She used to greet him at the doorhand him his slippers, ask about his day. Now it was always her parents.
Emily moved silently at the hob, shoulders slumped, hands shaking as she shifted pans. James watched the back of her head, remembering how she used to turn to him with a smile. When had that been? A month ago? Two?
“Look,” he said, softer, “maybe they need a carer? Their pensions arent bad.”
Emily froze, ladle in hand.
“Not bad? Jamie, Dad gets £300 a month, Mum gets £200. Half goes on medicine and bills.”
“Two hundred? She worked her whole life.”
“As a village schoolteacher.” Emily turned to him. “You know this.”
He didnt. Never paid much attention to his in-laws finances. His own parents had died ten years back, leaving their one-bed flatwhich hed sold straight off. Emilys folks? He only saw them at Christmas.
“Then hire help by the hour,” he said. “Cleaning, cooking.”
“With what money?” Her voice cracked. “Did you hear me? £500 a month between them!”
James shrugged. Counting other peoples expenses wasnt his habit. They had enoughhis engineers salary, her private English tutoring. Comfortable, careful, but never wanting.
Outside, the sky darkened. Emily set a reheated plate before him and sat down. Didnt eatjust propped her cheek on her hand, staring at the table.
“Em,” he said. “Ill help. But you cant abandon us.”
“Us?” She looked up. “Are we even a family?”
The question hung in the air.
James chewed his porridge, thinking. Family? Suppose so. Though theyd never had kidsEmily couldnt, and adoption never felt right. So theyd carried on, just the two of them. Quiet.
“Course we are,” he finally said.
The next weeks were nothing but strain.
Emily was at her parents every other daydoctors, prescriptions, cleaning. James came home to an empty flat. Dishes in the sink, unmade bed, leftovers in the fridge.
“I cant do this,” he snapped one night. “The house is falling apart.”
“How?” Emily sighed, dropping a bag of laundry. “Forgot how to cook? Wash up?”
“Its not that.”
“Then what?”
James faltered. It wasnt the chores. It was that hed been the center of her world. Now he wasnt.
“Theyre not children,” he tried. “They managed before.”
“Mum fell in the bath yesterday. Lay there two hours till I came.” Emily threw the bag down. “What, should I leave them?”
“Hire a carer!”
“With what money?” she shouted. “With what?”
They stood in the kitchen, yellingfirst time in fifteen years of marriage. Emily cried, wiping her cheeks. James felt something twist inside him.
“James, do you hear yourself?” Her voice shook. “Theyre my parents!”
“And me?” he snapped. “What am I? A lodger?”
“Youre my husband! But they”
“But they come first! Got it! Fifteen years fine, now suddenly youve remembered filial duty!”
Emily recoiled like hed hit her.
“How can you say that? Theyre old, theyre ill”
“And Im thirty? Im tired too! I want my wife home, not God knows where!”
“So I should abandon them? Let them die alone?”
“I didnt say die! But theyve got moneyhire help!”
“What money?” she screamed. “Carers cost fifty quid an hour! Minimum!”
James blinked. Hed never priced carers.
“Well… maybe not every day. An hour a day…”
“An hour?” Emily laughedharsh, brittle. “To clean, cook, wash, all of it? Impossible!”
“I cant take this!” James slammed his fist on the table. “Watching you leave me! Every day! Every bloody day, youre there, not here!”
The words spilled out, and he knewthat was it. Not the chores, not the cold dinner. Fear. Fear of losing her. Of being alone.
Emily stared, wide-eyed.
“So its not the money,” she said softly. “Youre jealous. Of my own parents.”
“Im not!” he lied, knowing she was right. “I just… want my wife, not a carer!”
“And if your parents were alive?” she asked. “Would you abandon them?”
James opened his mouth. Shut it.
His parents… If theyd lived this long, maybe hed have helped. Maybe. But this was different.
“My parents are dead,” he started.
“Mine arent,” Emily cut in.
“Right,” he said quietly. “No more visits. And if you want to help money£200 a month max. Enough for a carer twice.”
“What?”
“No more visits. No more than £200. Thats it. I forbid it.”
Emily stood in the middle of the kitchensmall, disheveled, tear-streaked. Stared at him like shed never seen him before.
“Forbid,” she repeated slowly. “Me. A forty-year-old woman. Forbid me from helping my dying parents.”
“Em”
“Two hundred a month,” she went on, ignoring him. “Four carer visits. An hour each. Four hours help a month. The rest of the time, what? They starve? Live in filth?”
She stopped. Wiped her face. Looked at him a long moment. Then turned and walked out.
That morning, her suitcase was by the front door.
“Emily…” James began.
“Dont,” she cut him off. “You made your choice. Now Im making mine.”
The door slammed. James was alone.
First few days were almost nice. No nagging about socks. Football late, eating from pans. Freedom.
But by weeks end, he knewthis wouldnt work. He found a cleaner through an ad.
Gail, mid-forties, came twice a week. Washed, cooked, tidied. Cost £300 a month.
“Wheres the wife?” she asked once.
“Split up,” James said shortly.
Gail tutted sympathetically, scrubbed the sink.
News of Emily came in scraps. A neighbor saw her at the clinic with an old manher dad, likely. A colleague spotted her at the theatre with some posh bloke.
Then the divorce papers came.
The neighbor broke the next bit with barely hidden glee:
“Your Emilys remarried. Some doctor. Widower, kids and all.”
James nodded, shut the door. Sat on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
So shed got a new family. Kids. Wonder how she handled that?
Years slid by. Gail came like clockwork. James worked, watched telly, saw mates sometimes. Life settled.
Until his sixtieth birthday. Work got hardback pain, blood pressure. He retired.
The pension was smaller than hed hoped£500 a month. With bills at £200, not much left.
First to gothe cleaner.
Alone at sixty, relearning laundry, cooking. Hands clumsy, back aching from mopping. What Emily had done without thought now took half his day.
After six months, he knewsomething had to change. So he made the call.
“Hello?” The voice was familiar, yet not.
“Em… Its Jamie.”
Silence.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
Words stuck. He fidgeted, gripping the phone.
“I… I was wrong. Im sorry.”
“And?”
“I want to fix it.”
Emily laughed.
“Fix it? Jamie, its been ten years. Ten!”
“I know, but”
“Too late,” she cut in. “Shouldve understood sooner.”
Dial tone. James slowly hung up.
That evening, he sat at the same kitchen table. The yellow curtains were faded, Emilys cardigan long gone. Just his slippers by the fridgeworn, old.
Outside, streetlights flickered on. Neighbors windows glowedfamilies inside, someone waiting for someone. And he was alone.
