“Your time’s up,” said her husband, pointing to the door.
“That smell again! I asked you not to smoke in the house!” Emma flung open the living room windows, angrily swishing the curtains aside. “Good grief, even the sofa reeks. What will Margaret and her husband think when they come for dinner?”
“And what will they think?” James stubbed out his cigarette deliberately in the ashtray. “Theyll think a normal man lives hereone who occasionally smokes. Big deal.”
“Normal men, James, smoke outside or on the balcony. Not poison their family with cigarette smoke. It gives me a headache.”
“Here we go,” James rolled his eyes. “Twenty-five years with a smoking husband, and suddenly now its a problem. Maybe its the menopause, love?”
Emma froze, lips pressed tight. Lately, he kept bringing up her ageas if digging for a sore spot. And somehow, he always hit it.
“Whats that got to do with anything?” She turned to the window, hiding the tears welling up. “Im just asking for basic respect. Is it so hard to step outside?”
“Respect?” He scoffed. “Wheres your respect for me? I come home from work, want to sit in my chair, have a cuppa, and smoke. Not run back and forth like a schoolboy. Its my house!”
“Our house,” she corrected softly.
“Right, ours,” he muttered. “Except I pay the mortgage. I paid for the renovation. That new coat of yours? That was me too.”
Emma took a deep breath. Shed heard this a thousand times. Yes, she hadnt worked in fifteen yearsfirst raising the kids, then caring for his mother, then… just settling into being a housewife. And James had settled into holding it over her.
“I dont want another row,” she said tiredly. “Just please smoke on the balcony. Margaret has asthmaitll be hard for her to breathe.”
“Fine,” James conceded unexpectedly. “For your precious Margaret, Ill step outside. But just for tonight.”
He rose from his chair and headed to the bedroom, tossing over his shoulder, “And whyd you even invite them? Ive got an early meeting. I need sleep, not to entertain your dull friends.”
“Theyre not just friends,” Emma countered. “Michael runs the local library. He might help me find work.”
James stopped in the doorway and turned slowly.
“What work?”
Emma hesitated. Shed wanted to tell him later, when things were settled. Now she had no choice.
“I want a job at the library,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “Three days a week, part-time. The kids are grown, youre always at the officeI need something to do.”
“And wholl run the house?” he cut in. “Wholl cook, clean, do the laundry?”
“Ill manage,” she said, attempting a smile. “Its only a few hours. And the kids hardly visit now”
“Rarely, but your mothers here every week,” he grumbled. “And she expects a roast dinner every time.”
“Mum helps when she visits,” Emma said. “Besides, she doesnt come that often.”
“Doesnt matter to me,” he waved a hand. “But this jobits nonsense, Emma. Youre forty-seven. What work? Stay home, do your embroidery, read your little books…”
“My little books?” Her voice sharpened. “James, do you even remember I have a degree in English Lit? That I taught before the kids came along?”
“So you taughtso what?” He flopped back into his chair. “That was twenty years ago. Things have changed. Whod hire you with that outdated CV?”
“The library would,” she insisted. “I dont need a fortune, James. I need purpose. People. To feel Im good for more than dusting and ironing your shirts.”
“Cheers for that,” he sneered. “So home and family mean nothing? Not worthy of your brilliant mind?”
“Thats not what I meant, and you know it,” she said wearily. “Lets talk later. Weve got guests coming.”
She retreated to the kitchen, heart pounding. Every conversation lately spiralled into a fight. She couldnt pinpoint when it startedjust that one day, she realised they no longer spoke the same language. He didnt hear her. Didnt want to.
It hadnt always been this way. Theyd met at universityboth bookish, both in love with words. James wrote poetry; Emma adored it. Then came marriage, first Sophie, then Tom. James climbed the ranks at the publishing house. Emma stayed homewith the children, the chores, the books she barely had time to read anymore.
She hadnt noticed the change in him. How the romantic boy became a cynical man who worked late and cared less about her thoughts, her dreams. By the time she noticed, it was too late. They were strangers sharing a roof.
Margaret and Michael arrived promptly at seven. Michael, a burly man with a thick beard, launched into politics with James. Margaret, a sprightly woman in her sixties, joined Emma in the kitchen.
“Howd James take the job news?” she asked, chopping salad.
“Hes against it.”
“Hardly surprising,” Margaret shrugged. “Men hate change. Especially when it upsets their comfort.”
“But nothing would change,” Emma pulled a casserole from the oven. “Id still run the housejust be out a few hours a week.”
“To him, thats disaster,” Margaret chuckled. “Imaginehe comes home, and youre not there! The horror!”
They laughed, and Emma felt the tension ease. Margaret had a way of making things seem simple.
Dinner began civilly. James was charming, joking, asking Michael about new releases. Emma relaxedmaybe things would smooth over.
“Speaking of books,” Margaret turned to Emma. “Have you told James about our plan?”
“What plan?” James looked up.
Emma hesitated. “We discussed… a childrens reading group. At the library.”
“And when was this meant to start?” His voice turned icy.
“Next month,” Margaret answered brightly. “Twice a weekjust two-hour sessions.”
“Fascinating,” James set down his fork. “And you werent going to discuss this with me first?”
“I tried today,” Emma said quietly.
“Dont recall much discussion,” James turned to the guests. “Emmas suddenly obsessed with working. At her age, starting a career seems… unwise.”
“Why?” Michael frowned. “Emmas highly educated. We need people like her.”
“Perhaps,” James nodded. “But she has duties at home. To her husband.”
“James,” Emma flushed with humiliation. “Not in front of guests.”
“Why not?” He eyed the table. “Were all adults. Im simply statingI wont have my wife working. End of.”
Silence fell. Margaret glanced at her husband, who cleared his throat.
“This casserole is superb, Emma. Margaret, you must get the recipe.”
The rest of the evening passed in stiff small talk. When the guests left, Emma cleared the table in silence.
“How long were you planning to keep this from me?” James blocked the kitchen doorway.
“I wasnt hiding it,” she stacked plates. “I waited for the right moment.”
“And when was that? After youd started?”
“I dont understand why youre so angry,” she turned to him. “Its just a job.”
“To me, its betrayal,” he said coldly. “We agreedyoud keep the home, Id provide. That was the deal.”
“That was twenty years ago!” Emma cried. “The kids are grown. I have time. I need to feel useful!”
“So home isnt useful?” He stepped closer. “Admit ityoure bored of being a wife. Want freedom? New friends?”
“What? This isnt about”
“Ive seen it at the office,” he cut in. “Women finding themselves. Next thing, theyre shagging colleagues and divorcing.”
“Good God, James,” she gaped. “You think Id take a lover at a library? Surrounded by dusty books and pensioners?”
“Im saying no to the job,” he said flatly. “Final answer.”
Something inside her snapped.
“Then Ill do it anyway,” she said quietly. “Ill call Michael tomorrow.”
James stared.
“What did you say?”
“Im taking the job. Not for money or friendsbut to feel like a person again, not just part of the furniture.”
“I see,” he nodded slowly. “So youve decided. Without me.”
“I tried deciding with you. You wouldnt listen.”
“Brilliant,” he turned on his heel.
She heard him pacing, muttering. Then he returned, holding her handbag and coat.
“Your times up,” he said, pointing to the door. “If you make choices without me, you can live without me. Get out.”
“Youre kicking me out? Over a library job?”
“Over betrayal,” he said coldly. “You broke our agreement. Put yourself first.”
“What ambitions, James?” Her voice cracked. “Its a tiny job so I dont lose my mind! Youre always working, the kids are gonewhat am I meant to do? Bake cakes for an empty house?”
“Take up knitting!” he snapped. “But a deals a deal. I work, you keep home. Simple.”
He thrust the coat at her.
“If Im so dull, go entertain yourself. Maybe dear Margaret will take you in.”
Mechanically, she put on the coat. This couldnt be real. Theyd argued beforebut hed never thrown her out.
“Youre serious?” She searched his face. “Over a job?”
“Im serious about respect,” he said. “Now go.”
She took a shaky breath and turned to the door, then paused.
“You know whats saddest? You never asked why I want this.”
“Why then?” he challenged.
“Because Im terrified youll leave,” she said softly. “That one day you wont come homeyoull run off with that young editor you linger with after work. And Ill be aloneno job, no savings, no life beyond this house. Because I gave everything to you.”
James recoiled.
“What editor?”
“Claire,” Emma said calmly. “She rings every evening. Sometimes you take it on the balcony so I wont hear. But walls are thin, James. And Im not deaf.”
She stepped out, closing the door gently behind her. The stairwell was quiet, save for faint jazz from the flat above.
The night air was crisp as she walked, phone in hand. Strangely, she felt lighteras if a weight shed carried for years had lifted.
She dialled Margarets number.
“Its Emma. Sorry for calling late… Yes, we talked. Can I come over? Now?”
Walking to the bus stop, she marvelled at lifes twists. That morning, shed been certain of her futurethis house, this man, this scripted existence. Now she walked into the unknownyet freer than shed felt in decades.
Her phone buzzedJames calling. She hesitated, then declined and powered it off.
Her time was up. The time of fear, of silence, of shrinking herself. Whatever came next would be hers aloneterrifying, uncertain, but finally her own.
