“Make sure dinner is decent tonight,” Richard said, tightening his tie in the mirror. “My boss is coming over, and I want to make a good impression.”
Emily nodded silently, buttering her toast. The bread caught in her throat when he added, “And for Gods sake, try to look presentable. Im embarrassed to be seen with you.”
The door slammed, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and the bitterness of unspoken words. Emily glanced at her reflection in the kettleforty-three, crows feet, grey roots she never had time to dye. When had it happened? When had she turned from the lively girl whod won young engineer Richards heart into the exhausted housewife he was ashamed to introduce to his colleagues?
The flat greeted her with familiar silence. Eighteen-year-old Daniel was already at uni, fourteen-year-old Sophie staying at a friends. Just her, the kitchen, and the endless to-do list: laundry, cleaning, groceries, that “decent dinner.”
At the shop, Emily mechanically loaded meat, vegetables, and the expensive wine Richard liked to serve guests. Ahead at the till, a young woman soothed a fussy toddler, rocking him gently. Emily remembered when shed done the same, when Richard would wrap his arms around her and whisper, “Weve got the best family in the world.”
What had changed? When had he stopped holding her? When had he last said he loved her?
At home, unpacking groceries, she found old photos spilled from a drawer. There they were at graduation, laughing, his hand in hers. Their weddingher in white, him unable to look away. Daniels birthRichard kissing her forehead, radiant. Sophies first stepsboth of them on the floor, cheering.
Where had that happiness gone? Between the mortgage and the car payments? The sleepless nights with sick children? His career ambitions and her domestic drudgery?
She started cookingroast in the oven, salad, appetisers. Muscle memory, honed over years. Then the phone rang.
“Em? Its Sarah.” Her friends voice was a lifeline in the monotony.
“Sarah! How are you?”
“Dont ask,” Sarah laughed. “Finalising the divorce.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing dramatic. Just realised I was tired of being invisible in my own life. Fancy coffee? A proper chat?”
“I cantRichards bringing his boss tonight.”
“Again? When was the last time you did something for yourself?”
Emily paused. She couldnt remember.
“Its different, Sarah. Ive got responsibilities.”
“And I didnt? But heres the thingwhile youre living someone elses life, yours is passing you by.”
After hanging up, the words gnawed at her. Was she really just existing?
By six, the table was set, her best dress on, hair done. She checked the mirrorperfectly presentable. Why did Richard say otherwise?
The guests arrived on time: Richards boss, Mr. Thompson, with his wife and another couple from work. Emily smiled, served, made conversation. All went smoothly until work came up.
“And what do you do, dear?” Mrs. Thompson asked.
“Shes a homemaker,” Richard cut in, almost apologetic.
“How lovely! Did you work before?”
“I was an accountant,” Emily began, but Richard interrupted.
“That was years ago. Once the kids came, we agreed shed stay home.”
*We agreed?* She remembered the realitymaternity leave, his mothers illnesses, then Sophie. By the time the children were older, Richard had said, *”Why work? I provide. Just focus on the house.”*
And she had. Laundry, cleaning, cookingdays blurring into oblivion while Richard climbed the corporate ladder.
“A friend of ours was a homemaker too,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Now she runs a florist. Says shes never been happier.”
“Not everyones cut out for business,” Richard smirked. “Ems happy as she is.”
*Happy?* Something twisted inside her. When had he last asked?
The evening dragged. When the guests left, praising the food, Richard beamed. “Made quite the impression. Mr. Thompson said Ive got a fantastic wife.”
“You mean fantastic housekeeper?”
“Whats your problem? You stay homeso take care of home. Why the attitude?”
“Richard, remember what we dreamed of when we married? Travel, me learning French, you supporting my passions?”
“Were adults, Em. Obligations come first.”
“My life is obligations?”
“Your life is *our family*. Isnt that enough?”
She wanted to scream that it wasnt, that she was suffocatingbut stayed silent, as always.
The next morning, Richard left without a word. Over coffee, Emily studied old photosone of her holding a diploma from an accounting course. Shed wanted to grow once, dreamed of her own path.
A knock interrupted her. A deliveryman held roses. “For Emily Carter?”
The card read: *”Thank you for last night. Youre a wonderful hostess. Best, Mr. Thompson.”*
When had Richard last sent flowers? She couldnt recall.
Later, Sophie called: “Mum, can I stay at Lucys? Were seeing a show tomorrow.”
“What about homework?”
“Mum, its *Sunday*.”
Shed lost track of time.
Richard came home late, locked himself in his study. “Dinner?” she asked through the door.
“Later,” he grunted.
She ate alone, cleared up, went to bed. He joined her later, turning away without a word.
Sunday morning, she woke to an empty bed. Richard had gone to his parents”Youd be bored,” hed said. Was she any less bored here?
Dressing defiantly in a “too young” sundress Richard hated, she left the houseno shopping list, no chores.
The park was alivefamilies, couples, elderly pairs holding hands. She watched them, wondering: when had she and Richard last laughed together?
“Emily? Emily Carter!”
She turnedAndrew, a schoolfriend she hadnt seen in fifteen years.
They talked for hours. Hed divorced recently, travelled the world as a photographer.
“Remember how you swore youd see Paris?” he grinned.
“Childish dreams,” she waved it off.
“Dreams dont expire. Im forty-five and just went last year.”
By evening, she felt alive for the first time in years.
“Come to my gallery opening tomorrow,” he said as they parted.
At home, Richard was livid. “Where were you? I called!”
“Walking. Phone died.”
“Walking? Who was supposed to clean up?” She glanced aroundtwo cups in the sink, a newspaper.
“Richard, I need time too.”
“Time from *what*? Sitting at home?”
“From living by your schedule.”
He spun around. “*My* schedule? I work to support us, and you complain?”
“I just want to *live*, not just exist.”
“Youve lost it.”
That evening, she went to the exhibition anyway. Andrews photosvibrant, full of lifestunned her.
“Youre beautiful. And sad,” he murmured. “Trouble at home?”
She didnt answer, but he understood. “Lifes too short to waste on unhappiness.”
She returned late to Richard waiting in the hall, furious.
“Where were you?”
“With a friend.”
“I called Sarah. She hadnt seen you.”
Her stomach dropped.
“The truth!” he demanded.
“At a photo exhibit. With Andrewwe bumped into each other.”
His face darkened. “Lying to me? Meeting men behind my back?”
“Richard, dont be absurd”
He grabbed her shoulders. “Youre *my wife*. You stay home like a decent woman should!” Shoving her away, she hit the wall, pain shooting through her back.
The next day, he pretended nothing happened. But Emily kept replaying itwhen had he become this? Had he always been, or had she let it happen?
Andrew called again. “Coffee? Talk properly?”
She hesitated. “I cant.”
Days passed. Richard monitored her every moveher outings, her phone. She stayed silent, as always.
Then Sophie came home with a black eye.
“What happened?” Emily gasped.
“Some girls said Dads a tyrant and youre a doormat. I punched them.”
Emily sank onto the sofa. Even the children saw it.
“Mum, you used to laugh,” Sophie whispered. “Now youre just… sad.”
That evening, Richard exploded over a missing yoghurt.
“One simple thing!” he roared.
Emily snapped. Years of silence erupted.
“Im tired of being your servant! Tired of being invisible!”
Richard stared, stunned by her fire.
“You want the truth? Andrew asked more about my dreams in one evening than you have in ten years!”
“So it *is*
