**A Rift in the Heart of the Family**
I finished my dinner, carefully scraping the last bits of mashed potato from my plate, and glanced at my wife. Emily, humming cheerfully, was washing up in our cozy flat in Manchester. Her good mood seemed infectious, but a knot of unease tightened in my chest.
“All done?” she asked, turning with a smile. “Pass me your plate!”
I handed it over and sighed heavily.
“Em,” I began quietly, “maybe you shouldn’t go tomorrow after all?”
“What did you say?” she asked, not quite catching it. “Hold on, just a sec.”
Emily rinsed the plate, turned off the tap, and sat across from me, drying her hands on a towel.
“I’m listening,” she said, tilting her head curiously.
“I just… maybe don’t go tomorrow?” My voice wavered. “There’s nothing for you at my mum’s.”
Emily’s brows lifted in surprise.
“James,” she sighed, keeping her tone calm. “First, we already agreed. Second, your mum rang and begged us to come. It’s her sixtieth, not just any birthday. And third, you know I haven’t been farther than the playground or the shops in six months. I need a break too!”
“What did you expect?” I snapped, irritation creeping in. “When you agreed to have a baby, you knew it wasn’t a game! Children need constant attention. What kind of mother gets *tired* of her own child? I don’t get this nonsense!”
“It’s not nonsense,” Emily countered, voice steady. “I just want to go to your mum’s party. A chance to feel like a person again. I’m not sneaking off to a club—I’m going with my husband to a family event, *invited* by your mum!”
“You shouldn’t be going anywhere! You’re a *mother*,” I said sharply.
“And you’re a *father*,” she shot back with a faint smile. “Fine, then we’ll phone your mum, and you can drop off the gift later.”
“What?” I stared at her.
“You said the baby needs both parents. So tomorrow, we stay home and look after Ben *together*. You’re just as much his parent as I am. Funny how that didn’t stop you when it was *your* sister’s birthday or a lads’ night out.”
“I needed time off!” I growled.
“And I don’t?” Her gaze locked onto mine. “I’m with Ben day and night—far more than you.”
“You’re his *mother*!” I repeated, as if it were gospel.
“And *you’re* his father!” she said firmly.
I knew then she wouldn’t budge. It was both of us or neither. *Stubborn*, I thought, trying another angle.
“Fine,” I relented. “But who’ll watch Ben? He’s only six months. You’re not dragging him to a restaurant.”
“My mum,” Emily said. “She offered to babysit.”
“And you’re fine dumping him on her?” I raised my voice. “Parents should raise their own child!”
“So we stay home tomorrow and raise Ben *together*?” she clarified, her tone calm but unyielding.
“Alright, we’ll go,” I muttered grudgingly. “But what will you wear? We’ve no money for a new dress, no time to shop.”
“That’s not a problem,” Emily laughed. “Haven’t you noticed I’ve lost weight? My old dresses fit again—barely worn, from work parties.”
The next day, I was in a foul mood. I’d hoped my mum’s party would be my escape—a chance to unwind, maybe dance with a few pretty guests. At home, it’d just be quiet, Ben asleep, and I could slip back late. But Emily ruined it, insisting on coming.
She, meanwhile, was radiant. Ben behaved perfectly, playing in his cot while she got ready. Her mum arrived early, so there was no rush. Emily even skipped the taxi—the restaurant was near the bus stop, and I’d meet her there after work.
“Changed your mind yet?” I grumbled over the phone.
She just smiled and shook her head.
At the restaurant, we greeted my mum, handed over flowers and a gift, then took our seats.
“Emily, love, let me fix you a plate!” Mum beamed.
“She can’t,” I cut in darkly. “She’s breastfeeding!”
“It’s just salad!” Mum blinked.
“Thanks, I know what’s safe,” Emily said gently.
Minutes later, when Dad offered her smoked salmon, I interrupted again:
“Fish is off-limits! Think of the baby!”
“James, I’ve got it under control,” Emily replied, though her patience was thinning.
I glowered, watching her enjoy the evening. Her ease, her *smile*, grated on me.
“Have you no shame?” I hissed. “Ben’s with your mum, and you’re *laughing*? What if he’s screaming for you?”
“He’s not,” she said evenly. “I called Mum—he ate and went down. Remember?”
I stabbed at my salad, fuming. *Nothing gets through to her. So bloody stubborn.*
“James, dance with me?” Emily asked. “When was the last time we did?”
“Go by yourself,” I snapped. “Not in the mood.”
Just then, a man from another table approached.
“Mind if I steal your wife for a dance?” he asked politely.
I scowled but nodded. Emily went off, and I seethed. When she returned, I unleashed:
“Have you *no* decency? I’m miserable, and instead of staying with me, you’re off with some bloke! A married *mother*! Your child’s at home, and you’re *floating* about!”
My voice carried. Mum shot me a glare and pulled me aside.
“What’s *wrong* with you?” she whispered sharply. “Emily’s my guest! She hasn’t had a moment to herself in months—I *invited* her so she could breathe! Have you no heart?”
“Heart?” I sneered. “What does she need a break from? *Our son*? Her job is him, not *dancing*!”
“You’re being selfish,” Mum said coldly. “Don’t ruin my party—or her night.”
Her words only stoked my anger. I felt *betrayed*.
“We’re leaving,” I barked at Emily. “Taxi’s called.”
“But we just got here—”
“I’m going!” I nearly shouted. “Stay and dance till dawn for all I care!” I stormed out without even saying goodbye.
Emily, tears streaking her cheeks, hurried after me. In the taxi, I kept at her:
“Was this worth it? You ruined my mood, my mum’s party! Your poor mother’s watching Ben while you *gallivant*! Hope you’re pleased!”
She said nothing, just stared out the window, crying silently.
A month later, she packed her things, took Ben, and left for her mother’s. She couldn’t take it anymore. Deep down, she hoped I’d change. But she knew—men like me rarely do.
