CHAPTER SEVEN
EMMA
Another weekend gone.
I blink at the ceiling. How is it Monday again?
It’s like I blink on Friday night and somehow, two whole days evaporate into laundry, crumbs, and CBeebies. Then suddenly it’s Sunday night, and I’m back where I started, staring at a new week like it’s a treadmill I didn’t purchase but apparently have to keep running on forever.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, rubbing my face.
Dan’s still asleep, snoring softly, one arm flung across the duvet like he’s conquered the bed.
Typical. He’ll claim he didn’t hear Ruby.
He never does. He’s got that selective dad hearing; deaf to babies, ultra-tuned to football commentary.
I stand, grab my dressing gown, and shuffle down the hallway, passing the cluttered landing. There’s a pile of clean washing that’s been there since Saturday. Every time I walk past it, I tell myself I’ll “deal with it later.” I think “later” has officially given up hope.
Ruby’s whine turns into a full-blown cry as I open the door. She’s standing in her cot, hair wild, clutching her dummy like a weapon.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I mumble, lifting her out. She immediately wraps her arms around my neck, damp cheek pressed against mine. She smells like warm milk and sleep.
“Downstairs?” I whisper.
“Downstairs,” she echoes, nodding solemnly.
We head to the kitchen, stepping over the graveyard of yesterday’s chaos; tiny shoes, plastic dinosaurs, an empty mug that I definitely meant to put in the dishwasher.
The floor’s sticky under my feet, and I make a mental note to mop it.
Add it to the list. The never-ending, soul-crushing, mythical “list.”
I put Ruby in her high chair, flick on the kettle, and brace myself for the day ahead.
By the time Dan comes down, I’ve made Ruby’s porridge, found two clean(ish) school shirts, and broken up a fight between Oscar and Sophie over who gets the blue cereal bowl.
Oscar’s already sulking, arms crossed. “It’s not fair, she always gets it!”
Sophie’s chin juts out defiantly. “You had it yesterday!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
I sigh. “Guys, we have about five minutes before we’re officially late, can we please not.”
“Mum, she’s looking at me funny!”
“I’m literally just looking!” Sophie protests.
Ruby chooses this moment to fling porridge onto the floor.
I close my eyes. “I swear you all have a meeting every morning where you plan this.”
Dan breezes in, yawning. “Morning.”
I shoot him a look. “You sleep well?”
“Not really,” he says, rubbing his neck. “Ruby was up loads.”
I stare at him. “Was she?”
He blinks, catches the sarcasm, then grins sheepishly. “I mean… you handled it brilliantly.”
I throw him the dishcloth. “You can handle the porridge Picasso on the floor.”
He groans. “Can’t. Need to shower.”
“Of course you do.”
The school run is chaos, as always. Ruby’s got half a banana in her hair, Sophie’s forgotten her book bag, and Oscar’s sulking because he has to wear a coat. The car looks like a landfill site on wheels; crumbs, tissues, at least one half-empty Fruit Shoot rolling under the seat.
By the time we reach the school gate, I’m sweating.
“Bye, Mum!” Sophie says, sprinting off.
Oscar trails behind, shouting, “Tell Dad he promised to fix my Switch controller!”
I wave weakly. “Sure thing!”
Eleanor gives me a sympathetic smile. She’s in a crisp trench coat, holding a takeaway coffee. Her hair looks freshly blow-dried. I briefly consider asking her how she’s managed to exist like that at 8:45 a.m., but I suspect the answer involves a level of disposable income I can only dream of.
I glance over and see Freya rushing past, looking just as disheveled as I feel, with little Theo being dragged along behind her.
Theo is in the same class as Sophie, and they seem to have a constant love–hate relationship.
The truth is, Theo is a lovely kid, but he’s struggled a lot since his mum and dad separated.
Freya has been through so much and is still one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet.
She gets it, too, and I often confide in her when I’m drowning in the chaos of motherhood.
Back in the car, Ruby starts chanting, “Snack! Snack! Snack!”
“You literally just had breakfast,” I say.
“Snack!”
I glance at her in the mirror. She’s pointing accusingly at her mouth like she’s starving. I sigh, hand her a rice cake, and drive home in silence, listening to Peppa Pig music on loop.
The house feels weirdly quiet without the older two, though “quiet” is relative when you’ve got a toddler.
I tidy up the morning’s wreckage; cereal bowls, school shoes, abandoned drawings, while Ruby toddles after me, narrating everything I do.
“Mummy cleanin’.”
“Mummy bin.”
“Mummy spill.”
“Mummy tired,” I mutter, and she nods solemnly, like she knows.
Once she’s settled with her toys, I scroll through my phone.
Friends have posted photos from a brunch with cocktails, sunglasses, laughter.
I used to be there. I used to do things like that.
But now, after nursery fees, mortgage, food, and the never-ending pile of “unexpected expenses,” I can barely justify a coffee out.
The motherhood penalty, they call it. I call it a scam.
It made sense at the time for me to be the one to step out of full-time work as Dan earned more. But truthfully, I would love the luxury of a full-time income. Only, now, when I bring it up, he says, “Well, childcare’s so expensive anyway…” and that’s the end of it.
So here I am. Default parent. Boss of snacks with very little actual income of my own and anything I do get goes on bills anyway.
I look around at the cluttered living room, the toys, the half-drunk cup of tea, the faint smell of last night’s spaghetti bolognese.
Is this it?
Is this what I dreamed of when I was younger?
I used to imagine my life would be… something. Big. Exciting. Instead, it’s snack schedules and wet wipes.
And worse, I can’t remember when I last felt like me.
When Ruby wakes from her nap, she’s grumpy. Not just a little whiny but full-on toddler rage. The kind that comes with flailing limbs and betrayal-level tears because her banana broke in half.
“It’s still a banana,” I reason.
“No!” she sobs. “Broken!”
I sigh. “Trust me, kid, I get it.”
We get through the rest of the afternoon in a blur of snacks, cartoons, and me half-heartedly loading the dishwasher. Around 2:45, I start the next school run, because time is meaningless and I live my life in loops.
Sophie bursts out first, talking before she even reaches me. “Mum, we did PE today and I was so fast and then Theo said my shoes were boring, but I told him they’re cool because they’re sparkly on the bottom, can I have a snack?”
Oscar follows, mood already set to “grumpy philosopher.” “Mum, why do I have to do spellings? They’re stupid. Nobody uses words like ‘subterranean’ in real life.”
“Because it’s on the list,” I say, already buckling Ruby into her car seat.
“But it’s dumb.”
“Welcome to the education system.”
Back home, the chaos resumes immediately. Ruby’s demanding “snack number five,” Sophie’s asking if she can paint (no), and Oscar’s having a meltdown because the Wi-Fi’s slow. I’m trying to chop vegetables for dinner while fielding demands like a customer service bot gone rogue.
“Mum, I need water.”
“Mum, where’s my glue stick?”
“Mummy, snack!”
“Mum, Sophie took my pencil!”
“MUUUM!”
“I swear,” I mutter, “if one more person says my name I’m changing it.”
Dan steps through the door, exhales, and immediately snaps, “Can you two stop shouting for five minutes?”
The irony almost makes me laugh. Almost.
“They’ve been shouting all day,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Yeah, well, I’ve just walked in, and it’s chaos.”
I put the spoon down. “Welcome to my world.”
He loosens his tie, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve had a rough day, Em. And that drive back from the city was hell!”
I bite back the urge to say, Oh, really? Tell me about your 2 hour child-free drive while I scrape porridge off the walls.
Instead, I just hum. Because if I say what I’m really thinking, it’ll turn into an argument, and honestly, I don’t have the energy.
Dinner is the usual circus.
Dan snaps halfway through. “Oscar, for god’s sake, just eat it!”
Oscar’s eyes well up. Sophie goes quiet. Ruby bangs her spoon.
And there it is; the shift. The moment where everything teeters.
I take a breath, step in. “Hey, hey. Everyone calm down, okay? It’s fine.”
Dan sighs, mutters an apology, but the damage is done. The air’s thick with tension. I smooth things over like always. Soothing the kids, changing the subject, pretending it’s normal.
Later, when the kids are finally in bed and the house is quiet, I sink into the sofa. The living room’s dim, lit only by the TV glow. Dan’s beside me, scrolling through his phone. We don’t speak for a while.
“How was your day?” he says eventually, without looking up.
“Fine,” I lie.
He nods. “Mine was mental. The new project’s a nightmare.”
I smile faintly. “Fun.”
We both know we’re just making noise now, filling space so it doesn’t echo.
He yawns, says he’s shattered, and heads up to bed.
I follow behind, trudging upstairs with the heaviness of someone who’s carried a hundred invisible bags all day.
I go into the bathroom and flick on the light.
It’s far too bright. The kind of light that makes no allowances for the realities of motherhood.
I squint into the mirror, toothbrush dangling from my mouth, and study my face like it’s a stranger’s.
There are faint lines that didn’t use to be there, or maybe they were always there, and I just never had the time to look.
My eyes are bloodshot, the whites dulled with exhaustion, like the light’s gone out a bit.
I start brushing my teeth, leaning one hand against the sink. Foam gathers at the corners of my mouth as I stare myself down.
“Christ,” I mumble through the toothbrush. “You look wrecked.”