CHAPTER TWELVE
DAN
I sat at the kitchen table, early morning light spilling softly through the window, and wondered if I’d ever be able to fix this.
The word divorce was still ringing in my ears as a stark reminder of where we are at.
I wasn’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the slow drift of daily routines, the endless cycles of work, parenting, and the constant hum of obligations.
Somewhere along the way, Emma and I had shifted from being lovers to being something more akin to roommates, or even best friends.
And as I sipped my coffee, I couldn’t help but question: Am I still in love with her, or have we simply become good friends who share a house?
I remember the days when every glance from Emma would send my heart racing.
Back then, I could hardly take my eyes off her; the way her laugh filled a room, the sparkle in her eyes when she was excited, and even the way she’d scrunch up her nose when she was thinking.
Now, those moments were few and far between.
Lately, our interactions felt as though they were measured by convenience rather than passion.
I love her, don’t get me wrong, I do, but lately I’ve been asking myself if that love is enough, if it’s the same kind of love I used to feel, or if it’s morphed into something more platonic.
I stared at the sticky note on the counter that Emma had left this morning. “Don’t forget to take out the bins” and it struck me how even our attempts at communication had become so mundane.
We no longer exchanged the playful banter of our early years. Instead, our conversations were reduced to check-ins, reminders, and the occasional passive-aggressive jab about who left the wet clothes in the tumble dryer.
It wasn’t that I didn’t care about Emma.
I did, with every part of me. I admired her resilience, her kindness, and the way she could light up even the darkest days with her presence.
I remembered our first date like it was yesterday, a night filled with awkward yet endearing conversation, the excitement of discovering one another, and the thrill of feeling like anything was possible.
We’d gone to that little Italian bistro tucked away on a cobbled street, where the dim lights and soft music created a cocoon of intimacy. I recall the way she smiled when I told a terrible joke about pasta, and how the warmth in her eyes made me believe I was the only man in the world.
That was the kind of magic I longed for now.
But as time went on, the spark faded into something quieter, more subdued.
We stopped planning spontaneous outings and instead became prisoners of our routines.
I’d come home from work to find Emma stressed and angry, and I’d retreat into my own world of work emails and half-finished projects.
Our conversations became punctuated by silences that were heavy with unspoken thoughts. It was as if we were both scared to break the cycle of monotony that had settled over us.
I asked myself, “Can we fix this?” Not fix the mundane details, the missing laundry, the forgotten milk, but fix the essence of us.
The house was quiet, the kind of rare, delicate silence that only existed before the kids woke up and chaos erupted. I took a slow sip, savouring the warmth, and let myself believe, just for a moment, that I might actually finish a full cup before it went cold.
Then, from upstairs, a door crashed open. Not just opened, crashed, like a SWAT team had kicked it down.
The sound of tiny, stampeding feet thundered down the hallway. A second later, a high-pitched voice pierced the morning peace.
“DADDY! WHERE ARE YOU?”
I sighed. And so it begins.
Within seconds, Oscar came skidding into the kitchen, his hair a wild mess and his pyjamas somehow already on backwards. He climbed onto the chair across from me, legs swinging, and immediately launched into a very urgent and detailed explanation of his latest Pokémon theory.
“Okay, so listen, what if Pikachu had fire powers? Do you think he’d be the strongest Pokémon ever? Or, wait, what if he was part dragon?”
I took another sip of coffee. “Mmm.”
“Dad.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you even listening?”
“Absolutely.” I nodded sagely. “Fire-breathing Pikachu. Terrifying. Someone should call Professor Oak.”
This seemed to satisfy him, and he continued his Pokémon monologue while I attempted to cling to the last remnants of my caffeine-induced calm.
Then, before I could so much as glance at my coffee again, the girls arrived. Not entered; arrived, like a tornado barrelling through the kitchen. Ruby and Sophie came flying toward me at full speed, giggling and shrieking, their little hands already poised for attack.
“Tickle monster!” Ruby shouted.
Oh no.
I barely had time to put my mug down before they pounced.
Tiny fingers dug into my ribs, relentless and merciless, their laughter echoing through the kitchen as I pretended to fight them off.
“NOOOO!” I yelled, dramatically falling sideways in my chair. “The tickle monster is TOO STRONG!”
Ruby shrieked with delight.
Sophie cackled like a tiny evil genius.
Oscar, unimpressed by our antics, continued talking about Pikachu’s potential fire-breathing abilities.
This was my Saturday morning now.
Once upon a time, Saturday mornings meant sleeping in, maybe a lazy brunch, possibly even an uninterrupted shower or a quick fondle under the covers.
Now, they meant being tackled by tiny, sticky-handed gremlins before I had finished my first cup of coffee.
And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Yeah, things had changed. Emma and I weren’t exactly sneaking off for spontaneous weekends away or having long, deep conversations over candlelit dinners anymore.
But we had this.
This messy, loud, love-filled life where I got to start my Saturdays getting crushed in a tickle fight and debating Pokémon logic.
Ruby climbed into my lap, breathless from laughing. Sophie curled up next to me, still giggling.
Oscar finally paused his monologue to steal a piece of my toast. I looked around at my wild little crew and smiled to myself.
It wasn’t the peaceful morning I had planned. But it was exactly the morning I had always wanted.
As the kids settled into some good-old Saturday morning TV, my mind wandered back to quiet contemplation.
I wondered if the passion Emma and I once shared was something that naturally faded with time, like the worn edges of an old photograph.
Was it possible that our love was destined to become more like a deep friendship; steady and comforting, but lacking the spark that makes your heart race?
Did this happen to every relationship, regardless of the presence of kids and the inevitable stress of family life?
I sat there, wrestling with these thoughts, feeling both guilty and conflicted. I thought to myself that love must evolve, that what we have is still love, even if it’s not the same as it once was. But deep down, I couldn’t help but mourn the loss of the vibrancy we once had.
The dates we had were magical and the sex, oh, the sex was incredible.
Filled with the passion of two people who couldn’t stand to be apart for one second longer. We’d have late night rendezvous in the back of the car like naughty teenagers with no place to go.
There was a time when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, when the space between us never stayed empty for long.
It wasn’t just about the way she felt, though God, I still remember the way her body fit against mine, the way her breath deepened just before I kissed her, it was more than that.
It was the way we needed each other, like gravity pulled us closer every time we were in the same room. The passion was electric, undeniable, like a fire that never burned out, only burned hotter.
I could barely look at her without wanting to touch her, taste her, lose myself in her.
And it wasn’t just physical, it was deep, something unspoken that lived between us, a connection that made every touch, every breath, every desperate moment feel like the only thing that mattered.
We were reckless with each other, addicted in the best possible way.
And now, it’s as though she can’t get far enough away from me.
Like if I were to try anything that resembled this sort of intimacy, she would push me away and make it another reason to argue.
I recall moments when I’d catch her looking at me from across the room, her eyes soft and thoughtful, and I’d feel a warmth that told me she still cared.
Maybe the answer wasn’t to try to go back to what we once were, but to create something new.
I thought about how relationships aren’t static; they evolve. Maybe Emma and I were simply in a different phase of our love story. Maybe what we needed wasn’t to force back the old fire, but to gently kindle a new flame, one that could burn just as brightly if given the chance.
The more I thought about it, the more I realised that I had been so focused on what we had lost that I’d forgotten to appreciate what we still had. Emma was still my partner, my best friend, the person who had seen me at my best and my worst.
We had shared countless moments of laughter and tears, built a life together, and weathered storms that would have torn lesser couples apart. I loved her deeply, even if the way I loved her had changed over time.
I looked over to the kids on the one rare occasion that they were all snuggled together on the sofa, under one blanket.
Somehow, miraculously, they weren’t fighting over it.
No one was yanking it away, no one was dramatically declaring that they were “freezing to actual death.” They were just there, all three of them, heads resting against each other, eyes fixed on the TV.
Even more shocking? They had actually agreed on something to watch.
No arguing over whether it should be cartoons or a movie, no remote wars, no outraged cries of “THAT’S SO BORING.” Just quiet, content togetherness.
It was the kind of thing I didn’t dare interrupt in case I ruined the moment.
I leaned against the doorframe, taking them in. Oscar, with his tongue out concentration, Sophie absentmindedly playing with the edge of the blanket, Ruby clutching her stuffed bunny like it was part of her soul.
They looked so peaceful, so completely at home with each other. And for a second, something inside me clenched.
How could I ever question this life?
It wasn’t always easy. It wasn’t always peaceful. Some days, it felt like all I did was break up arguments, clean up messes, and wonder if I'd ever get through a conversation with Emma that wasn’t about schedules or school forms.
But then I looked at them; these three little people who existed because of us, who had bits of me and bits of her all mixed together, who were best friends even when they were worst enemies. And I knew.
Emma gave me this. She gave me them. And whatever it takes, I have to make it work.
Because this? This is everything.
I thought about the way Emma said it.
Divorce.
Not angry. Wounded. And I realised something I didn’t want to admit:
I’ve been waiting for things to calm down.
Like calm is coming. Like parenthood is a phase you survive and then you get your marriage back intact. But Emma doesn’t need me to wait. She needs me to show up.
So I stood in the kitchen, staring at the empty milk spot in the fridge. Then I found a sticky note and a pen.
My hand hovered for a second.
I didn’t know how to fix a marriage with a piece of paper.But I knew how to start.
I wrote:
Let’s get milk together after work.
I stuck it on the coffee machine where she couldn’t miss it. Then I went upstairs and to quietly get ready for work, leaving Emma fast asleep in bed. She was on her side, facing away.
I stood there for a minute, staring at her. I wanted to reach for her. I didn’t. Not yet. But I whispered it anyway, so quietly I wasn’t sure she heard.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her breathing changed. Just slightly. Like she was awake. Like she was listening. And for the first time since she said the word divorce, something in my chest loosened a fraction.
Not relief.
Not safety.
Just a fragile, stubborn decision.
We try.