CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EMMA
I remember a time not so long ago when I’d wake up every morning with a heart full of excitement, a promise of new possibilities with Dan.
Back then, our world was a collage of whispered secrets, spontaneous adventures, and a laughter that filled every quiet moment.
Now, as I lay alone in the soft light of early morning, a familiar heaviness settles over me. I wonder: are we still in love, or have we simply become two dependable friends, comfortable in our routines yet dangerously close to fading into silence?
It’s funny how life works. One day, the passion is palpable. Every shared smile, every playful tease feels like a spark. The next, the sparks are replaced by a steady, almost mechanical rhythm.
I can hear Dan downstairs, making his early morning cup of coffee.
I can’t help but think about the woman I used to be when I first met him. The one who believed in fireworks, in kisses that stole your breath away, and in love that made every ordinary moment feel extraordinary.
Now, it seems, our conversations have shrunk to the essentials. “How was your day?” “Fine.” “And yours?” “Fine.”
We exchange words like notes passed across a classroom desk; functional, necessary, but utterly devoid of the warmth and complexity that once defined us.
There are moments, too, when I look at him and feel a pang of longing.
I remember when his eyes would light up with a secret understanding whenever we were together, how his smile had the power to erase all my worries.
I’m laying in bed, eyes shut, pretending I’m still asleep.
It’s supposed to be my turn for a lie-in.
My one glorious morning where I don’t have to immediately start fetching breakfasts, diffusing arguments, or answering deep, unhinged questions from Oscar like, “Mum, if a shark and a tiger had a fight in space, who would win?”
But of course, I’ve been awake for at least half an hour.
The kids have been stirring, whispering, thudding about in that way they think is so subtle.
Pretty sure Sophie has already crawled into bed with Oscar, because I heard some rustling followed by an indignant “Sophie, your feet are so sweaty!” She does have weirdly sweaty feet.
It’s one of those family mysteries I try not to think about too hard.
Dan is downstairs making coffee. I know this because I can hear the distinct clink-clink of the spoon against the mug, followed by the deep, relieved exhale of a man who is getting approximately seven minutes of peace before the chaos begins.
And yet, here I am. Awake. Not even enjoying the so-called luxury of my lie-in, but lying here, staring at the ceiling, contemplating the future of our family like some kind of over-caffeinated philosopher.
Are we doing this right?
Are we teaching them how love is supposed to be?
Are Dan and I even still us anymore, or are we just two co-managers of a small but emotionally unstable household?
I used to think parenting was mostly about making sure they ate vegetables and didn’t put Lego in their noses. Turns out, it’s a never-ending cycle of worrying about things I never even considered before.
Are we making enough memories?
Am I too strict? Too soft?
Will they grow up and remember all the times I lost my temper, or will they remember the way I always kissed their heads before bed, even if we’d had a terrible day?
I roll onto my side and sigh. The truth is, I have no idea. I don’t think any of us do. We’re all just winging it, surviving on coffee and leftover dinosaur nuggets, hoping we don’t mess them up too badly.
And then I hear it; Sophie’s giggle, followed by Oscar’s exaggerated “Ughhh, Sophie, stop breathing on me!” and Ruby telling them both to shhh because they’re going to “wake up Mum.”
And suddenly, I don’t feel quite so lost. Because despite all the worries about whether Dan and I are just glorified housemates, this is exactly where I want to be.
Even if it means I never actually get a real lie-in ever again.
There was a time when I never had to wonder if he wanted me.
I knew it.
I could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way he touched me, the way his hands would find me even in the smallest moments, like he couldn’t help himself.
But now, there’s just...distance.
I miss the way he used to pull me close without thinking, the way his fingers would trace my skin like he needed to memorise every inch of me.
I miss feeling desired, feeling like I was something he craved, not just someone he’s grown used to.
Lying beside him at night, so close but still feeling miles apart, is the loneliest place in the world. I don’t just miss the sex, I miss the connection, the passion, the feeling of being seen. And worst of all, I’m starting to wonder if he even notices what’s slipping away.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something essential was missing.
I remember chatting with Abigail, not too long ago.
Over coffee, she laid it out bluntly: “Emma, you and Dan are like co-CEOs of a failing start-up. You’re both so exhausted you barely communicate, and your relationship feels more like a business arrangement than a romance.
” I laughed at the absurdity of it, but her words stung because deep down, I knew they were true.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love Dan, I do, more than I can put into words. I love the way he always knows when I need a gentle touch, the way his presence, even when quiet, is a steady comfort in a chaotic world. Yet, sometimes I wonder if what we feel now is enough.
I remember one date in particular; a night that still glows in my memory.
Dan surprised me by taking me to a beautiful jazz bar tucked away in the city.
The place was magical: soft fairy lights, the gentle murmur of a live jazz band, and a view that stretched out over the twinkling skyline.
I had worn a dress that I loved, one that made me feel like I was the star of my own story and for a few hours, everything felt possible.
We sat at a small table near the edge, our legs dangling over the side as we talked about everything and nothing.
I recall how Dan looked at me with pure desire, his eyes tracing the outline of my figure down to my thighs where he stopped and bit his bottom lip.
That night, I felt as though Margot Robbie herself could walk into the room and he wouldn’t have taken his eyes off me.
But now, some days, it’s almost as though he doesn’t give me a single glance.
Am I no longer desirable?
Is he staying for the kids or for an easy life?
Or will he actually leave me for a younger woman whose body and mind hasn’t been altered by motherhood.
I’ve tried to hold onto hope. I leave small notes for Dan; little scribbles on the mirror that say “I love you” or “You make my heart smile”, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they’ll spark a conversation.
Sometimes he smiles when he reads them; other times, he barely glances up from his work.
I’ve even started suggesting that we cook together one night a week rather than eating with the kids.
At first it was awkward, filled with silence and the inability to relax into one another.
But it soon became a ritual that we looked forward to each week.
Flirty touches and naughty glances would be shared between us and I would be reminded of what we once had.
The funny thing is, I still adore him. I still find reasons to smile at the little quirks that define him.
The way he runs his hand through his unruly hair, the soft chuckle he lets out at the silliest things, even the way he absentmindedly leaves his keys in odd places.
I remember all the times he’s made me feel safe, the countless moments when his embrace was enough to ward off the chill of a bad day.
I remember how, during our early days, his touch made the world seem right, and his words filled me with hope.
Now, those moments are rare, but they still exist, tucked away like precious treasures waiting to be rediscovered.
The sound of giggling drifts up the stairs, growing louder by the second, and I know exactly what’s happening. Dan’s been ambushed. Again.
I picture it: all three of them, limbs everywhere, taking turns launching themselves at him while he pretends to fight them off, probably making some dramatic speech about how “the tickle monster never surrenders.” Sophie’s laugh will have turned into that silent, wheezy one she does when she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe, and Oscar is undoubtedly trying to act like he’s too cool for it while secretly loving every second.
Meanwhile, Ruby, tiny but ruthless, is probably going straight for Dan’s weak spots, like the back of his knees or his ribs, because she plays to win.
I should get up. I should go downstairs, kiss Dan on the cheek, make a cup of tea, and start the day like a fully functional adult. Instead, I stay where I am, staring at the ceiling, listening to the chaos unfold below.
Dan is a great dad. That much has never been in question.
Even on the days when he’s exhausted, when the to-do lists are endless, and the kids are being, well, kids, he’s there, fully present, wrestling them on the floor, reading the same bedtime story for the hundredth time, making ridiculous voices just to hear them laugh.
He’s the kind of dad I always hoped my children would have.
And this family; this loud, messy, beautifully chaotic unit, is all I ever wanted. But is it enough?
That thought creeps in before I can stop it.
I hear Dan creeping into the bedroom. I’m too caught up in my thoughts to recognise his presence right now so I pretend to be asleep. I hear a whisper “I’m not going anywhere” and I smile to myself in my pretend slumber.
I hope he means it.
The chaos resumes downstairs.
I groan, finally throwing the covers off. If I don’t get down there soon, Dan’s going to recruit me into whatever game they’re playing, and I’m not sure I have the energy for a full-on tickle war before coffee.
Maybe I’ll just watch from the sidelines, at least until someone inevitably yells “Muuuuum!” and I get dragged into the madness.
Just another morning. Messy, loud, and complicated. But ours.
I know that the journey ahead won’t be easy.
There will be days when the silence feels overwhelming, when the old habits threaten to reclaim our hearts, and when I wonder if all the effort is worth it.
But as I reflect on everything we’ve been through; the laughter, the tears, the countless shared memories, I am convinced that our story isn’t over.
It’s just in a phase that requires more patience, more intentionality, and more vulnerability than we’ve allowed ourselves to be in recent years.
I don’t have all the answers. But I do know that I love Dan.
I love him in a way that is quieter now, perhaps more subdued, but no less real.
I love him because he is my partner, my friend, the person who has seen me at my best and worst. And even if I sometimes question whether I’m still in love with him in the way I once was, I can’t imagine my life without the warmth and stability he brings into it.
In the quiet moments before I exit the bedroom and head down to join the chaos, I whisper a silent promise to myself: that I will never stop loving him, even as we learn to navigate this new chapter of our lives.
And with that promise, I close my eyes, hoping that tomorrow will bring a conversation, a laugh, a shared moment that reminds me, and him, that we’re still here, still in this together, and still capable of finding our way back to each other.
By the time I get downstairs, the house looks like a scene from a low-budget action film.
Cushions everywhere. A dinosaur inexplicably wedged under the sofa. Ruby wearing a superhero cape and no trousers.
Dan is in the middle of the living room floor, dramatically “injured,” while Oscar stands over him victorious.
“Mum!” Sophie shouts. “Daddy lost!”
“Did he now?” I say, folding my arms.
Dan glances up at me from the carpet, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
And there it is. That look. The one I thought had disappeared. It only lasts a second. But it’s real.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
The kids scatter toward the kitchen at the mention of breakfast, leaving Dan and me alone for a brief, fragile second.
I move toward the coffee machine and that’s when I see it.
A yellow sticky note. My stomach flips.
Let’s get milk together after work
No hearts. No dramatic flourish. Just that. I hold it between my fingers longer than necessary.
He’s behind me now. Close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but not touching.
“I figured,” he says carefully, “we need milk.”
“Right,” I reply. “The kids are annoyingly dependent on it.”
A ghost of a smile.
“I thought… maybe we could walk. After work, Just us.”
It’s small. It’s ordinary. It feels monumental.
“You don’t have football after work?” I ask.
“Cancelled,” he says. Then, after a beat, “I cancelled it.”
That lands. He cancelled something. For this.
“For milk?” I tease lightly.
“For milk,” he says. Then quieter, “For us.”
There’s something raw in his expression. Like he’s bracing for rejection.
I swallow. “Okay,” I say. “Milk sounds good.”
The tension shifts. Not gone. But softer.
Oscar barrels back in demanding toast. Ruby follows, now wearing one of Dan’s shoes. Sophie is narrating something at high speed. Dan steps toward the hallway, grabbing his keys.
“I’ll be home at two,” he says.
There’s hesitation in the air. Something unspoken.
He steps closer instead. Not a dramatic kiss. Not a sweeping gesture. Just his hand briefly brushing my waist as he passes. It lingers. Intentional.
I look up.
He looks back.
And for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like we’re standing on opposite sides of something.
It feels like we’re standing at the edge of it.
“Don’t forget,” he says softly.
“The milk?”
He gives me that half-smile. “Us.”
Then he’s out the door.
And I’m standing in the kitchen, heart beating just a little faster than it was five minutes ago.
Maybe it’s not fireworks. Maybe it’s just milk. But right now? Milk feels like a beginning.