CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DAN
I don’t think Emma realises how quiet the house feels after a conversation like that.
Not peaceful but quiet in the way everything settles after a storm has torn through.
The air still heavy, the damage still visible, but the thunder finally gone.
I sit at the dining table long after she’s left the room, replaying every word she said, every crack in her voice, every tear I didn’t know she’d been holding back.
I keep thinking the same thing over and over:
How did I not see this?
And then the more honest thought follows close behind:
How did I see her every day and still miss her entirely?
Emma has always been like this; strong in a way that hides the cracks. Capable. Reliable. The one who just handles things. I think, somewhere along the line, I started believing that because she could carry it all, she should. That because she didn’t drop the ball, the ball wasn’t heavy.
I was wrong.
Painfully, devastatingly wrong.
I picture her sitting opposite me earlier, arms folded, trying so hard to stay composed.
Even then, even in the middle of that awful, necessary conversation, I couldn’t stop noticing her.
The way her hair had fallen loose from her messy bun, strands slipping down to frame her face.
The faint crease between her brows when she’s holding something in.
The way she presses her lips together when she’s trying not to cry.
God, that mouth.
I’ve loved that mouth since the day I met her.
People throw the word beautiful around like it’s nothing, like it’s one-size-fits-all.
But Emma isn’t just beautiful. She’s pretty in that soft, disarming way that sneaks up on you.
The kind that makes people underestimate her.
And then there’s the other kind of beautiful; the kind that hits you square in the chest when she’s laughing, or concentrating, or standing in the kitchen in old leggings with her hair scraped up, utterly unaware of herself.
Her dimples still undo me.
They always have.
They appear when she smiles properly, the real smile, the one that reaches her eyes. And when I see them, it feels like a reward. Like I’ve done something right. Like I’ve earned that smile.
But lately, I haven’t been earning it.
And that’s on me.
I think about her body, too. How she spoke about it with such cruelty toward herself that it made my chest ache. The way she called it “in-between,” like it’s some unfinished thing, something not worthy of admiration.
If only she could see what I see.
Her body tells the story of our life. Of creating our children.
Of surviving exhaustion and stress and sacrifice.
Her hips, soft and strong, that curve in a way that feels like home when I pull her close.
Her stomach, God, her stomach, that she tries to hide, that she pinches at in the mirror with disdain.
I love it. I love the softness there, the way it moves under my hands, the way it proves she’s real.
Her thighs. Powerful. Beautiful. The way they fit perfectly around my waist when she straddles me, the way they ground me.
Her breasts, fuller than they used to be, heavy with life and change. The way she turns away when she undresses now breaks something in me, because I want to worship her, not watch her hide.
And her back; slender, elegant, the small dip at the base of it that my hand seems to find instinctively every time. The place she melts when I touch her there. The place I haven’t touched enough.
I hate that she thinks I don’t desire her.
I hate that I’ve let silence convince her of something so far from the truth.
The truth is, I’m borderline obsessed with her.
I always have been.
I think about her when I’m not with her.
I notice the smell of her shampoo lingering on my pillow when she’s already left for the school run.
I feel it when she brushes past me in the hallway, when her hand briefly touches my arm and sends a jolt through me that I pretend not to feel because I don’t want to pressure her.
I watch her more than she realises.
The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. The way she hums absentmindedly when she’s making dinner. The way she talks to the kids; firm but kind, endlessly patient in a way that makes me both admire her and feel like I’m falling short.
She is the best mother I know.
And that’s not something I say lightly.
She remembers everything. She anticipates needs before they’re spoken. She shows up, again and again, even when she’s running on empty. I see how much of herself she pours into our children, and instead of stepping in to refill her cup, I stood back and let her drain herself dry.
Because she didn’t ask.
Because she didn’t fall apart.
Because she looked like she had it under control.
I see now how stupid that was.
Emma has always been perfect to me. Not in an unattainable, flawless way, but in the way that matters.
Perfect in her contradictions. In her sharp wit and soft heart.
In the way she can be fiercely opinionated and deeply empathetic all at once.
In the way she feels everything so intensely and still keeps going.
I love how passionate she is. How she cares about politics, about fairness, about the world our kids are growing up in. I love that she can’t half-arse anything, even when it costs her.
I love her intelligence. Her mind. The way she sees connections other people miss. The way she lights up when she talks about writing, about words, about stories. Hearing her talk about journalism earlier, about how it was taken from her, felt like someone punched me in the ribs.
I didn’t know she was still grieving that dream.
I thought silence meant acceptance.
I see now it meant loss.
And the thing that hurts the most is knowing that she’s been feeling lonely with me. That the woman I love, the woman I want more than anything, has been walking around feeling unseen while standing right next to me.
That breaks me.
Because I see her. I just haven’t been showing it in the way she needs.
I’ve been lazy with my love. Assumed it was understood. Assumed it was enough to feel it without saying it. Without proving it. Without carrying my share of the weight so she could breathe.
When she said she feels like she’s lost herself, something inside me panicked. Because the idea of a world where Emma disappears under the pressure of everyone else’s needs is unbearable.
I don’t want her to be just Mum.
I want her to be her.
Emma. The woman who made me laugh so hard on our first date that I snorted my drink. The woman who challenged me, who softened me, who made me want to be better without ever demanding it.
The woman I still get butterflies over when she smiles at me a certain way.
The woman I kissed tonight and felt nineteen again with.
That kiss, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t strategic. It was instinct. It was everything I’ve been holding back because I was afraid of rejection, afraid of adding to her load, afraid of being one more person who wanted something from her.
But I see now that what she wanted was reassurance. Desire. To feel wanted. Chosen.
I can do that.
I will do that.
Because it’s killing me that she thinks she’s anything less than extraordinary.
It’s killing me that she looks in the mirror and sees a stranger when all I see is the woman I fell in love with.
I need to be louder with my love.
More intentional. More present.
I need to show her, every day, that she is not invisible. That she is not alone. That she is not failing.
She is everything.
And if she can’t see it yet, then I’ll keep telling her until she does.
Because Emma deserves to feel beautiful.
Not someday.
Not when things are easier.
Not when the kids are older or the house is tidier or she’s had more sleep.
Now.
Exactly as she is.
And I won’t make the mistake of assuming she knows that ever again.