CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EMMA
I stare at Dan next to me in bed, both of us hovering in that strange limbo between sleep and responsibility.
We’ve officially decided to work on us, but now that we’re here, wrapped in the quiet of a morning before the kids wake up and chaos detonates, I have no idea what that actually looks like in real life.
We’ve laid our cards on the table. Everything is out there. It’s… weirdly liberating. Like a window has finally been cracked open in a room I didn’t realise was suffocating me.
But now what?
How do we bring back the spark without it feeling forced? How do we go from emotional honesty to actual romance without one of us cringing ourselves into another dimension?
“So,” I start, rolling over to face him properly. “How do we… do this?”
Dan blinks at me, still half asleep. His hair is sticking up at the back like he’s been electrocuted in the night. Even like this, he looks good, and the fact that my brain even registers that feels like progress.
“This?” he repeats. “As in…?”
“As in us,” I say, waving my hand vaguely as if our entire marriage is floating somewhere near the ceiling waiting to be retrieved. “The whole reconnecting, bringing back the spark thing.”
He exhales and rubs his face, the motion slow like he’s buffering. “I don’t know. Feels like we’ve forgotten how to ride a bike.”
“Exactly!” I point at him, delighted he gets it. “And not just any bike. A tandem bike. Where one wrong move sends us both crashing into a bush.”
He smirks. “And then we just lie there, pretending it doesn’t hurt.”
“Exactly,” I say again, because yes. That. That is us.
We share a brief moment of quiet, the kind that feels like it could become a deeper conversation.
And then it happens.
A scream erupts from the next room. Rapid stomping footsteps. More screaming.
“MUUUUM!”
Oscar barrels into our bedroom like he’s storming a beach. “Sophie threw my LEGO spaceship into the toilet!”
Sophie storms in right behind him, completely unbothered. “I was aiming for the sink.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I’m surprised I don’t physically remove it from my face. Dan clears his throat and sits up like he’s about to referee a championship fight.
“Okay,” he says, far too calmly. “We can handle this.”
We absolutely do not handle this.
The spaceship is fished out. Oscar is dramatically devastated, acting like Sophie has thrown his hopes and dreams into sewage.
Sophie remains unimpressed. And just as we think it’s over, Ruby toddles in with her teddy raised like a victory flag.
She has somehow managed to draw on her entire left leg with a blue marker.
It definitely was a mistake to graduate her to a big girl bed this early. In her cot, sorry, cage, at least the chaos stayed contained.
By the time the argument is defused and everyone is dressed, I’m exhausted and it’s not even 8 a.m. Dan and I exchange a look over the kitchen counter like two soldiers who have survived an ambush.
So much for training wheels.
Still…
Things do feel different.
Lighter, somehow. Like the air between us isn’t so brittle. Like we’re not walking around braced for impact.
I notice it properly when I’m pulling on my coat.
I’ve got a spring in my step.
A small one, but it’s there.
As I pass Dan in the hallway to grab the kids’ bags, I don’t even think. I just do it.
A quick, cheeky squeeze of his bum.
He jumps like I’ve electrocuted him, then grins, and that familiar spark flashes in his eyes.
“Oi,” he says, amused.
I smirk. “Couldn’t resist.”
And just like that, it feels… easy.
Not fixed. Not magically healed.
But easy.
We herd the kids out the door. Dan stays behind for work, and I load everyone into the car. Today, though, there’s something waiting for me on the other side of the school run, something that feels almost indulgent.
I’m heading to Clara’s.
After drop-off, I drive across town feeling quietly triumphant.
Our youngest kids are both in part-time preschool now, and by some miracle of scheduling, Clara and I have one sacred day a week where our child-free hours align.
Three precious hours. No toddlers climbing on us.
No snacks to distribute. No one shouting “Mum!” like it’s an emergency every time they breathe.
There is truly nothing more difficult than meeting up with mum friends. It’s like organising a summit between world leaders. Diaries. Nap schedules. Childcare. Illness. Work commitments. The stars have to align perfectly.
But today is the day.
Clara’s house sits on the other side of Oakwood.
It isn’t a cottage like mine, but it has the same unmistakable energy, you can tell within seconds that children live here.
Shoes piled by the door. A rogue Paw Patrol figurine abandoned on the hallway table.
Fingerprints on the glass that no one has the energy to clean properly.
It feels real. Lived in. Warm.
Clara answers the door mid-sentence, already talking before she’s even fully opened it. “Emma! Come in, come in, sorry about the mess. I was about to tidy and then realised… why bother?”
I laugh, stepping inside. “I feel deeply seen.”
Clara is one of those people who makes motherhood look both honest and manageable.
She’s not perfect, none of us are, well, except bloody Perfect Eleanor, but Clara is present.
Patient. The kind of mum who kneels down to eye level when her kids are melting down.
The kind who remembers non-uniform days and doesn’t beat herself up when she forgets one.
She’s a great mum. The kind I quietly aspire to be on my better days.
We collapse onto the sofa with steaming mugs of coffee like we’ve just run a marathon.
“How are you?” she asks, and she really means it.
I open my mouth to give the automatic fine, then pause. “Better,” I say honestly. “Actually… better.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Oh?”
And just like that, the floodgates open.
We talk about the kids, sleep regressions, packed lunches no one eats, the inexplicable rage toddlers feel when you peel their banana the wrong way.
We complain about school WhatsApp groups and the unspoken competition over homemade birthday cakes.
We laugh about the absurdity of it all, the constant juggle, the guilt that seems to exist no matter what you do.
Then, casually, Clara drops it.
“Honestly,” she says, grinning, “Mark and I barely get any time alone. But when we do? The sex is still so good.”
I nearly choke on my coffee.
“Clara!”
“What?” she shrugs, unapologetic. “I fancy him. Like, properly fancy him. Sometimes I look at him doing the washing up and think, how did I get so lucky?”
She laughs, completely unembarrassed.
And while I laugh along, something twists quietly in my chest.
I think about Dan.
About how easy Clara makes it sound. How she talks about her husband like she still can’t quite believe he’s hers. I feel a pang of longing, not jealousy, exactly, just the deep wish that Dan and I could feel that connected all the time, not just in tiny flashes between school runs and resentment.
We’ve been drifting for so long I almost forgot what closeness feels like.
But then I remember this morning. The look we shared. The bum squeeze. The way his grin made something in me unclench.
Maybe we’re not as far gone as I thought.
Maybe we’re just… out of practice.
The hours pass too quickly, as they always do. Before I know it, I’m back in the car, collecting Ruby from preschool. She launches herself at me like she hasn’t seen me in weeks, chattering nonstop about painting and snack time and a disagreement over a toy unicorn.
We run errands. Grab milk. Pick up a birthday card I forgot I needed. The school run blurs into its usual chaos: Oscar bursting out with energy, Sophie complaining about homework, everyone talking at once.
Then it’s home.
Dinner. Arguments over who sits where. Someone refusing vegetables on principle. Bath time. Bedtime. The familiar quiet settling over the house once the lights are out and the doors are gently closed.
I sink onto the sofa, tired to my bones, and stare at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
Dan and I said we’d try. We said we’d do something.
A dinner. Just us.
I feel exhausted. Completely drained. But I also remember him telling me to start putting myself first.
So I do something I haven’t done in a long time.
I make an effort.
I shave my legs. Properly. The whole leg, not just the bit people see. I put on mascara. I dig out that dress I used to wear back when we actually went on dates.
Dan changes out of his usual T-shirt and jeans, opting for a shirt that reminds me of the guy I used to flirt with shamelessly.
For a moment, I feel a flicker of something.
Excitement?
Nerves?
Like we’re back at the beginning, just two people trying to impress each other.
We sit at the dining table, candles flickering between us, plates of pasta steaming.
It’s nice. A little weird. But nice.
Dan raises his glass. “To us trying to remember how to ride a bike.”
I clink mine against his. “To hoping we don’t crash.”
We take a sip, and for a minute, there’s peace.
A comfortable quiet.
And then…
“DAD! RUBY JUST TOOK HER NAPPY OFF AND SHE’S RUNNING NAKED THROUGH THE HALLWAY!”
Of course she is.
Once again, instant regret over the big girl bed. At least in her cot the poo would be contained. But I won’t lie… I’m slightly relieved. There’s something so awkward about being alone with Dan and trying to be romantic that Ruby’s naked streak suddenly feels like a welcome disaster.
We both groan, dropping our forks.
“I’ll get her,” Dan sighs, pushing his chair back.
I reach for my wine. “I’ll just be here. Romancing myself.”
Dan returns with Ruby clothed and furious about it, and the moment is officially dead.
He sits down and exhales. “So this is why people go to hotels.”
“Or hire live-in nannies,” I mutter, twirling my pasta.
Later, when we finally crawl into bed, we lie there in the dark and I feel that familiar tension.
The want.
The fear.
The awkwardness of starting again.
Dan reaches out, brushing a piece of hair from my face, and my whole body reacts like it remembers him even when my brain panics.
And just as he leans in…
“Muuuuum!”
I freeze. We both do.
“Maybe if we ignore it,” Dan whispers.
“MUUUUM! I had a bad dream!”
Fuck
I groan and roll out of bed. “Hold that thought.”
When I return ten minutes later, Dan is sprawled on his back, one arm over his eyes, his breath deepening like he’s about to drift off.
“Still in the mood?” I joke, climbing back in.
He lifts his arm just enough to look at me. “I mean… I’d rally for you.”
I laugh and curl into his side. Maybe we’re out of practice. Maybe we’ll have to try again tomorrow. But at least now, we’re trying.
And for the first time in a long time, that feels like something.
Because even if this is messy and awkward and ridiculous…
It’s us.
And maybe that’s enough to start.
For now.