CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
EMMA
It started off so well.
The chemistry was back, the tension between us shifting from frustration to something playful, electric even.
We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
The sex was incredible, not just physically, but emotionally.
It felt like we were reconnecting in a way we hadn’t in years, rediscovering something that had been buried under schedules, responsibilities, and exhaustion.
For a while, it was effortless. The cheeky touches in the kitchen, the stolen kisses in the hallway, the whispered innuendos while the kids were in the next room.
It was fun. Exciting. And for the first time in ages, I felt like more than just a mother, more than just the person holding everything together. I felt wanted.
But then… life happened.
Weeks, months even, went by, once again, with not much more than a peck of a kiss here and there.
The late nights. The early mornings. The endless school emails, the meal planning, the unexpected tantrums, the sheer exhaustion of managing a house, kids, work, everything.
Somewhere along the way, we started slipping back into old habits.
Sex became something we had to schedule again, something we’d talk about like an item on a to-do list. “Maybe tomorrow,” I’d say, rubbing my eyes, barely able to keep them open after a long day.
And tomorrow would come, but then someone would get sick, or the dishwasher would break, or I’d collapse into bed before Dan even had a chance to kiss me goodnight.
I’d feel guilty. Frustrated. I knew Dan missed the intimacy, I missed the intimacy, but the mental and physical exhaustion always seemed to win. And slowly, that playful, effortless chemistry we had rediscovered started to fade.
I could feel the shift.
The way Dan’s lingering touches became fewer and fewer, how the flirty comments turned into simple goodnight pecks. It wasn’t that we didn’t love each other, God, I loved him. But once again, life had taken over, and sex had become… another thing to do.
And deep down, I was scared.
Scared that we were slipping into old patterns. Scared that we were losing that spark all over again.
I don’t know exactly when it happened, but somehow, sex became less about passion and more about fulfilling a quota. It’s like we’re running a small business, except instead of handling invoices and logistics, we’re trading household duties for orgasms.
It started subtly. Dan would toss out comments like, "Hey, I unloaded the dishwasher today," and give me that look. At first, I thought he was just being cute. Then it escalated. "I bathed the kids. Just saying." "I took the bins out without being asked. Pretty sexy, right?"
I’d laugh it off, but then one night, after an exhausting day of refereeing the kids and trying to find the motivation to cook something other than pasta for the millionth time, Dan slid into bed beside me and whispered, "So, you up for it?"
I stared at him, genuinely baffled. "Up for what?"
He waggled his eyebrows. "You know. A little something? I did put the kids to bed."
I blinked at him. "Wait. You think putting the kids to bed is foreplay now?"
He grinned. "It’s a good deed. Shouldn’t I be rewarded?"
I sat up. "Dan, that’s called parenting. You don’t get a gold star and a blow job for parenting."
But he just chuckled and tried to kiss me, which resulted in me kneeing him in the groin completely by accident. (Okay, maybe not completely.)
And that’s when I realised: we’d fallen into the passion pitfall.
Sex wasn’t about desire anymore. It was about him feeling entitled to it because he emptied the tumble dryer or didn’t leave his socks on the floor.
I wasn’t his wife anymore, I was the household manager, and sex had become an expected perk of the job.
And suddenly, I wasn’t feeling it. Not even a little bit.
Worse, our day-to-day communication had been reduced to purely transactional conversations, again.
"Did you buy milk?"
"Sophie needs a new PE kit."
"Oscar’s got a birthday party on Saturday. You’re taking him."
"We need to talk about getting the boiler serviced."
We were basically housemates again who occasionally high-fived when a child finally fell asleep. The idea of sex was still there, lurking awkwardly in the background, but it was more like a task on a to-do list than anything remotely exciting.
And yet, Dan still expected it. Not in a pushy, horrible way; more in a completely oblivious way. He still thought a quick bum grab while I was unloading the dishwasher was seductive. He still thought an occasional "You look nice" was enough to set the mood.
Bless his dumb little man brain.
One night, after another transactional attempt where Dan casually mentioned that he made me a cup of tea and then looked at me like I owed him a lap dance, I snapped.
"Do you even want me anymore?" I blurted out.
Dan frowned. "What? Of course I do."
"No, I mean really want me. Not because I folded your boxers or kept the kids from climbing on you the second you walked through the door. But me. As a person."
Dan opened his mouth, then shut it. He ran a hand through his hair. "I... I think so?"
My stomach sank. "Wow. That was so convincing."
He groaned. "Emma, come on. I love you, of course I want you. But we’ve got three kids and barely any time, and I don’t know... I just figured..."
"You figured what? That sex is just something I owe you in return for good behaviour? Like giving a dog a treat when it sits?"
His eyes widened. "I definitely wouldn’t put it like that."
"But that’s what it feels like! Like I’m some kind of reward system. And it’s not sexy, Dan. It’s exhausting."
He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Okay. But I thought that’s what you wanted? I thought you wanted me to help around the house?"
“Yes Dan, I do, but because you want to help and be a team, not because you want to get me into bed!”
Because the truth was, I wanted to want him.
I missed the days when I’d look at him and feel an instant rush of need, when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other.
But now? We were both so busy, so bogged down by life, that I couldn’t remember the last time he made me feel truly wanted, not as a wife, not as a mother, but as Emma.
So I told him that. All of it. And for once, he actually listened. No defensive jokes, no clueless looks, just listening.
And then, to my absolute shock, he said, "So I need to romance you again?"
I blinked. "Romance me? You haven’t even properly flirted with me in weeks!"
He winced. "Harsh but fair."
"And also? It wouldn’t hurt if you actually helped without expecting anything in return."
Dan sighed. "Alright. Challenge accepted. I will romance you, and I will do housework without expecting payment in the form of sex."
I folded my arms. "And?"
He frowned. "And...?"
"And flirt with me! Make me feel wanted! Woo me, Daniel!"
He smirked. "Did you just say ‘woo’?"
"Yes! And I meant it! Woo the hell out of me!"
He laughed, standing up. "Okay, but just to be clear, no sex rewards for dishwashing?"
I threw a pillow at him.
And so, we made a deal: no more transactional sex, no more obligation. If we were going to get back to how we were after the boardroom chat, we had to want each other again. No shortcuts. No deals. Just genuine, messy, awkward, real reconnection.
Whether or not Dan would actually succeed in "wooing" me again remained to be seen. But I had to admit, watching him walk away, a new determination in his step, I felt something I hadn’t in a good few weeks.
Hope.
Such a small, stupid word, really. Four letters, barely enough to fill a Post-it note. And yet, there it is, clinging to me like glitter. You can try to brush it off, but it just keeps showing up in new places.
Dan, true to his word, started his “Operation Woo Emma” the very next day. Unfortunately, he seemed to have taken his cues from a 1990s romantic comedy written by someone who’s never met an actual woman.
It began with coffee. He brought me a cup in bed, which would’ve been lovely if it weren’t lukewarm and served in a mug that said World’s Okayest Mum.
“Thought I’d give you a lie-in,” he said, clearly proud of himself.
It was 6:17 a.m. Sophie was already singing in her room. Loudly, about her missing hair bobble, Ruby was crying because her unicorn sock “looked sad,” and Oscar was downstairs raiding the cereal cupboard like a raccoon.
I blinked at him. “Dan, this isn’t a lie-in. This is just… delayed suffering.”
He grinned. “It’s the thought that counts?”
“Then next time, think quieter.”
He laughed and kissed the top of my head before disappearing downstairs to “handle breakfast,” which, in our house, is code for “create chaos and leave the kitchen looking like a Weetabix massacre.”
Sure enough, when I finally made it down, the scene looked like something from a low-budget apocalypse movie.
Milk puddles. Cereal glued to the floor.
Ruby with a cornflake stuck to her forehead.
Sophie in tears because her toast had “a face.” And Dan?
Sitting at the table, scrolling on his phone like a man who had survived battle.
“Everything is under control,” he said.
I gestured around the kitchen. “Define ‘control.’”
He pointed to the toaster. “I made toast!”
I sighed and grabbed the cloth. “And yet, somehow, I’ll be the one cleaning the aftermath.”
As I wiped the counter, I caught my reflection in the shiny kettle, messy bun collapsing, mascara from yesterday faintly smudged under my eyes, a bit of toothpaste on my top. This was me. The woman who once spent twenty minutes perfecting her eyeliner now celebrated if she remembered deodorant.