CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT #2
It’s one of those large, echoing halls filled with balloons, screaming children, and the scent of sugar and hand sanitiser.
Sophie runs straight to her friends. Oscar finds a football in the corner and starts showing off.
Ruby clings to me for the first ten minutes, then toddles toward the snacks table like she’s found paradise.
Dan and I hover near the wall with the other parents, trying to look sociable but both quietly counting down the minutes until it’s over.
He leans close to my ear. “I’ll give you a tenner if you let me sneak out and come back when the cake’s done.”
I snort. “Make it twenty and I’ll let you.”
We grin at each other, and for a second, it feels like old times, before kids, before exhaustion, before the constant hum of responsibility. Back when flirting came easy, not squeezed between nappy changes and Rugby drop-offs.
But as the party drags on, that tiny glow starts to dim.
The noise, the sugar chaos, the relentless small talk all grind me down.
Ruby spills juice all over her dress. Sophie argues with another little girl about who gets to hold the balloon bouquet.
Oscar cries because someone called his goal “lucky.”
By the time we bundle everyone back into the car hours later, my nerves are shot. The sound of children bickering in the back seat feels like sandpaper against my skull.
Dan tries to lighten the mood. “Well, that was fun.”
“Define fun,” I mutter.
He laughs quietly. “It’s over. That’s fun enough.”
I rest my head against the window, watching the sun sink low, painting the sky in soft streaks of pink and gold. Saturdays used to feel different. Now they’re just another kind of workday. The kind where no one gets paid and the boss never sleeps.
By the time we get home, it’s late afternoon. The house smells faintly of morning coffee and yesterday’s laundry. The kids scatter immediately, Oscar to his LEGO, Sophie to her dolls, Ruby to destroy whatever’s left of the living room.
Dan heads for the kitchen, kicking off his trainers. He opens the fridge and starts pulling out ingredients for dinner; chicken, peppers, onions. “Fajitas okay?”
“Perfect,” I say, though what I really want is to collapse face-first onto the sofa and not move until morning.
I hover in the doorway for a moment, watching him.
His T-shirt clings to him, damp from the day, muscles moving under the fabric as he chops onions.
His hair is that perfect kind of careless that makes him look younger.
It’s ridiculous that after all these years, after all the arguments and sleep deprivation, he can still make my stomach flutter.
“You’re staring again” he teases without turning around.
“I’m not staring, I’m admiring” I say smiling.
“Fancy chopping some veg?” He asks.
“It depends” I say, stepping in and grabbing a chopping board. “How much bribery is involved?”
He smirks. “I could be persuaded to offer a back rub later.”
“Tempting.”
“Or something else.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “That’s dangerous talk, Daniel.”
His chuckle is low, dark. “You like dangerous.”
He’s right. I do.
But as we fall into our rhythm, chopping, stirring, tidying, something in the air shifts.
There’s a strange, quiet tension underneath our easy banter.
It’s not obvious at first, just a flicker, a shadow under the surface.
He’s quieter than usual. His jaw tightens now and then, like he’s chewing on a thought he doesn’t want to voice.
By the time dinner’s ready and the kids are at the table, the silence between us has grown heavier.
He pours drinks. I set plates down. The kids chatter about their day. Sophie’s new dance move, Oscar’s near-goal, Ruby’s discovery that cheese is “funny.” It’s loud and messy and normal. But I can feel Dan’s distance even through the noise.
When we finally get to the clean-up, it’s just us again. The kids are in the living room with cartoons playing. I’m drying dishes when it happens.
“You don’t contribute, Emma.”
The words land like a slap.
I freeze mid-movement, gripping the plate so hard I almost drop it. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t look at me. “I mean financially. You don’t contribute financially.”
For a second, I can’t breathe. The same man who kissed my forehead this morning, who made me coffee, who looked at me like I was his entire world, now throws this at me like a dagger.
The air feels too thick to inhale. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m not saying you don’t do anything,” he says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just... sometimes it feels like I’m carrying all the weight of our finances, and it’s a lot.”
Anger rises hot and fast. “You think I don’t do enough? You think running this household, raising our children, and managing every single thing that allows you to work stress-free isn’t contributing?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you meant.” My voice cracks. “And what about the money I do bring in? It’s not much, but it’s something. You think I sit around all day? If I went to work full-time, every penny would go to childcare. Do you even know how much that costs?”
He scoffs. “Plenty of families make it work.”
“Oh, do they?” I snap. “Maybe I should just clone myself, then. One Emma can work full-time, and the other can run the house and raise the kids. Sound good to you?”
His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t mean...”
“No, Dan, say it. You think I should be doing more?”
The silence that follows is suffocating. The kind that presses against your ribs until it hurts to breathe.
Finally, his shoulders sag. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Then don’t start one.”
He looks up at me, regret flickering across his face. “I just… I get scared. About money. About the future. And instead of talking to you, I...”
“Blame me,” I whisper.
He nods slightly. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we’re too proud, or too afraid to say. The clink of the dish I set on the counter sounds too loud, like punctuation in a sentence that should have ended long ago.
Dan runs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”
I cross my arms, leaning back against the counter to stop my hands from shaking. “Then how exactly did you mean it, Dan? Because it came out crystal clear to me.”
He looks exhausted, his eyes glassy, his shoulders slumped. “I meant… I feel overwhelmed. Like every month it’s just bills and worries and...”
“And that’s new?” I cut in, voice rising before I can stop it. “You think you’re the only one who lies awake at night wondering if we’re doing enough? If we’ll ever feel like we’ve got it together?”
He looks up at me then, and there’s something raw in his expression. “No. But I guess I forget that you’re carrying it too.”
“That’s the problem, Dan. You forget.” My voice wobbles. “You see me here, doing school runs, folding laundry, keeping three small humans alive, and you think I’m just… coasting. But you have no idea what it’s like being needed every second of every day.”
Ruby’s laughter echoes faintly from the living room, mingled with the cartoon theme tune. It makes the silence that follows even sharper.
Dan steps closer, lowering his voice. “I didn’t mean to make you feel small.”
I swallow hard. “You did, though.”
He reaches out, tentative, fingertips brushing my arm. “Emma…”
I pull away. “No. You don’t get to touch me right now.”
His hand drops. For a second, he looks like he’s been physically hit.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
The apology hangs there, but it’s flimsy, like paper in a storm.
I turn and start stacking plates in the cupboard, needing something to do, something mindless. My throat burns. “You know what hurts the most?”
He doesn’t answer, just waits.
“That you said it like it was logical. Like it was just a fact. Not cruel, not angry, just true.” I blink hard, fighting tears. “That’s what makes it worse. You believe it.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t. Not really. I was tired. I said it because I was frustrated and I...”
“Then maybe you should learn to be frustrated with the situation, not the person standing next to you in it.”
He exhales, defeated. “You’re right.”
I laugh, short and bitter. “Don’t agree with me just to shut me up.”
“I’m not,” he insists, voice cracking. “I’m saying you’re right because I know I screwed up. I’m just… I don’t know how to fix it right now.”
The kids shriek with laughter in the next room. It’s surreal, how normal everything sounds out there while in here the floor feels like it’s giving way.
I look at him properly, his messy hair, the faint lines around his eyes, the worn T-shirt stained with fajita sauce. He looks like the man I fell in love with and a stranger all at once.
“Do you ever think,” I say softly, “that maybe we forgot how to talk to each other without hurting each other?”
He hesitates. “Sometimes, yeah.”
I nod slowly. “That’s the saddest part.”
We stand there in the quiet hum of the kitchen, the air thick with the smell of peppers and tension.
After a while, he says, “Do you want me to go for a bit? Give you space?”
I shake my head. “No. Because if you leave, it’ll turn into one of those things we never talk about again. We’ll pretend it didn’t happen. And then one day, it’ll explode again, worse than before.”
He leans on the counter beside me, not touching. Just close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his arm. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “We’re great at pretending.”
That stings because it’s true.
I stare at the half-empty wine bottle on the counter and reach for a glass. He watches but doesn’t stop me. I pour just enough to take the edge off, then hand him the glass.
He raises an eyebrow. “Truce?”
“Temporary ceasefire,” I correct, half-smiling despite myself.
He takes a sip, grimaces slightly. “You always pick the dry stuff.”
“You always complain and drink it anyway.”
That earns a faint laugh. It’s small, but it’s something.