CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
EMMA
The email comes in while I’m at Rose’s café pretending to edit copy and actually just refreshing my inbox.
Milan Fashion Week – Confirming Availability
My stomach drops.
I stare at it for a full ten seconds before opening it, like it might vanish if I look too quickly.
Three days.
Front row access.
Feature opportunity.
Lead byline.
My editor ends with: We thought of you immediately.
Immediately.
The word lodges somewhere under my ribs. I should feel triumphant. Instead, I feel like someone’s gently pressing on an old bruise.
Three days away.
Three days where the house won’t run on autopilot because I’ve pre-loaded it with invisible labour.
Three days of Dan doing it all.
Three days of potentially failing publicly.
Three days of succeeding without him beside me.
Receiving an email like this would have been a dream before kids. Back when my identity wasn’t braided into lunchboxes and labelled Tupperware.
Now? Now it feels like my life revolves around them. Around home. Around the steady rhythm we fought so hard to rebuild. The thought of being away for three whole days makes my chest tighten. Not because I don’t want it. Because I do.
Too much.
I forward the email to myself. Then I do what any emotionally mature woman does. I open the group chat.
Emma: Tell me if I’m being dramatic.
Clara: Always. What’s happened.
Hannah: If this is about Dan and the laundry again I swear to God.
Lou: I’m hiding in the pantry. Make it quick.
Abigail: I’m here. Slightly hungover but present.
I screenshot the email and drop it in.
Silence.
Actual silence.
Then…
Hannah: ARE YOU JOKING.
Clara: FRONT ROW????
Lou: FUCK. EMMA. THIS IS HUGE!
Abigail: Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.
My phone vibrates like it’s about to combust.
Hannah: Holy shitballs.
Clara: This is career defining.
Lou: This is “she’s about to become insufferable in the best way” level.
Abigail: You have to say yes.
I stare at the screen.
Emma: It’s three days.
Hannah: And?
Emma: Away.
Clara: Babe this is life changing!
Emma: I just don’t think Dan will cope. And also, I don’t know if I can even do this. I’m so out of practice with writing!
Lou: Emma! Don’t you do that.
Abigail: Absolutely not.
Hannah: Do not shrink yourself in this group chat.
Emma: I’m not shrinking.
Clara: You’re absolutely shrinking.
Lou: You’ve rebuilt your marriage. You didn’t rebuild it to stay small.
Abigail: Also Dan is not a Victorian father incapable of boiling pasta.
I huff out a laugh.
Me: OK It’s not that he can’t manage. It’s that I don’t know who I am if I’m not managing. And what will happen if I don’t. What might go wrong.
There it is. The real fear.
Three dots appear.
Hannah: You’re Emma. Journalist. Wife. Mum. Woman with ambition.
Clara: You’re not the admin assistant of your own life.
Lou: Also if you don’t go I will personally book a fake press pass and show up in Milan in your place.
Abigail: Same but I will wear something inappropriate and embarrass you professionally.
I smile, I love these girls.
Emma: I’m scared.
Hannah: Of failing?
Emma: Of succeeding.
That one sits there.
Lou: Ah.
Clara: Okay. That’s real.
Abigail: You’re allowed to want more.
Hannah: And you’re allowed to trust your husband to handle three days.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Because the truth is, I don’t know if the anxiety is about logistics. It’s about identity. We just found steady.
Is ambition going to shake it?
That night, I wait until after dinner to mention it.
Ruby is asleep on the sofa with pasta sauce in her hair.
Oscar is mid-rant about football statistics that apparently have global importance.
Sophie is reorganising the cutlery drawer for reasons known only to her.
Normal chaos.
Dan’s at the sink, sleeves pushed up, washing pans.
God, those forearms are just…
Focus, Emma.
“Something came in today,” I say lightly.
He glances over his shoulder. “Good something?”
“I… don’t know.”
He dries his hands and turns fully toward me. “What is it?”
I tell him. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tense.
Doesn’t do that tight jaw thing he used to do when something scared him. When I finish, there’s a beat of silence.
“That’s incredible.”
“I haven’t said yes.”
“Why?”
Because what about the kids is already sitting on my tongue. Because part of me still believes ambition is selfish. Because I’ve worked so hard to rebuild us that I’m terrified of tipping the balance.
“It’s a lot,” I say instead.
He leans back against the counter. “Do you want to go?”
There it is.
Not Can we manage it? Not What will it cost? Not That’s bad timing.
Just:
Do you want it?
“Yes.” It comes out before I can filter it.
He nods once. “Then you’re going.”
It’s too easy.
“Dan…”
“Emma,” he cuts in gently. “I don’t want you making yourself smaller to keep everything tidy.”
My throat tightens. “You won’t resent me?”
He exhales softly, almost amused.
“I used to resent things I didn’t understand. I understand this.” He steps closer. “You were unhappy before. Not because of me. Because you’d shrunk. I won’t be the reason that happens again.”
That lands.
Hard.
This is not the man who once said I didn’t contribute. This is not the man who shut down when scared. This is a man choosing differently. And suddenly the fear isn’t about Milan. It’s about whether I’m brave enough to trust that we’re solid now.
Later, in bed, the house quiet around us, I whisper into the dark: “What if this changes things?”
He rolls toward me instantly. “Everything changes things.”
“That’s not comforting.”
He smiles against my shoulder. “Good. Means we’re alive.”
I press my forehead to his chest. “I don’t want to lose what we rebuilt.”
“You won’t,” he says quietly. “Because we built it properly this time.”
There’s no bravado. No ego. Just certainty.
A year ago, dropping something like this would have sent him spiralling.
How will I manage? What about work? What about the kids?
The irony isn’t lost on me. I carried it all once. Now he’s offering to. And the growth in him almost makes me uneasy. Being supported in my ambition is going to take some getting used to. But I am more than willing to get used to it.
The next morning, he’s already up before me. I hear the kettle. The low murmur of him negotiating cereal distribution.
“Ruby, milk is not optional.”
“I’m the Queen.”
“That’s fine, Your Majesty, but queens drink milk.”
I smile into my pillow.
When I walk into the kitchen, he’s made a list.
School pick-ups.
Packed lunches.
Uniform checks.
Hair plait attempt (YouTube tutorial saved).
“I’ve got it,” he says simply. No performance. No martyrdom. Just partnership. And something inside me settles. Not because I won’t worry. I will. Not because I won’t miss them. I will. But because I finally believe we’re not fragile. We’re flexible. And that’s stronger.
I open my inbox again. The email is still there. Still real. Still waiting. My phone buzzes.
Hannah: Have you said yes yet.
Clara: We’re not above emotional blackmail.
Lou: I will babysit when you get back and demand fashion gossip.
Abigail: If you don’t go I’m removing you from this chat.
I laugh. And for the first time since opening that email, the fear shifts. Because a spark has lit inside me. It feels like I’m getting myself back. All of me.
Not just wearing makeup.
Not just managing to have a poo without an audience.
Every single part that had blurred in the fog of parenthood.
I glance down at the contact card. My editor.
I type:
I’d love to confirm my availability.
I hover. Then I press send. And instead of panic, I feel pride. A steady, grounded kind. I glance at Dan’s text from earlier.
Dan: Proud of you already.
I didn’t think it was possible to love him more than I already did. But this version of him? This steady, secure, self-aware man? He’s my favourite. And for the first time in a long time, ambition doesn’t feel like a threat to us. It feels like part of us. And I just know. We’re going to be okay.