CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
DAN
The first morning she’s gone, I wake up reaching for her.
My hand slides across cold sheets.
Empty.
I keep my eyes closed for a second, hoping maybe she’s in the bathroom. Maybe she’s already downstairs making coffee.
Nothing. The house is still.
No Emma padding down the hallway in slippers.
No cupboard doors opening and closing with quiet efficiency.
No low hum of the coffee machine before sunrise because she likes five minutes alone before the chaos starts.
Just me.
And then…
“DAD! Ruby’s wearing a cape!”
Right.
Game on.
Breakfast is a military operation.
Oscar accuses me of uneven cereal distribution like I’ve committed a constitutional violation.
“You gave her more. That’s not equal.”
“It’s by weight,” I argue.
“It’s not.”
Sophie appears in the doorway, hands on hips. “Mum rotates fruit aesthetically.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She does it in colours. It’s intentional.”
Ruby spills milk like it’s performance art and shouts, “RAIN!”
I’m googling “how to plait hair properly” while trying not to burn toast.
The toast burns.
Fuck.
But here’s the thing. I don’t feel resentful.
I feel… responsible. In a good way. Not burdened.
Not trapped. Just present. Today doesn’t feel monumental.
It feels normal. It feels like I’m doing my part.
Like this whole time she’s been supporting me while I worked and now I’m doing the same for her.
And honestly? Seeing her excitement yesterday when she left was everything.
She tried to downplay it.
“It’s just a panel. And a shoot. And maybe a feature.”
Just.
Her eyes were shining. I want that shine to stay.
“Dad! I need ingredients for cooking class today!” Sophie yells from the hallway.
Double fuck.
Before panic can properly bloom…
“It’s okay,” she adds casually. “Mum already got them. She said they’re in a labelled bag in the cupboard.”
I open the cupboard. There it is. Labelled. Measured. Sorted.
Of course it is.
God, she’s good.
“Daaaaaadddd,” Oscar groans, stomping in. “You’ve given me the trousers that are too small. Look.”
His socks are fully visible.
Triple fuck.
“Okay mate, you’re just going to have to wear them for today until I can get…”
“No, Mum already got bigger ones. They’re in my wardrobe. Second shelf. She said you’d forget.”
Silence. I walk upstairs. There they are.
I sit on the edge of his bed for a second. This is the stuff I just… didn’t see.
It never occurred to me that the kids grow in quiet increments.
That shoes suddenly pinch. That trousers rise.
That ingredients need buying before cooking days.
That forms need signing before deadlines.
That yellow days, world book days, dress down days, science days, bring-a-leaf days, just happen.
They don’t just happen. She makes them happen.
How does she carry all of that? How did I miss it?
The school run feels different without her beside me.
No shared eye-roll when Ruby insists on wearing a cape over her uniform. No whispered commentary about other parents. Just me gripping the steering wheel, thinking.
I’ve always worked hard. But I didn’t always see everything she was holding. And the truth is, it was easier not to see it. Because if I saw it properly, I’d have to admit she was carrying more than she should have been.
By evening, I’m tired. Not “long day at the office” tired. Bone tired. The kind where your brain is juggling invisible lists.
Homework.
Laundry.
Dinner.
Permission slips.
Ruby’s slight cough: is it something?
Oscar’s mood shift: is it something?
Sophie’s friendship drama: is it something?
This constant hum of vigilance.
It’s relentless.
And she has been living inside this hum for years.
Alone.
God.
My phone lights up with a very much welcomed Facetime call from her balcony.
She looks so beautiful with the city lights behind her, her hair swept back, her eyes bright.
She looks… alive.
“How’s it going?” she asks.
I flip the camera. Ruby asleep on my shoulder. Oscar building Lego with intense concentration. Sophie bent over maths homework.
“We’re thriving.”
She laughs.
God. That sound.
It fills the kitchen in a way I didn’t realise it was empty without.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah.” I hesitate. “I didn’t realise how much of the mental load you carry.”
She stills. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… I’ve always worked hard. But I didn’t always see everything you were holding. All the invisible stuff. The anticipating. The planning. The remembering.”
She watches me carefully. Soft. Not defensive.
“I didn’t know how to explain it before,” she says.
“I know.” And I do.
Because I wasn’t really listening then. I was hearing. But not listening.
“I get it now,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t rush to absolve me. She just nods slightly.
“It’s okay,” she says eventually. “We’re a team now.”
“Yep,” I reply. “A team. The best team.”
But this time it’s not playful. It’s deliberate.
This last year has been eye-opening in the hardest and most rewarding way.
It almost broke us. But it also forced us to rebuild properly.
Brick by brick. I will never let us drift into that place again.
Not through ignorance. Not through pride.
Emma means too much to me. This family means too much to me.
When she comes home two days later, the kids launch at her like a small riot. Ruby screams like she’s returned from war. Oscar pretends he’s too cool but clings longer than usual. Sophie won’t stop talking so I hang back, watching it all unfold.
She looks brighter, stronger, more confident. And then she looks at me over their heads. That look. The one from the early days. The one that says: we’re good. And this time, I know it.
God, I missed her.
Not for the laundry. Not for the lists. Not for the invisible logistics.
I missed her.
The way her smile makes her nose crinkle. The smell of soap and berries when she walks past me. The way her hairbands are everywhere like she’s marking territory. The way she curls into me when she’s tired without even thinking. The way she needs affection but pretends she doesn’t.
Just everything.
Her.
When the kids finally disperse, I pull her into the kitchen.
“I’m proud of you,” I say.
Her expression shifts. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. And I see you. All of it.”
She exhales like she didn’t realise she was holding that breath. Then she presses her forehead to mine. “Good,” she whispers.
And in that quiet kitchen, with Lego on the floor and a half-folded pile of washing waiting upstairs, I realise something.
The fire didn’t save us. The big romantic gestures didn’t save us. Seeing each other did. That’s what saved us. And this time? We’re not letting go.