Emma drills her husband with a hard stare. Andrew keeps pulling his shoes tight.
Kids, Emma. The kids, not her, Andrew mutters, tying his laces. How long are we going to argue about this?
Emma stays silent, her lips forming a thin line. She has a flood of things to say, but the words choke in her throat, turning into a painful lump.
It was fine before we got married, Andrew continues, standing up and grabbing his jacket from the coat rack. You knew I had children. I told you everything from the start. You said you understood. And now what? Tantrums? Interrogations?
Emma clenches her teeth even tighter. Andrew throws the jacket over his shoulders and, without waiting for an answer, walks out the door. The lock clicks, and she is left alone.
A few seconds pass before Emma can even shift her weight. Her legs feel as heavy as lead. She collapses onto the sofa in the sittingroom, flips on a mindless sitcom, and lets the background noise drown out her thoughts.
They have been together three years, two of them married. She knew from the beginning that there would be a divorce, two kidsa boy and a girl. Andrew mentioned them on their third date. Emma smiled then, saying it wasnt a problem, that she understood, that children werent an obstacle.
Now those words look naive, foolish.
Emma covers her eyes with her palm, draws a deep breath. Holding back tears becomes harder. Her chest tightens as if an invisible slab presses down.
The situation becomes unbearable. Twice a weekalways Tuesday and SaturdayAndrew heads to his exwifes house. He says hes there for the children, but he stays for dinner, spends time with his former spouse, Olivia.
Emma knows its absurd. She trusts Andrew, or at least tries to convince herself she does. Yet an uneasy gut feeling tells her trouble is coming, a vague dread that makes her nauseous.
When Andrew leaves, Emma is alone in the flat. She spirals into selfcriticism, berating herself for not standing firm, for giving in to his promises, for staying quiet when she should have shouted.
She snatches her phone and quickly types a message to a friend. Hes there again.
The phone buzzesan incoming call. Lucy.
Hello? Emma answers, trying not to let her voice tremble.
Emma, what are you doing? How long can you put up with this? Hes cheating, its obvious, Lucy says straight away. No, Lucy, you dont get it Emma starts, but Lucy cuts her off. I get it perfectly. He goes to his ex twice a week, stays until night. And you tell me theyre just playing Lego with the kids?
Emma runs a hand over her face. She knows Lucy is right, but admitting it out loud would mean admitting her marriage is a farce.
He says theres nothing between them, Emma whispers. He says hes only there for the children.
Darling, youre so naïve, Lucy sighs. Wake up. Normal men dont spend half an evening at their exs. Normal men pick up their kids, take them for a walk, and bring them back. Your man sits in her kitchen, eats her borscht, probably holds her hand when the kids arent looking.
Lucy, enough, Emma says, gripping the phone tighter.
Enough? Fine. But remember my warning. Youll still stay with him, and when that happens, dont say I didnt tell you.
The call ends. Emma stares at the ceiling while someone on TV erupts in laughter. She doesnt care.
Andrew returns just before midnight. Emma hears him strip in the hallway, hear the water splash in the bathroom. He lies down beside her and Emma instantly smells foreign perfumesweet, cloying.
She doesnt ask why hes late; she has no energy. Andrew speaks first, settling himself.
Sorry Im late. Sophie needed a craft for nursery, so I helped, he mumbles, already halfclosed his eyes. She made a pinecone cow. Its quite funny.
Emma nods in the darkness, though he cant see her.
The pattern repeats for monthsTuesday, Saturday, departure, return, the scent of another womans perfume, excuses.
Then Andrew changes. He becomes more withdrawn, sullen. He can sit for hours staring at his phone, furrowing his brows. Emma tries to ask whats wrong, but he waves her off, mutters something incoherent, and retreats to another room.
A couple of weeks later he drops a bombshell.
Listen, were going on a double date on Friday.
Emma lifts an eyebrow in surprise.
With whom?
With Olivia and her new boyfriend.
A weight lifts from Emmas shoulders. So Olivia has someone? So Andrew wasnt with his ex? He wasnt cheating? All her fears were for nothing?
A smile spreads across Emmas face. She turns to Andrew, wraps her arms around his neck.
Sure, lets go.
Friday arrives quickly. Emma buys a new dressa lightblue, bodyhugging numberwanting to look her best, to show Olivia shes worthy of Andrew, that shes the right choice.
They meet at a cosy café on the other side of town, wooden tables, soft lighting. Olivia is already there with a man in his early forties, tall, athletic, with an easy smile.
Hi, Olivia stands to greet them. This is Max.
She looks polished, slim, wellkept, beautiful. Max shakes Andrews hand, and they all sit down.
Emma feels hopeful. The evening should be pleasant, a chance to chat and then each go home.
Instead, the double date turns nightmarish.
All evening Andrew behaves as if hes trying to win Olivia back from Max. He constantly interrupts Max, demonstratively showing he knows Olivia better.
Max suggests ordering a pepper pizza. Andrew jumps in.
Olivia doesnt like spice.
I know, Max replies calmly. We already talked about it. You cut me off before I could say its for us. Well get something else for Olivia.
Andrew doesnt stop.
Remember, Olivia, when we took the kids to the coast? Mikey brought a jellyfish to the shore, thought it was a toy, Andrew says, ignoring Max completely. Olivia nods, her face tightening with irritation.
Andrew, that was ages ago, Olivia says, trying to change the subject.
But Andrew carries on, recounting story after story about the children, about choosing a pram for the daughter, about sleepless nights when their son had colic.
Emma sits quietly, clutching a glass of water. Every word Andrew says hits a raw nerve. She can see Olivias annoyance. Olivia tries to halt Andrew with a look, steering the conversation elsewhere, but Andrew seems oblivious.
Emma realises the truth. Andrew hasnt let go of his ex. He clings to the past, to the children, to shared memories. SheEmmais an extra, a temporary substitute.
Her phone rings. Its a banks automated caller. Emma pretends to be talking to her mother about an urgent matter.
Sorry, I have to go. Its important.
No one stops her. Andrew doesnt even glance up. She rushes out of the café, flags a taxi, and drives home.
Back in her flat, Emma pulls out a large suitcase and starts packing. She can no longer endure her husbands behaviour.
Andrew arrives an hour later, irritated, angry. He sees the suitcase at her feet.
Whats happening?
Emma lifts her gaze. Her eyes are dry; the tears have dried between sweaters and jeans.
Im leaving, she says simply.
What? Where? Andrew asks, frowning.
Anywhere but here, Emma replies, slipping on her jacket. Tonights meeting showed me the truth. You still love your ex, or at least you cant let her go. I dont know which is worse.
What are you talking about? Andrew begins, but Emma raises a hand, stopping him.
Dont lie. I saw how you behaved. You tried to claim her as yours in front of Max all night. You made it clear shes still yours, and I was just the spare part.
Andrew is silent.
I wont be a backup, Andrew, Emma continues, gripping the suitcase handle. Im done. Im leaving.
Emma, wait, he pleads finally.
No, she shakes her head. I love you, but this love will burn out. At least Ill keep what little dignity I have left.
She walks out the door. Andrew watches her go, silent, offering no protest, no plea, no explanation.
Emma hails another taxi and heads to her parents house. In the back seat she watches the nightlit city pass by, thinking of only one thing: finally, she is free.
