**A Crack in the Heart of the Family**
Oliver finished his dinner, scraping the last bits of mashed potato from his plate, then glanced at his wife. Emma, humming a cheerful tune, was washing dishes in their cosy flat in Manchester. Her good mood should have been infectious, but a growing unease tightened his chest.
“Done?” she asked, turning with a smile. “Hand me the plate.”
Oliver passed it over and sighed heavily.
“Emma,” he began softly, “maybe you shouldn’t go tomorrow?”
“What was that?” She hadn’t heard him. “Hold on!”
She rinsed the plate, turned off the tap, and sat across from him, drying her hands on a tea towel.
“Go on,” she said, tilting her head curiously.
“I just think you shouldn’t go,” he repeated, his voice tense. “You’ve got no reason to be at my mum’s.”
Emma’s brows lifted in surprise.
“Olly,” she exhaled, keeping her tone steady. “First, we already agreed. Second, your mum rang and begged us to come—it’s her *milestone* birthday, not just any old thing. And third, I haven’t been further than the park or Tesco in *six months*. I need a break!”
“What did you expect?” Oliver’s voice sharpened. “You knew having a baby wasn’t a joke! Children need constant care. Since when do proper mums get *tired* of their own kids?”
“I’m not *tired* of him,” she countered. “I just want to go to your mum’s party. To feel human again. I’m not off clubbing—I’m going with my *husband* to a family do!”
“You’re a *mother*—you don’t *go* places!” he snapped.
“And you’re a *father*,” she fired back, smirking. “Brilliant. We’ll ring your mum, then. You can drop off her gift later.”
“What?”
“You said parenting’s a two-person job. So tomorrow, we *both* stay home with Jake. Funny how you never mention that when it’s *your* sister’s birthday, though.”
“I needed a break!” he spluttered.
“And I don’t?” She held his gaze. “I’m with him *all day*. More than you.”
“You’re his *mother*!”
“And you’re his *father*.”
Oliver realised she wouldn’t budge. *Stubborn cow*, he thought, switching tactics.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Who’ll watch Jake? He’s six months—you can’t drag him to a restaurant.”
“My mum’s got him,” Emma said. “She offered.”
“You’re *burdening* her? Parents raise their own kids!”
“So we’re staying home to raise Jake *together*, then?”
“Alright, we’ll go,” he grunted. “But what’ll you even wear? No time or money for new clothes.”
Emma laughed. “You *noticed* I’ve lost weight? My old dresses fit again—worn them twice to work dos.”
The next evening, Oliver was sulking. He’d hoped to unwind at his mum’s party—maybe flirt, dance, slip home late to a quiet house. But Emma had ruined it.
Meanwhile, Emma glowed. Jake had been angelic, her mum arrived early, and she’d saved on a cab—the restaurant was near the bus stop. Oliver was meeting her straight from work.
“Changed your mind yet?” he growled over the phone.
She just smiled.
At the restaurant, they hugged his mum, handed over flowers and a gift, then sat.
“Emma, love, have some salad!” his mum beamed.
“She *can’t*,” Oliver cut in. “She’s breastfeeding!”
“It’s not *wine*,” his mum frowned.
“I know what’s safe,” Emma said gently.
Minutes later, when his dad offered smoked salmon, Oliver hissed, “Fish is off-limits! Think of the baby!”
“Olly, I *know*,” Emma said, patience thinning.
He seethed, watching her enjoy herself. Her ease, her *smile*—it grated.
“Shameless,” he muttered. “Jake’s with your mum, probably screaming, and you’re *laughing*?”
“He’s *fine*,” she said. “I rang. Fed. Asleep. *Remember*?”
Oliver stabbed his salad. *Bloody immovable*.
“Olly, dance with me?” Emma asked. “Live music—when did we last?”
“Go alone,” he snapped.
Just then, a man from another table approached.
“May I steal your wife for a dance?”
Oliver jerked a nod. As Emma danced, he fumed. When she returned, he erupted:
“You’ve no shame! I’m *miserable*, and you’re off with *strangers*? A *married woman*! A *mother*!”
His mother swooped in, smiling tightly.
“Stop *embarrassing* us,” she hissed. “Emma’s my *guest*. She’s *trapped* at home! I *invited* her to *breathe*!”
“*Breathe*?” Oliver scoffed. “Her *job* is Jake!”
“You’re being *selfish*,” his mum snapped.
Betrayed, he whirled on Emma. “We’re *leaving*. Taxi’s here.”
“But we just—”
“*Stay* if you want!” He stormed out.
In the cab, he ranted: “Was it worth it? Ruining Mum’s party? *My* night? *Grans* babysitting while you *prance* about?”
Emma stared out the window, silent, tears falling.
A month later, she packed her things, took Jake, and left. Part of her hoped he’d wake up, apologise, *change*. But deeper down, she knew—men like Oliver rarely do.