Emma switched off the gas under the frying pan and glanced at the clock. She had just over an hour before her husband returned. She walked into the living room, sank into her favourite armchair, and picked up a book. The world around her faded away. She only stirred when the key turned twice in the front door. Emma set the book aside and hurried to the kitchen to reheat dinner.
“How was work?” she asked, setting a plate in front of her husband.
“Nothing special,” Daniel muttered, barely looking up. “Let me eat in peace.”
Lately, he’d been withdrawn, barely speaking. If he was upset, it wasn’t her fault. Or… The thought was too painful, so she rose from the table and retreated to the armchair, settling the book on her lap.
Something had shifted between them. Whatever she did or said seemed to irritate him. He spoke to her only out of obligation. Emma felt guilty, unwanted, and desperately alone. Every attempt to talk ended in failure—he was always too tired, too late, or too absorbed in football. She spiralled into uncertainty, waiting for answers that never came.
“I’m having a shower,” Daniel announced behind her.
Soon, the sound of running water filled the flat. Emma stood, lingering by the table. His phone buzzed with an incoming call. She cleared away his empty plate and half-drunk tea, washed up, then returned to the living room, switching on the lamp before picking up her book again.
“Reading something interesting?” Daniel’s whisper tickled her ear. His breath sent goosebumps down her neck.
She snapped the book shut and straightened instinctively.
“No need to hide it. I already know. Another romance novel. Want me to guess the plot? He cheats, she suffers, forgives him, dies of heartbreak, and he moves his mistress in. Their kids grow up resentful. Blah blah blah. Justice is served. Good triumphs. Well? Did I get it right?”
Emma exhaled sharply.
“Or maybe he leaves, regrets it, crawls back, and she takes him in—too predictable. No, let’s make it better. The ex-wife marries a wealthy older man. He conveniently dies, leaving her everything. The ex-husband ends up penniless, begging for scraps. Justice, right? Stop wasting time on this rubbish. Life isn’t like this.” He snatched the book from her lap and flung it across the room. “Classics are timeless. This is just trash.”
Emma stood, picked up the book, and smoothed the crumpled pages.
“You barely speak to me these days. What did I do wrong? Why do you keep trying to change me? Maybe I don’t like things about you either.”
Daniel tilted his head mockingly. “Do enlighten me.”
She took a deep breath.
“You leave puddles on the bathroom floor—I could slip and break my neck. You never wash your dishes. Socks on the floor like a teenager. Should I go on?”
“By all means,” he said, smirking.
“We only do what you want. My opinions don’t matter. Only action films, no kids—” Her voice dropped. “Why did you even marry me?”
His expression darkened. “What are you implying?”
“That phone call from Lizzie. Don’t say she’s the office cleaner. She’s your boss’s daughter, isn’t she?”
His eyes flicked to his phone. “You went through my things?”
“It rang while you were in the shower. Fifty-six-year-old cleaners don’t text heart emojis.”
For a second, he looked cornered. Then fury flashed. “You know nothing—”
Emma flinched, bracing for violence—but instead, glass shattered. Daniel had punched the bookcase, blood trickling from his knuckles. She reached for him instinctively.
“Stay back!” He cradled his hand and stormed to the bathroom.
She didn’t follow. Broken glass littered the floor. Was this the wreckage of their marriage? She barely had time to think before a thud and a yell sent her running.
Daniel lay sprawled, clutching his leg. “Slipped on the damn puddle!”
She called an ambulance, helped him hobble to the sofa, and rode with him to hospital. A fractured ankle. When she returned home, she swept up the glass.
She pitied him, yet part of her thought he deserved it. Romance novels harmed no one. Wet floors? They broke bones.
In his hospital bed, Daniel scowled at her. She left food and oranges, then stepped out. “Stubborn. Won’t eat in front of me, but he’ll devour it after.”
The next day, she asked, “Want me to bring anything?”
“Something to read,” he grumbled.
At home, she eyed the shattered bookcase. Revenge tempted her—War and Peace? Too obvious. Instead, she grabbed a contemporary novel about a man rebuilding his life. No weepy heroines here.
Daniel eyed the cover skeptically but said nothing. Three days later, he was home, devouring books—hers, no less. They avoided their fight, speaking only in pleasantries. Until he cracked.
“Emma, we need to talk. I’m sorry. I was an idiot. Read whatever you want.”
Relief washed over her. She could drag it out, punish him—but what good would that do? She sat beside him.
He confessed: Lizzie was his boss’s unstable daughter, obsessed with him. Threatened by her father to humour her or lose his job. The calls, the distance—all to shield Emma. He’d resigned, but the crisis passed when he broke his ankle.
“Thought I was protecting you. Instead, I acted like a monster. Forgive me?”
She leaned into him. “You’re an idiot. Serves you right.”
That night, they clung to each other, whispering apologies until dawn.
In the morning, Emma found the bathroom floor dry. Daniel had even rinsed his cup.
“What now?” she asked.
He smiled. “Read to me? I love your voice.”
She fetched a book and began. Daniel closed his eyes, content.
Their fragile world, once shattered, was whole again. Justice served. Love victorious.
Women are romantic. Maybe men should read their novels—understand them, love them.
We’re made different to learn forgiveness, to fit together. Some find their match easily. Others spend lifetimes searching.