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Go to the kitchen now!” – My husband’s words that pushed me over the edge
Go to the kitchen, now! I heard my husband sayand something inside me snapped.
Emily stared at her phone screen. For the fourth time in half an hour, James had texted: Take the call, you daft woman.
She was sitting behind the wheel of her driving instructors car, trying to master parallel parking, when her phone buzzed again.
Can I answer? My husbands worried.
Go ahead.
James, Im driving
Why arent you picking up? Ive been ringing!
I cant talk while
Right, got it. Passing your test is more important than your husband, then. When will you be home?
An hour.
Whos making dinner? Should I just fend for myself?
The instructor pretended not to listen.
Ill cook when I get back.
Good. Thought Id married a career woman now.
At home, James lounged on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. Hed been out of work for three monthsclaimed it was temporary, but the job hunt dragged on.
Hows driving school? Cracked parallel parking yet? His voice dripped with mock enthusiasm.
Getting there.
Ooh, serious business, is it?
Emily walked into the kitchen. The sink was piled with unwashed disheshis breakfast.
James, maybe we could finally unpack those boxes? Its February, and were still living like we moved in yesterday.
He glanced up from his screen.
Whats there to unpack? You can manage.
We could do it together. And maybe tidy up
James stood, stepping closer. Something cold flickered in his eyes.
Go to the kitchen.
He said it quietly, but the words cut sharper than a shout.
Emily froze.
What did you just say?
You heard. Make dinner.
We were talking about the boxes
Were we? Sounded like whinging to me. I said youd manage.
Something broke inside hernot from hurt, but realisation. She remembered a New Years party with his mates where hed been the life of the room, flirting with every woman, joking with the hostess. Later, in the car, hed snapped:
Why were you so quiet all night? Embarrassed me.
Im not going to the kitchen!
His eyebrows shot up.
What?
I wont.
Emily, dont push me. We were having a civil chat.
Civil? When was the last time you spoke to me nicely?
James set his phone down.
Whats your problem? I was joking.
Joking? Take the call, you daft womanthats a joke?
Cant I text my wife?
You can. Just not like that.
Christ, whats the difference? You know I didnt mean it.
I do. Thats why Ive stayed quiet this long.
Emily sat on the edge of the bed.
My instructor said something today. Youve got steady hands. Imagine that. Steady. But at home, Im scared to ask for help with a bloody box.
Scared? James laughed. Oh, come off it.
I am. Because I know youll find a way to make me feel useless.
Thats bollocks! Youre imagining things.
Am I? Remember when you told everyone I was playing at driving school?
It was funny!
To you. To me, it was humiliating.
James sat beside her.
Look, if you dont like how I talk
Then what?
The doors right there.
Silence. Emily studied him. No apology. No explanation. Just a pointed glance at the exit.
Fine.
She stood, pulled a suitcase from the wardrobe, and started packing.
What are you doing?
What you suggested.
Where will you go?
Charlottes.
Youll have a cry, then slink back. Like always.
Like always?
Women love drama. Slam doors, sob to their mates.
She packed her documents, toiletries, charger.
Then come crawling home!
Emily reached for a box of wedding photos. She pulled one outthem at the registry office, beaming.
Would you have spoken to me like this back then?
James glanced at it.
People were watching.
And here?
Here, its just family. I can relax.
She carefully placed the photo back and zipped her bag.
Relax. Right.
Wait. Lets talk.
About what? Youve made it clear what I am at home.
In the hallway, she tugged on her coat. James stood barefoot in his trackies.
Dont be daft! Every couple rows.
We didnt row.
Her hand closed around the doorknob.
You just decided you could treat me like this now.
The door slammed. Behind her, his voice carried:
You wont get far!
Two weeks later, a text arrived: Meet me tomorrow. Ill make time.
Her friend Charlotte shook her head.
Why bother?
I need to know Im right.
At a café near the station, James was half an hour late.
Howve you been?
He sat without apologising.
Fine.
Where are you staying?
Charlottes for now.
The for now slipped outan old habit of softening things.
Place is a tip. Dishes piled up, laundry moldering. Thank God for the neighbour bringing groceries.
A waitress approachedpretty, mid-twenties, dark-haired.
What can I get you?
Two coffees, James said, flashing her a smile. Anything sweet on the menu?
Our cakes are lovely
Bring us the best ones, then.
He slid off his wedding ring and set it on the table.
No one nags about tidying up now. Might as well treat myself.
The waitress giggled.
Can you cook?
Course! A mans got to eat. Less nagging about socks on the floor, too.
Emily watched the ring.
And no one demands help unpacking.
He kept going. Right then, she realisedhe was turning their marriage into a punchline for a stranger.
So, he turned back to her, ready to end the theatrics? House is boring without you.
No.
No?
Im not coming back.
For the first time, James actually looked at her.
Seriously?
Yes.
She stood, dropping cash for the coffee.
Wait. You know what youre doing?
I do. For the first time in months.
Emily! Were adults!
Exactly. Thats why Im leaving.
Outside, sleet fell. Through the window, she saw James chatting up the waitressno doubt complaining about his unreasonable wife.
A month later, Emily rented a flat. Passed her test. Started a new job.
Once, she spotted James in a supermarket with a younger woman. Laughing, picking out wine. She walked past unseen.
She wonderedhow long before he tells her, Go to the kitchen? A month? Two?
That evening, Emily stood by her window, tea in hand. On the table, her phone lay silent. No more texts calling her daft.
She thought of women who stay. Who believe he doesnt mean it, that all men are like that. She felt no judgmentonly sadness.
Her phone lit upa colleagues message about tomorrows meeting. Polite. Respectful.
Emily smiled and replied. Then she sat on her sofain her home, where she could ask for help without fear of mockery.
“Oh, You Drive Me Mad!… I Eat Wrong, I Dress Wrong, I Do Everything Wrong!”—Pavel’s Voice Broke Into a Shout. “You Can’t Do Anything Right!… Can’t Even Earn a Decent Living… And You’re No Help Around the House, Ever!”—Marina Sobbed, “…And There Are No Children…” She Whispered. Belka, the Ten-Year-Old Ginger-and-White Cat, Watched Silently from Atop the Cupboard as Another Family “Tragedy” Unfolded. She Knew, Even Felt, That Mum and Dad Loved Each Other Dearly—So Why Say Such Hurtful Things? Mum Ran Off Crying, Dad Chain-Smoked by the Window, and Belka Thought to Herself: “What This Home Needs Is Happiness, And Happiness Means Kids… Somehow, We Need to Find Children…” Belka Herself Couldn’t Have Kittens—She’d Been Neutered Long Ago. As for Mum, The Doctors Said It Was Possible, But Something Never Quite Worked Out… The Next Morning, After Mum and Dad Left for Work, Belka Squeezed Out the Window and Went to See Her Neighbour, Whiskers, for Advice. “Why On Earth Would You Want Kids?” Sniffed Whiskers. “Ours Always Come Over—Hide From Them If You Can! They Smear My Muzzle With Lipstick Or Squeeze Me ‘Til I Can’t Breathe!” Belka Sighed, “We Need Proper Children… But Where On Earth Do We Get Them?” “Well… That Stray Molly on the Street Just Had Five… Take Your Pick…” Whiskers Shrugged. On Her Own Daring, Belka Tiptoed Balcony to Balcony Down to the Street, Squeezed Through The Bars of a Basement Window, and Called Out, “Molly, Could You Come Here for Just a Moment?” From Deep Within the Cellar Came the Desperate Squeaking of Kittens. Belka Cautiously Approached. Underneath the Heater, Five Blind, Mismatched Kittens Searched The Air, Wailing Hungrily. Molly Hadn’t Been There for At Least Three Days. The Babies Were Starving… Feeling She Might Cry, Belka Carefully Carried Each Kitten to the Entrance of Her Building. Lying Beside the Screeching, Hungry Bunch, She Waited Anxiously for Mum and Dad to Come Home. When Pavel and Marina Returned from Work, They Were Astonished—There Was Belka, Never Before Out Alone, Being Nursed by Five Noisy Kittens. “How on Earth Did This Happen?” Pavel Stammered. “It’s a Miracle…” Whispered Marina. They Scooped Up Belka and the Kittens and Rushed Inside. As Pavel Watched Their Purring Cat in a Box Full of Babies, He Asked, “So… What Are We Going To Do With Them?” “I’ll Hand-Feed Them… When They’re Grown, We’ll Find Them Homes… I’ll Call My Friends,” Whispered Marina. Three Months Later, Still Stunned By The Miracle, Marina Sat Stroking Her Feline Clan, Repeating to Herself, “This Can’t Be Real… This Can’t Happen…” And Soon After, She and Pavel Wept for Joy, Laughing and Embracing, “I’m So Glad We Finished Building This House!” “Yes! Perfect for a Child to Play Outside!” “And the Kittens Can All Run Around!” “There’s Room for Everyone!” “I Love You!” “Oh, I Love You Even More!” Wise Old Belka Wiped Away a Tear—Life Was Finally Coming Together…
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Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: “Why hasn’t your husband written or called?” “No word, Vera—not after nine days, not after forty,” Lyuda would joke, adjusting her work apron over her broad waist. “So he’s gone off the rails, or worse, then,” her neighbour nodded sympathetically. “Well, wait and see. Have the police said anything?” “Everyone’s silent, Vera—quiet as fish in that sea of his.” “Life, eh… fate.” That conversation weighed heavy on Lyudmila as she swept the autumn leaves from her doorstep in the dreary fall of 1988. Three years into her well-earned retirement, she’d had to take up work as a council cleaner to make ends meet. Life had always been simple—she and her husband, both dutiful workers, had raised a son, no scandal, no sorrow. Then Igor went on a seaside holiday and never returned. She’d phoned every hospital, every police station, even the morgue. Her son, stationed with the military, helped with inquiries—it was discovered Igor checked out of his hotel but never boarded the train home. Lyudmila wanted to go search for her husband, but her son insisted he’d handle it. Weeks passed, and she kept herself busy to stifle her fears. Then, as suddenly as he’d vanished, Igor reappeared—no suitcase, just the same navy suit and a weary silence. As she fussed to feed him and her son, the truth unravelled: Igor had been living with another woman by the sea, seeking “freedom.” The shock, the ache of betrayal—Lyudmila couldn’t bear it. Igor, shamed and lost, tried to return weeks later, but Lyudmila stood firm. It wasn’t just heartbreak—it was the pain of not knowing, of years shared and suddenly made strange. She swept her pathway, watching leaves collect and blow away, knowing sometimes those who hurt us most have already gone with the wind. (Original Title Adapted for English Culture: Igor Never Came Back from Holiday: The Disappearance, the Heartbreak, and the Road Swept Clean)
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