“This isn’t a family, it’s a student flat!” Mum snapped the moment she stepped into our little home in Bromley. “You’re run off your feet with the kids all day, and where’s your husband? Off in his own world! Everyone’s doing their own thing—where’s the togetherness? Where’s the warmth a family’s supposed to have?”
Her words cut deep. At 32, I’m used to Mum’s jabs—Emily’s never been one to hold back. Too frumpy, too messy, never quite living up to her standards. I’ve learned to let it slide, but this time? It stung. Maybe because part of me wondered if she had a point. What does she know about marriage, though? She and Dad split when I was knee-high. Still, that sharp, judgy look of hers made me question everything I thought was normal.
Mum lives up in Manchester and hardly ever visits, but when she does? It’s like an Ofsted inspection. Dust on the shelves, the way James and I barely talk these days—nothing escapes her. She means well, I know. Worries about me, about the boys—two little tornadoes not even in primary yet. But that line about us not being a proper family? That hit a nerve.
James and I have been married nine years. The fireworks fizzled out ages ago, replaced by the school run, packed lunches, and him buried in work. He’s out the door before dawn and back long after the kids are asleep. Traffic, stress—I get it. But sometimes it feels like he’s never really here.
“You sure he’s actually *at work* that late?” Mum raised an eyebrow. “Who clocks out at midnight these days? Maybe he’s not where you think.”
I brushed it off. James isn’t the cheating type. Sure, he’ll go for pints with his mates or spend Saturdays tinkering with his fishing gear. But an affair? No chance. Though, if I’m honest, half the time I’ve no clue what he’s *actually* up to.
“He doesn’t even *talk* to the boys!” Mum’s voice shook. “That’s not a father—that’s a lodger!”
And that? I couldn’t argue. James *is* distant. No idea that little Henry needs physio for his tight muscles or that Oliver’s seeing a speech therapist. I’m the one ferrying them to appointments, sorting school prep. James thinks his job’s just to bring in the money—and he does, fair play. But is that *enough*?
At home, he might as well be a guest. Won’t lift a finger—DIY? Forget it. “Too knackered,” “Don’t know how,” “Later.” If he’s home early, it’s straight to his Xbox. The kids? He’ll snap if they’re too loud or shoo them away. I stick up for them—they’re *kids*, for heaven’s sake! But deep down? He barely knows them.
Mum gave me that look. “This isn’t a family, Emily. You’re sharing a house, but you’re not *together*. Is this really what you want?”
I made excuses. We’re normal, aren’t we? James might be lazy, but he’s not a bully. Pays the bills, puts up with my mum (most blokes wouldn’t!). On Mumsnet, women complain about husbands who cheat, shout, worse. Ours? Quiet as a Sunday roast.
But her words stuck. What if we’re just… pretending? The boys are growing up without him. I’m doing it all—love, homework, meltdowns. Sometimes I dream of James swooping in, taking them to the park, asking about their day. But he doesn’t. And the loneliness? It’s crushing.
Divorce? Terrifying. Could I handle two kids alone? And what if the next bloke’s worse? Maybe couples’ counselling? Or just keep plodding on, hoping things magically fix themselves?
Mum’s gone, but her words aren’t. I watch the boys playing, James glued to his phone, and wonder: Is this my family? Or am I just too scared to admit the truth?