“How’s it going?” she asks.
I flip the camera. Ruby asleep on my shoulder. Oscar building Lego with intense concentration. Sophie bent over maths homework.
“We’re thriving.”
She laughs.
God. That sound.
It fills the kitchen in a way I didn’t realise it was empty without.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.
“Yeah.” I hesitate. “I didn’t realise how much of the mental load you carry.”
She stills. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… I’ve always worked hard. But I didn’t always see everything you were holding. All the invisible stuff. The anticipating. The planning. The remembering.”
She watches me carefully. Soft. Not defensive.
“I didn’t know how to explain it before,” she says.
“I know.” And I do.
Because I wasn’t really listening then. I was hearing. But not listening.
“I get it now,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t rush to absolve me. She just nods slightly.
“It’s okay,” she says eventually. “We’re a team now.”
“Yep,” I reply. “A team. The best team.”
But this time it’s not playful. It’s deliberate.
This last year has been eye-opening in the hardest and most rewarding way. It almost broke us. But it also forced us to rebuild properly. Brick by brick. I will never let us drift into that place again. Not through ignorance. Not through pride. Emma means too much to me. This family means too much to me.
When she comes home two days later, the kids launch at her like a small riot. Ruby screams like she’s returned from war. Oscar pretends he’s too cool but clings longer than usual. Sophie won’t stop talking so I hang back, watching it all unfold.
She looks brighter, stronger, more confident. And then she looks at me over their heads. That look. The one from the early days. The one that says: we’re good. And this time, I know it.
God, I missed her.
Not for the laundry. Not for the lists. Not for the invisible logistics.
I missedher.
The way her smile makes her nose crinkle. The smell of soap and berries when she walks past me. The way her hairbands are everywhere like she’s marking territory. The way she curls into me when she’s tired without even thinking. The way she needs affection but pretends she doesn’t.
Just everything.
Her.
When the kids finally disperse, I pull her into the kitchen.
“I’m proud of you,” I say.
