Mentally run through all the other things I could have done if I had 45 uninterrupted minutes.
And yet, Dan will emerge from the bathroom eventually, stretching like he’s just completed a hard day’s work, completely unaware of the fact that an entire shift has been completed outside that door.
“Everything okay?” he’ll ask, as if I haven’t basically reset the entire house while he’s been sitting on the porcelain throne, scrolling through his phone like a man on a mission.
Maybe one day, we’ll crack the mystery. But for now, I’ll just continue running the household while my husband embarks on his daily journey.
Dan finally emerges from the toilet. He looks well-rested. Rejuvenated. A new man. Meanwhile, I’ve practically deep-cleaned the house, solved three minor household crises, and probably aged about five years.
As he strolls into the kitchen, I casually suggest that at some point during the day, we take a break and have a chat about us.
His whole body tenses. The colour drains from his face. His eyes widen with pure, unfiltered fear.
It’s the fear. The same fear that flashes across every man’s face when their partner says, “We need to talk.” As though at any moment, I’m going to announce that I’m leaving him. Or worse, that I’m pregnant again.
He’s terrified.
I roll my eyes and quickly reassure him. “Relax, it’s nothing bad. I just think we need to talk about how we get back on track.”
He nods, but I can tell he’s still on high alert.
We both retreat to our respective workspaces, which is a fancy way of saying he opens his laptop at the kitchen counter, and I curl up on the sofa with mine, because our house has no space for an actual office. Our home office is whatever surface isn’t currently covered in children’s toys, unpaid bills, or crumbs.
I sigh, taking a sip of my now-lukewarm coffee, while Dan sits tensely at his laptop, probably still worrying that at any second, I’m going to drop some life-altering news on him.
Bless him.
I’ll let him sweat for a little while longer.
Meanwhile, whilst attempting to get some work done, the year three Whatsapp chat is popping off, telling me that something has gone down at Oakwood!
Clara:OMG did you guys hear? Rory Bennett has enrolled his daughter into year three at Oakwood! Does this mean there’s trouble in city paradise?
Abigail:My mum is friends with his mum. Apparently his supermodel wife left him and he’s moving back. So yes, single and hopefully ready to mingle. Would it be rude to shotgun him?
Clara:PAHA! I think you’ll be in a long queue of Oakwood women shotgunning him. Eh Freya? ;)
Lou:I am joining the queue! I’m sure my husband won’t mind
Clara:Yeah he does have the whole quiet and mysterious thing going on.
Clara:Freya…?
Freya:What day is PE again?
Clara:HA. Way to change subject babe.
Steph:What am I missing? Does Frey have the hots for the Rugby superstar?
Clara:You could say that yeah.
Honestly, these women are like a pack of wolves on heat. Thankfully I have absolutely no interest in joining the queue for Rory Bennett.
I look over at Dan who is definitely acting busy.
I know this because, for the past 45 minutes, he’s been typing at an alarming speed for someone who usually takes three working days to reply to a WhatsApp message. His face is scrunched up in deep concentration, nodding at his screen like he’s solving world hunger, ending climate change, and filing a tax return all at once.
He works as a software developer.
