I close my eyes for a second, because hearing him say it out loud makes it feel too real. And I don’t know what’s worse; the fact that he didn’t see it or the fact that I never let him.
"You never told me you still wanted journalism." His voice cracks, and when I look up, there’s this deep sadness in his eyes. "I thought… I thought when you stopped talking about it, it meant you were done with it. That you wanted to be home, with the kids, with me. But I see now… I was wrong. And I’m so, so sorry."
My throat tightens. I don’t even know what to say to that.
Then his hand reaches for mine, hesitant, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll pull away. But I don’t. I can’t. Because despite everything, I still love him. I always have.
"Emma, you are incredible," he whispers. "And I know I don’t say it enough, or maybe I say it the wrong way, but I need you to hear me now. You’re still the woman I fell in love with. You’re still brilliant, still beautiful. I tell you that because it’s true, not because I want something from you. Just because I need you to know."
Something inside me cracks wide open. Because I’ve spent so long feeling unseen, unheard, like I was disappearing under the weight of motherhood and expectations and my own guilt. But right now, Dan sees me. Really sees me.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it, and his hand moves instinctively to brush it away. Without thinking, I catch his wrist, holding it there against my face. His touch is warm, grounding. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself lean into it.
Dan lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. I can see the conflict in his face, the weight of everything I’ve just told him pressing down on him. But then, he surprises me.
"I wish I could help more with the school stuff," he says, voice low, almost ashamed. "I know it all falls on you. The emails, the forms, the reminders. And it’s not that I don’t care, I do, but, honestly? It overwhelms me."
I blink at him, not expecting that.
"There’s just… so much," he continues. "So many messages, so many dates to remember. I open my inbox, and it’s this endless stream of things that need doing, and I don’t even know where to start. And because you’ve always handled it, I just..." he exhales heavily, "I let you." He shakes his head. "I didn’t realise how much pressure that was putting on you."
I press my lips together, because part of me wants to say yes, exactly, but another part of me softens at his honesty. Because I get it. I really do.
He rubs a hand over his face before looking at me again. "And the house… I do try, Emma. I swear, I try. But I don’t see the mess the way you do. I see a mostly tidy house, and you see the tiny pile of clutter in the corner and it stresses you out. And I get that it’s a big deal to you. It’s just never been to me. As long as we can move around, as long as things are functional, it feels fine to me. But I hear you. I do. I’ll try harder to notice the little things, the things that bother you."
I nod, swallowing against the lump in my throat.
"But, also…" he hesitates, like he’s unsure if he should say this next part. "Sometimes, I do try. I load the dishwasher or foldthe laundry or clean up, and it’s like..." he shrugs, "I’ve done it wrong. Or it’s not good enough. And I know, I know you do a million things a day without a thank you, and I don’t expect a medal, I really don’t. But sometimes, it would be nice to feel… I don’t know, appreciated?"
His voice is careful, measured, like he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. But it’s not wrong. It’s fair.
I let out a slow breath and squeeze his hand. "I hear you too."
And I do. Maybe for the first time in a long time, I really do.
Dan exhales slowly, his fingers tightening around mine like he’s steadying himself. His eyes flicker over my face, and there’s something in them, something raw, something vulnerable, that makes my breath catch.
"I think you’re beautiful, Emma."
My instinct is to shake my head, to roll my eyes, to deflect. But he doesn’t let me.
"No. Listen to me. You are more than beautiful. I am so ridiculously attracted to you, no matter how much dry shampoo you have in your hair, no matter if you’re in old leggings or if you haven’t had time to put on mascara. None of that changes the way I see you. And it’s not just that; I love you. I love you. Who you are, the way you think, the way you care, the way you fight for everyone else before yourself."
He swallows, eyes searching mine.
"I want to tell you these things all the time, but it feels like there’s this… wall between us. Like if I say it, you’ll take it the wrong way or push me away. And I don’t know how to get past that. I don’t know how to make you believe me."
I look down, my chest aching, because I don’t know either.
There’s a long pause before he sighs. "Emma… why do you hold your wees in?"
I blink, caught off guard. "What?"
"I mean it," he says, shaking his head. "You’ll be bouncing your leg, clearly uncomfortable, and I’ll ask if you need the toilet, and you’ll say you don’t have time. Or you’ll finally go and then come back and say you feel so much better, like it’s some big revelation. Emma, you need to start putting yourself first sometimes."
I let out a soft laugh, but there’s no judgment in his face. Only concern.
"I get it," he continues. "I get that if you stop, if you take a second for yourself, things might not get done. But so what? Let them not get done. Or let me do them. You don’t have to do everything. I want to help. I’ll happily do whatever needs to be done. But you have to let yourself be a person first, not just… everything for everyone else."
