I smiled. “Okay, Romeo. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Saturday came, and I genuinely felt giddy. I even straightened my hair, though Ruby used my hairbrush as a microphone ten minutes before we left, so I had to pretend the static look was “intentional volume.”
When we arrived at the restaurant, something magical happened: silence. No one shouting “Muuuum!” No one throwing pasta. No one asking what happens when you die halfway through my carbonara.
We talked. Properly talked. About life, the kids, work, even stupid dreams we hadn’t mentioned in ages. For a couple of hours, we weren’t tired parents or flatmates. We were just… us.
Halfway through dessert, Dan leaned forward. “See? Told you I could romance you.”
I grinned. “Don’t get cocky. You’ve still got to survive bedtime tomorrow.”
When we got home that night, slightly tipsy and giggling, I caught sight of our messy living room; toys everywhere, laundry pile mocking me from the sofa, and for once, I didn’t feel defeated. It was chaos, yes, but it was our chaos.
Dan kissed my forehead. “Still feel romanced?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe a little.”
“Good,” he whispered, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like a mum trying to squeeze herself into wife mode. I just felt like Emma again.
The glow from our date night lasted about thirty-six hours.
Then Monday happened.
Ruby woke up with a cough that sounded like she’d swallowed a kazoo. Sophie couldn’t find her left shoe (again), and Oscar announced, five minutes before we had to leave, that it was “Bring Your Favourite Toy” day at school. His favourite toy was a remote-control dinosaur whose batteries had leaked sometime around the Jurassic period.
“Just take something else,” I said, rummaging through a mountain of Lego.
“No! Rexy or nothing!” he wailed, full crocodile tears.
Dan, half-dressed and holding a coffee, muttered, “Wish I had that kind of conviction.” I shot him a look.
“You do. It’s called refusing to use the laundry basket.”
By 8:15 a.m., everyone was crying, including me, quietly, behind the kettle.
When I finally got the kids to school (Sophie in a different pair of shoes and Oscar with a toy that most definitely isn’t his favourite), I sat in the car for a full minute, staring at the steering wheel, breathing like someone who’d just finished a marathon made entirely of shouting.
That’s when my phone pinged.
Dan: Hope your morning’s going okay
Me: It’s 8:32. Ruby can’t go in because she’s not well, Sophie is distraught because she had to wear a different pair of shoes as lefty is still missing, Oscar said he hates me. So… peachy.
Dan: Right. I’ll pick up batteries on the way home. Also… brace yourself.
I frowned. Brace myself? For what?
When Ruby and I arrived back home, the kitchen was spotless.
Like, suspiciously spotless. Counters gleaming, floors shiny, not a single crumb in sight.
And in the middle of it all stood Dan, holding a mop like a warrior holding a sword.
“Told you I’d romance you,” he said proudly. “Behold: clean surfaces.”
I blinked in shock “You cleaned the entire kitchen?”
“Top to bottom. I even cleaned inside the bin cupboard and sprayed
