But because I missed her.
Missed the way she used to look at me like I was trouble.
Missed the way she’d grab my shirt and drag me upstairs without a second thought.
Missed feeling wanted.
And somewhere along the line, that turned into me treating sex like proof.
Proof that we were okay. Proof that she still desired me. Proof that I hadn’t lost her somewhere between PTA emails and yoghurt-stained leggings.
So when I emptied the dishwasher or bathed the kids, part of me thought, this is it. This is what she needs. She said she wanted help. I’m helping. That means we’re closer now, right?
But when she snapped and said she wasn’t a reward system, it hit me in a place I didn’t expect.
Because she was right.
I’d turned something that should’ve been partnership into currency.
Not deliberately. Just… lazily.
And the worst part?
I didn’t even realise I’d done it.
Watching her lately has been… confronting.
Not because she’s failing.
Because she isn’t. She’s carrying everything.
The school emails. The packed lunches. The remembering of birthdays. The noticing when we’re low on toothpaste. The knowing which kid likes which cup.
The invisible, endless, unglamorous mental juggling.
And I stroll in thinking, I mopped. I deserve applause.
It’s embarrassing when you say it out loud.
The cupcake night did something to me.
I’d thought I was “helping.” But when we were all in that kitchen, flour in Sophie’s hair, Ruby covered in Angel Delight, Oscar pretending not to love the chaos, I realised something uncomfortable.
Emma does this every day.
Not just the physical stuff.
The energy. The orchestration. The emotional glue. She holds the mood of the house together.
And I dip in and out of it.
That night, when she looked at us, properly looked, I saw something soften in her face.
Not lust. Not obligation.
Relief.
And it hit me that relief might be more powerful than foreplay.
