“When the Heart Knows Best”
“Listen, I’m not your babysitter, Emily. I work all day, I’m exhausted.”
“Oh, so you think I don’t get tired? Just once, can I have time to even get a haircut?”
This back-and-forth happened more often in Emily and Thomas’s house than the sound of the doorbell. He was a builder—successful, financially comfortable, his voice always firm. She was the wife, the mum, the backbone. Silently carrying the weight of chores, their child, and herself. Her friends didn’t get it. Especially Laura, her closest friend since school.
“Em, he’s not a partner, he’s a dictator. If I were with a bloke like that, I’d have left within a month!”
“He’s good!” Emily would insist, but each time she said it, the word felt thinner, more fragile.
Her parents weren’t around. Her mum had passed from cancer eight years back, and she barely remembered her dad—he’d left when she was three. Thomas’s parents, meanwhile, had moved to Spain years ago. Even though they were “only in their sixties,” they weren’t in any rush to return, not even for their grandson.
When Emily was alone after her mum’s death, Thomas had been the one to stay. Her friends were busy—one had a sick kid, the other was tied up with work. But Tom? He just showed up, stayed, let her lean on him. That was enough to make her believe in him.
Three years later, they married. Another three, and little Jamie was born. That’s when she realised: at home, Tom wasn’t much help. “I’m not a nanny,” he’d say, and it became his mantra.
She tried slipping back into her old life—meet-ups, walks, nights out with the girls. But a baby in a pram made everyone tense. Some didn’t want to hear about nappies, others suddenly remembered urgent errands. Only Laura still visited. Until one day, she asked:
“Can’t you even afford a nanny?”
Emily didn’t know what to say. Maybe they *could* afford one, but she already knew Tom’s reaction: “Manage it yourself.” So she did. Out of habit. Out of love. Out of duty.
When she found out she was pregnant again, her chest tightened with a strange, sticky fear. Not for herself—for her family. How would *he* cope? What if something happened to her?
“Brilliant! Jamie’s getting a little sister!” Thomas cheered.
Jamie started nursery—”so he doesn’t wear you out,” her husband said. But at home, everything still fell on Emily: cooking, cleaning, laundry. She didn’t even let herself think about asking for help.
Her friends invited her out. One night, she went. But when she turned down wine, Sarah sneered:
“First a pram, now another baby. What kind of life is that?”
Emily didn’t reply. Inside, she just felt smaller. Yeah, not like theirs. But it was hers. And she loved it.
The pregnancy was normal—until labour hit. In the dead of night, she went to the hospital.
“I’ll drop Jamie at nursery in the morning, then come straight here!” Thomas promised.
But the birth stalled. Hour after hour, pain, fear. The doctors waited, reluctant to do a C-section. Then—emergency surgery.
A girl. Tiny, healthy. But Emily got worse. Fever spiked. Tests showed nothing. Three days later, the baby was discharged—Thomas took her home. Emily stayed. Alone, burning up, panic strangling her. *How’s he managing? What if I die?*
They called in Professor Harrison. He didn’t wait.
“CT scan. Now.”
Hidden infection. They put her in a coma. Before darkness swallowed her, she heard the doctor say, “We have to remove the uterus. She won’t make it otherwise.”
Then—nothing.
She woke to a nurse adjusting her IV. Emily managed a weak smile. Alive.
“Your husband’s been in. With the pram. Everyone’s fine, don’t worry.”
“He can’t even boil an egg…” she whispered.
“Managed it, actually. Made formula. Takes Jamie to nursery. He’s holding up. Really.”
Tears welled. *He’s holding up.*
Ten days later, she came home. The house was tidy. The baby—fed. Jamie—at nursery. Thomas—right there. Nappies—fresh. Dishes—clean. She stared at him like he’d performed magic.
“Who’s changing the dressing?”
“Me. Got a problem with that?”
“*You?*”
“Me.”
And every night, when little Katie cried, it was him who got up. No complaints, no hesitation. Just—did it.
“How’d you manage?”
“Surprised, eh?”
“Honestly? Yeah. But I always knew you were good.”
“I’m no hero, Em. I’m your husband. Just a decent one.”
Two months later, on Emily’s birthday, the doorbell rang. She answered.
“Surprise!” hissed Margaret, bustling in with armfuls of bags and affection. Behind her—David, weary but beaming.
Emily almost said it—*where were you when everything was falling apart? When I nearly died?* But she just looked at them, and her heart softened. They were part of this world too. The world where she had Thomas.
“Sweetheart, don’t be cross we didn’t fly over sooner. But our Tommy didn’t let you down, did he?”
“No. He didn’t. And he never would. Because he’s the best I’ve got.”