The Emergency Contact

The kids are on the bus.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, not “ahh, a moment to breathe.”

It’s the kind of quiet that echoes. That presses.

That asks too many questions I’m too tired to answer.

Questions like, “Why are you trying to relax when there’s so much to do?”

Or, “Don’t you feel guilty sitting doing nothing?”.

Cue mum-guilt.

I fold laundry like it matters.

One pair of leggings. One chewed sleeve. One tiny sock that probably never had a match to begin with.

I do the dishes, all flair, no grace & a few swear words, but they’re clean. They can dry themselves, I’m just not that type of person. Dish towels give me the major ick.

I fly round the kids rooms with a black bag, grabbing the hoards of juice bottles and snack wrappers. I whip open their curtains and crack their windows for a blast of fresh air, and make their beds.

I don’t stop there… oh no. Mum guilt hasn’t worn off yet. There’s still so much to do. I get on with the hoovering, wiping surfaces, scrubbing the carpet and walls for all I’m worth.

I reach the bathroom.

And then I sit. On the edge of the bath.

I don’t cry.

I don’t scream.

I just… stop.

Because this is the part no one sees.

The part between the school drop-offs and the speech therapy calls and the dinner that probably won’t get eaten.

The part where I have to hold myself up, again, with absolutely nothing left in the tank.

I’m still masking.

Not just for the kids, but for the world.

Even when there’s no audience.

Especially now.

I got back together with their dad.

Yeah.

That happened.

Not in some whirlwind of love and redemption, more like a slow, tired shuffle back to something that used to feel familiar.

Because I was lonely.

Because he said the right things.

Because it felt easier not to be doing this completely alone.

Spoiler alert: it wasn’t easier.

It was heavier.

More emotional admin. More pretending. More effort to protect everyone from the fallout of something that was already cracking the second I tried to rebuild it.

It was more like trying to plug a leaking dam with chewing gum and hope than rekindling a relationship.

It ended almost as quickly as it restarted.

No big drama. No explosive fallout. Just two people who tried, again, and quietly realised they were better apart.

It wasn’t working. It never really worked. And I finally stopped trying to make it look like it did.

So I resigned myself to being alone.

Not in a sad, tragic way, just… practical.

I had the kids. I had the routine. I had enough on my plate.

Romance felt like something that lived in another lifetime. Someone else’s story. Not mine.

And then Alex showed up.

Not in a dramatic entrance. Not swooping in like some kind of rescue fantasy.

He just appeared.

A friend of a friend. Someone I’d walked past once when I was seventeen, barely registered.

And suddenly, years later, he was there.

Exactly when I didn’t know I needed anyone.

Exactly when I was finally okay being on my own.

He didn’t flirt.

He didn’t push.

He just listened.

Sent voice notes. Shared memes. Made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how.

We both needed a friend, and that’s exactly what we became.

Easy. Effortless.

Safe.

And then, without meaning to, we became something more.