Monday, 3rd December 2021—10 p.m.
Dan noticed it immediately. “That was not there before.”
“Hmm . . . ?”
Dan pointed at the folded piece of paper on the kitchen countertop, his name hastily printed on the front. Without a word he crossed the room, put on his reading glasses, and unfolded the sheet. Not a flicker on his face betrayed his emotions as he scanned it. He lowered his hand slowly. “You just wrote this when you went to the loo.”
I put a hand to my chest. “I can’t believe you’d say that!” (OK, I had, I totally had.)
“Admit it!”
“I had it in my bag all day. So, I just put it there while you were gone.”
“I don’t believe you, Emma.”
“I’m your wife, Daniel,” I said, which didn’t really make sense and I’d only added his name because he’d added mine.
He waved the paper. “You misspelled affection.”
“It’s a tricky word,” I stuttered.
“And it’s three lines long.”
I scoffed, “I don’t always have to write really long letters. I thought this year I’d—”
“Emma.” He cut me off, his voice stern; Dan rarely sounded stern. If it had been a lighter moment I might have commented that it was quite sexy. “Just admit it, you forgot . . . again.”
Oh God. I licked my lips, wanting to buy myself time. Last year he’d been so gutted. And it had shocked me into action. I had promised—promised—I’d do better. It had been my idea all those years ago and my early letters had often been six pages long, “front and back” as he used to tease. Why hadn’t I put a reminder in my phone? Or asked Hattie to remind me? Or one of the kids? Or just remembered like a nice, decent, thoughtful human? Like Dan had . . .
His brown eyes were sad: magnified by the new reading glasses he loathed (“Reading glasses! I’m forty-two, Emma!”): he was hurt. Again.
I wasn’t sure why I chose to go on the attack instead. “Why are you making such a big deal about this?”
He curled his fists, crumpling the hastily written note in his hand. “Because it is a big deal. Or . . .” he paused. “I thought it was. Maybe you don’t . . .” He raised his head and I was shocked to see tears film his eyes.
“Dan, don’t be like that.”
“I’m not being like anything. I’m allowed to be bloody sad.”
“Mum? Dad?” A small voice from the top of the stairs. Both of us swiveling toward the sound.
“God, you’ve woken the kids.” Guilt made me lash out. I moved to the kitchen door, saw Miles at the top, clutching his favorite Tigger to his chest—even at eight years old he couldn’t really sleep without him. “Hi darling, go back to bed. I’ll pop up and tuck you in in a minute.”
“Were you fighting?”
I shook my head, pain stabbing my chest. Memories of my own childhood fears when I’d heard the regular rows between my parents late at night floored me for a moment. “No, darling,” I choked and forced a smile. “It was the telly. Night, night . . .”
I returned to find Dan in his coat and shoes, forcing a leash on a reluctant, whining Gus.
“He’s been a bit off,” I said, hoping to divert from the row.
“Come on, Gus,” Dan snapped, standing up.
Definitely still angry. Normally he would have asked what Miles wanted, offered to pop up and see him, but instead he couldn’t meet my eye, had wrapped the leash around his fist, knuckles white.
It felt strange. Dan never got angry. I got angry, I was the one to swear when I scalded myself or flew off the handle over the fact I’d forgotten recycling day or some company had put me on hold, or when my parents made another excuse as to why they couldn’t visit. Dan was a pretty placid guy but tonight his jaw was rigid, his muscles tense as if he was about to explode.
Gus, crouched low, his nose almost touching the floor, resisted Dan’s tug on the leash with a whimper.
“Don’t pull on him like that . . .”
“I’m not pulling on him. Gus, come on.”
Dan scooped up a barking Gus and carried him out of the house anyway. The door slammed.
Cradling my head in my hands, I stood there. Christ. This was all my fault. I should have just apologized.
I needed to fix this.
“Mum,” Miles’s sleepy voice called from the landing.
Shit.
“Hey darling,” I half-whispered. “Sorry, Dad went out with Gus, I’ll come up and tuck you in, in a sec.”
He returned to his room.
I looked around the kitchen at the detritus of our meal. Dan had cooked chicken thighs in tarragon sauce, the envelope that had started this whole thing was by my place setting—my name written in black ink, a little heart just above the “a.” I was nervous of that letter too. Dan’s could be funny, loving, but they were always honest. And this year I was scared of honest. I was about to go upstairs when I heard it.
My skin broke into goosebumps as my head turned toward the door.
What was that?
Oh my God.