A Crack in the Heart of the Family
Valentine was finishing his dinner, carefully scraping the last bits of mashed potato from his plate, when he glanced at his wife. Charlotte, humming a cheerful tune, was washing up in their cosy flat in Manchester. Her good mood seemed infectious, but an unease had been growing in Valentine’s chest.
“Finished?” Charlotte asked, turning to him with a smile. “Pass me your plate!”
Valentine handed it over and let out a heavy sigh.
“Charlie,” he began quietly. “Maybe… don’t go tomorrow, eh?”
“What did you say?” she asked, not quite catching it. “Hang on, just a sec!”
She rinsed the plate, turned off the tap, and sat across from him, drying her hands on a tea towel.
“Go on, I’m listening,” she said, studying him curiously.
“I said, maybe don’t go tomorrow?” His voice trembled slightly with tension. “You’ve got no business at my mum’s, really.”
Charlotte blinked at him, eyebrows raised.
“Val,” she replied, keeping her tone calm. “First, we already agreed. Second, your mum rang *begging* us to come—it’s her *big* birthday, not just any old one. And third, you know I haven’t been further than the park or the shops in *six months*. I just want a change of scene!”
“And what did you expect?” Valentine snapped, irritation creeping into his voice. “When you agreed to have a baby, you knew it wasn’t a toy! Kids need constant attention. What kind of mother gets *tired* of her own child? I don’t get this nonsense!”
“It’s *not* nonsense,” Charlotte shot back, forcing herself to stay composed. “I just want to go to your mum’s party. A bit of fun, feeling like a person again! I’m not off clubbing with mates—I’m going to a family do, *invited*, with *you*!”
“Well, I don’t think you should go at all! You’re a *mother*!” he said sharply.
“And you’re a *father*,” she countered, a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fine, we’ll ring your mum, wish her happy birthday, and you can drop off the present later.”
“*What*?” he spluttered.
“You just said kids need their parents. So tomorrow, we *both* stay home and look after Oliver. You’re just as much his parent as I am. But when it was *your* sister’s birthday or a mate’s night out, suddenly that didn’t matter.”
“I *needed* a break!” he argued.
“And I don’t?” She held his gaze. “I’m with him *all day*. More than you are.”
“You’re his *mother*!” he repeated, like a mantra.
“And you’re his *father*!” she said firmly.
Valentine realised there was no changing her mind—it was both of them or neither. “*Stubborn*,” he thought, then tried another angle.
“Alright,” he conceded, softening his tone. “But who’s looking after Ollie? He’s only six months—you’re not taking him to a restaurant?”
“My mum,” Charlotte replied. “She offered.”
“And you’re fine dumping him on her?” Valentine’s voice rose. “*Parents* should raise their kids!”
“So… we’re staying home to raise Oliver tomorrow?” she clarified, her voice steady.
“Fine, *suppose* we’ll go,” he muttered grudgingly. “But what are you even wearing? We’ve got no money for a new dress, no time to shop.”
“Not an issue,” Charlotte laughed. “Haven’t you noticed I’ve lost a bit of weight? My old dresses fit again—barely worn, just a couple of work do’s.”
The next evening, Valentine was in a foul mood. He’d hoped his mum’s party would be a chance to unwind, maybe even dance with a few pretty guests. At home, it’d just be silence—Oliver asleep, Charlotte in bed, and him rolling in past midnight. But she’d ruined it, insisting on coming.
Charlotte, meanwhile, was glowing. Oliver had been angelic—playing in his cot, no fuss, giving her time to get ready. Her mum arrived early, so there was no rush. She skipped the taxi—the restaurant wasn’t far from the bus stop, and she had plenty of time. Valentine was meeting her straight from work.
“Changed your mind yet?” he grumbled over the phone.
She just smiled to herself, shaking her head.
At the restaurant, they wished his mum happy birthday, handed over flowers and a gift, then took their seats.
“Charlie, love, let me get you some salad!” his mum offered warmly.
“She can’t have that,” Valentine cut in darkly. “She’s breastfeeding!”
“It’s not *wine*,” his mum said, baffled.
“I know what’s fine, thanks,” Charlotte said gently.
Minutes later, when his dad offered some smoked salmon, Valentine interrupted again:
“*Fish* is off-limits too! Have you even thought about the baby?”
“Val, I’ve got it covered,” Charlotte said, though her patience was thinning.
Valentine’s scowl deepened as he watched her enjoying herself. Her smile, her ease—it infuriated him.
“Have you no shame?” he hissed. “Our son’s with your mum, and you’re here having a laugh! What if he’s screaming for you?”
“He’s *not*,” she said evenly. “I rang Mum—he ate and went right to sleep. Forgotten?”
Valentine stabbed at his salad, seething. “*Nothing* gets to her. Stubborn cow.*”
“Val, dance with me?” Charlotte asked. “Live music—when did we last dance?”
“Go by yourself,” he snapped. “Not in the mood.”
Just then, a man from a nearby table approached.
“Mind if I steal your wife for a dance?” he asked politely.
Valentine grimaced but nodded. As Charlotte danced away, he simmered with rage. When she returned, he lashed out:
“Got *any* decency? I’m *miserable*, and instead of caring, you’re off dancing with *strangers*! A married woman, a *mother*! Our son’s at home, and you’re *partying*?”
His voice carried. His mum shot him a sharp look and pulled him aside.
“What’s *wrong* with you?” she whispered fiercely, keeping her smile for the guests. “Charlotte’s my guest! She’s stuck at home *constantly*—can’t even pop to the salon! I *wanted* her here to relax. Have you no heart?”
“*Heart*?” Valentine spat. “Relax from *what*? A baby? That’s her *job*! Her place is with our son, not prancing around!”
“Listen to yourself!” his mum snapped. “You sound selfish and *cruel*! Don’t you dare ruin this—for me *or* her!”
But her words only fuelled his anger. He felt *betrayed*.
“We’re leaving,” he barked at Charlotte. “Taxi’s outside.”
“Val, we’ve only just—”
“I’m *going*!” he near-shouted. “Stay if you want—dance till dawn with *whoever*!” He stormed out without even saying goodbye.
Charlotte, fighting tears, hurried after him. In the cab, he kept going:
“Was this *worth* it? You ruined my night, Mum’s party, and now your mum’s stuck with Oliver! Hope you’re *proud*!”
Charlotte said nothing, tears slipping down her cheeks as she stared out the window.
A month later, she packed her things, took Oliver, and left for her mum’s. She couldn’t take Valentine’s behaviour anymore. Somewhere deep down, she hoped he’d see sense, apologise, change. But in her heart, she knew better—men his age rarely did.
