Emma Traded Her Family for Silence

“Mum, say something!” shouted fourteen-year-old Lucy, waving her report card with yet another D in algebra. “You’re like a piece of furniture these days! You don’t even yell at me anymore!”

“Emma, your daughter’s talking to you,” muttered her husband, Mark, without looking up from his newspaper. “Could you at least react?”

Emma sat by the window with a cold cup of tea, silent. She watched the neighbour’s children playing football in the garden, laughing and shouting—while in her own home, the tense quiet was only broken by her family’s failed attempts to fill it.

“Mum! I’m asking you!” Lucy persisted. “I failed maths. There’s a parents’ evening tomorrow. Are you going, or are you bailing like usual?”

Emma turned to her daughter and studied her for a long moment. Lucy fell silent, bracing for the usual lecture about the importance of studies. Instead, her mother just nodded and turned back to the window.

“Em, what’s got into you?” Mark snapped, finally looking up. “Our child’s talking to you, and you’re acting like you’ve forgotten how to speak. What’s been going on with you lately?”

Lately. Emma almost laughed. What counted as “lately”? A month? Six? Or the past fifteen years of trying to be heard, only to realise her family had stopped listening long ago?

“Mum, I’m going to Olivia’s,” Lucy announced, tossing her report card onto the table. “At least it’s fun there.”

The door slammed. Mark lowered his paper and stared at his wife.

“Emma, I’m talking to you. What’s happened? Why are you so… checked out?”

Checked out. She rolled the words in her mind. When was the last time he’d asked about her day unprompted? About work, her worries, her thoughts—anything other than what went wrong?

“Em?” Mark stood and walked over. “Say something. Should you see a doctor?”

A doctor. Of course. If a wife isn’t shouting, lecturing, or arguing, she must be ill.

“I’m fine,” Emma said quietly.

“Then what’s the matter? Why have you stopped talking to us?”

Emma walked to the kitchen. Mark followed.

“Look, maybe you need a break. Go visit your sister in Devon, get some fresh air.”

Fresh air. From what? A family who didn’t see her? Colleagues who treated her like wallpaper? A life that had become an endless loop of the same day?

Emma started washing dishes. Mark hovered, waiting.

“Em, why won’t you talk? I’m worried.”

Worried. She remembered when he *was* worried—when they’d first married, and he’d listen for hours to her stories about work, friends, trivial things. Now he couldn’t even recall her boss’s name.

“Everything’s fine, Mark. Don’t fuss.”

“How can I not? You’re different. This house used to be full of your voice. Now it’s just… dead silence.”

Emma remembered those days—when she talked *so much*. Sharing every detail, every dream, every frustration. They’d nod along, half-listening, minds elsewhere.

“Fancy dinner tonight? Just us?” Mark offered. “Haven’t done that in ages.”

Just us. She pictured it: Mark ranting about work, Lucy complaining about teachers. They’d only acknowledge her if she asked whether they wanted tea.

“Lucy’s at Olivia’s. Said she’s eating there.”

“Then it’s just us. Like old times.”

Old times were different. Back then, Mark noticed when she was upset. Asked why. Held her when things were hard.

Emma dried her hands. Mark still waited, expectant.

“Fine. I’ll cook something.”

He brightened, as if she’d agreed to some grand gesture—not the dinner she’d made daily for fifteen years.

At the table, Mark tried to spark conversation.

“How’s school?” He served himself roast potatoes.

“Alright.”

“‘Alright’ how? What’s the new headteacher like?”

Emma studied him. Did he actually care, or was he just filling silence?

“Kids are kids. Head’s fine.”

“Right. Well, today at work—” He launched into a story about supplier issues.

Emma nodded in the right places. As always. He talked; she listened. When she tried sharing about *her* job, he’d steer the chat elsewhere.

“Remember when we’d talk till dawn?” Mark said suddenly. “About everything.”

She remembered. Back when her opinions mattered. Now he just missed the background noise of her voice.

“I remember.”

“Fancy putting music on? It’s too quiet.”

Quiet. He missed the *noise*. Not her presence, not her thoughts—just the soundtrack to his life.

After dinner, Mark watched telly while Emma sat by the window with a book. But she couldn’t read. She wondered when she’d become a ghost in her own home.

Maybe it happened slowly. First, they stopped listening. Then replied in grunts. Then stopped noticing she’d spoken at all.

So she’d stopped too. Why speak if no one hears?

—

The next day at school, her colleague Sarah cornered her.

“Emma, you’ve been off lately. Everything okay?”

“Fine.”

“Really? You used to be so chatty. Problems at home?”

Problems. Were there any? Mark worked. Lucy studied. House was tidy. Just like everyone else’s. Except the wife had gone quiet.

“No problems. Just tired.”

“Right. I thought maybe… well, you know Sally from Year 8? Her husband left. Acted weird first, too.”

“Mark’s fine.”

Sarah nodded and left. Emma wondered: if Mark *did* leave, would she even notice? He already lived a separate life—one where she was set dressing.

That evening, Lucy burst in with school gossip.

“Mum! Olivia and Sophie aren’t speaking—some boy drama! And I’ve got history revision. Help?”

Emma looked at her daughter. Fourteen. Needing her mum most. And all she’d given her was silence.

“I’ll help.”

They bent over the textbook. Lucy read aloud; Emma explained. For once, Lucy listened. Asked questions.

“Mum… why’ve you gone quiet?” Lucy suddenly asked. “You used to talk loads. Give advice. Now you only answer when asked.”

Emma set the book aside. Lucy’s eyes were worried.

“Just tired of talking, love.”

“Why? Did we do something?”

“No. I just needed silence.”

“But I *miss* it,” Lucy admitted. “The house felt alive. Now it’s… empty.”

Empty. So her voice *had* mattered. Lucy just hadn’t shown it.

“Honestly—did you listen before? When I talked about work, my day?”

Lucy bit her lip.

“Not always. But I liked it. Felt… cosy.”

Cosy. Like telly murmuring in the background.

“I’ll listen more,” Lucy promised. “Just don’t stop talking. Please.”

Emma hugged her. She hadn’t needed silence—she’d needed to be *heard*.

That night, Mark came home exhausted.

“Hi.” He kissed her cheek. “How was your day?”

“Fine. Yours?”

“Same old. Shattered. Telly?”

He vanished into the lounge. Emma cooked dinner, called them to the table.

Lucy chattered about school; Mark grumbled about work. Emma listened—but now noticed Lucy glancing at her, waiting.

“Had an interesting day,” Emma said suddenly.

They both looked up.

“Oh?” Mark said.

“Ofsted came. Observed my lesson.”

“How’d it go?” Lucy asked.

“Brilliant. The inspector loved it. Even the head said well done.”

“Fantastic!” Mark grinned. “What was the lesson?”

“Shakespeare. *Macbeth*.”

“Oh, we did that last term!” Lucy said. “The ‘dagger’ speech.”

“Exactly. The inspector said the class *got* it—the ambition, the guilt.”

“Still relevant,” Mark nodded. “Everyone’s scrambling over each other these days.”

They finished dinner actually *discussing* her job—asking questions, not just tolerating her voice.

“Mum, tell another story,” Lucy begged after dessert.

“Which one?”

“Anything! Your childhood, your school. You tell them *so well*.”

Emma smiled. “Alright. How I met your dad.”

“Ugh, not *that* one!” Lucy groaned.

“You don’t know the best bit. I nearly didn’t go to the party where we met.”

“Really?” Mark blinked. “You never told me that.”

“You never asked.”

She spun the tale—how shy she’d been, how her mate practically dragged her there. They *listened*. Laughed at the right bits. Asked questions.

“That’s why I went. AndEmma realised then that what she’d truly wanted wasn’t silence, but a family who listened—and now, with their laughter filling the room, she knew she’d finally found it.