Bring Your Husband to Work Day

Date: 10/31/2025

It’s Bring Your Husband to Work Day. The depot buzzes like a restless hive, fluorescent lights trembling against a ceiling stained with time. New faces spill through the doors, all smiles and nervous laughter. My husband has already become one of them, proudly zipped into his Royal Mail red like he was born to wear it. “Don’t have too much fun… and don’t get up to any funny business!” The Big Boss calls, smirking at his own joke. His voice echoes through the metallic air. Nobody laughs. Mat moves through the room with awkward confidence, shaking hands, making small talk. The clatter of parcels fills the gaps in conversation. But then — he shakes the wrong hand. “I’m just the caretaker,” the man says, his eyes cast down. His voice is gravel, years of silence pressed into a few words. “Well. It’s an honest profession,” Mat replies. How patronising he sounds. His cheerfulness falls flat in the fluorescent gloom. Things only grow stranger once we’re out of delivery. A customer waves a battered package at me, veins in his temples pulsing. “What now,” I mutter, already weary. “Open this with me, will you?” he demands. I do. A single book tumbles out like a secret. “I’m expecting two books, not one!” he snarls. Mat steps forward, pulling from his pocket a Santa-length list, folded and worn. “Let me check the itinerary,” he says, chest puffed with importance. Minutes stretch thin before he looks up. “Just the one book today, sir. Maybe tomorrow.” We turn to leave, the man behind us howling obscenities. “Just ignore,” I whisper. But the next customer is worse — a young girl, a bloody bandage wrapped around her head like a crown of misfortune. She’s furious. “You gave me the wrong item!” she yells, hurling it at Mat’s head. I push back, shoulder to shoulder. The girl stumbles, dropping the cake she’s holding. “Fuck off, Amanda,” she spits, eyes sharp as razors. The room freezes. My name trembles in the air like a secret unwrapped. Amanda. But how could she possibly know? A chill creeps into my bones. I leave before the silence swallows me whole. Outside, the world tilts. Mat’s parked the van on an embankment, one gust away from rolling into oblivion. “Nice parking,” I say, forcing a laugh that doesn’t belong to me. We wander into a charity shop bursting with forgotten lives. The smell of old fabric and damp hope fills the air. Everything is £1. What a bargain. Mat lifts a Nike vest. “What about this one for Ali?” I wrinkle my nose. “Put it back.” The door creaks open. It’s Mum. She’s dragging a floral granny trolley behind her, the same kind she swore she’d never use. It’s overflowing with clutter, things she can’t let go of. “Sorry about your dad,” she says to Mat. He’s not dead, I think. Or is he? She asks me to help her park the car. Like the van, it’s perched precariously on a slope, wheels flirting with the edge. She slides into the seat beside me, grabs the wheel. The car jerks forward and flips — metal shrieking, glass blooming like flowers. It crashes down the embankment with the weight of something final. “Jesus,” I gasp. “It’s fine,” she snaps. “Absolutely fine.” Then she turns to me. Her eyes are mirrors, black pools reflecting nothing. “Where are you?” she asks quietly. “I’ve lost you since you started this writing nonsense. You have this glazed look. Like you no longer exist.” Her words pierce, and yet — they ring true. Before I can answer, the world blinks. I’m in Halfords now. Of course I am. The smell of rubber and cheap coffee. Mat and my mother-in-law are talking about bikes. I wander off, empty-headed, drifting through aisles of car polish and air fresheners. They sell trainer socks now — rainbows of them. I fill my basket until I see the price tag. £50. “Surely not,” I whisper. Outside, diggers gnaw into the earth, clawing holes in the carpark. The world beyond the glass looks wounded. “New builds,” a man beside me says. His voice is dull, like an echo from another dream. “They’re building more new builds.” “There’ll be no greenery left,” I reply. But when I turn — he’s gone. The scene slips again, like soil through fingers. Now I’m in Jenni’s house, drifting through rooms that aren’t mine. Kylie and I move quietly, our footsteps swallowed by plush carpet. We’re searching for signs of the baby — if there ever was one. No toys, no bottles, no sound. Then the door unlocks. Jenni walks in, Steve behind her, empty-handed as ever. She’s loaded with shopping bags, eyes darting like trapped birds. “Heeeey,” she says, pretending to be surprised. Her voice is tight, her smile brittle. “Can you help with some shopping?” We follow her outside. In the back seat, something moves — a baby, I think. Finally. “Aww,” I coo, my heart softening. But when I look closer, I freeze. It’s not a baby. It’s a grownass man. Karl. My friend Laura’s husband, his adult face trapped in infant form. Jenni bristles under my stare. “He’s just large for his age.” The words hang there, impossible. Then the world shifts again. Now I’m home. In bed. The quiet hum of the dark. I lie waiting for Mat to turn to me, to bridge the distance. My body aches with longing. He sighs beside me. “Not tonight, Mandy,” he murmurs. “I’m cream-crackered.” He rolls away. I stare at the ceiling, the silence pressing down like wet fabric. I sigh deeply, and sleep creeps over me, slow and heavy. When I wake, the world is pale. The bed beside me is cold. I rise, calling for Mat, for Mum — but only the faint buzz of the refrigerator answers. I step outside. The street is lined with new builds. Identical. Soulless. Windows like unblinking eyes. The charity shop, the depot, Halfords — they’re gone. At the end of the road stands Mum, her trolley at her side. She looks up, eyes wide and hollow. “Where are you?” she whispers again. And then I see it — my reflection in the glass of the nearest house. It’s faint. Barely there. Just a glaze.