Emily pushed open the front door, her arms straining under the weight of two bulging shopping bags. The moment she stepped inside, her husband’s voice drifted from the living room.
“You’re back? Is it six already?”
“It’s seven,” she replied wearily, heading straight to the kitchen.
Three teacups sat on the table. That meant her mother-in-law had visited—probably with Aunt Margaret in tow. Emily didn’t even flinch. It had become routine: unannounced drop-ins, snide remarks about her “unladylike” habits, judgmental stares, and the lingering traces of unwanted guests scattered around her home.
“Where were you? I’m starving,” Daniel called out, eyes fixed on his laptop.
“At the supermarket. Buying food for His Majesty,” she shot back flatly. “But actually, we need to talk.”
Silence. She strode over, turned his chair to face her, and said calmly,
“We need a divorce.”
Daniel blinked, bewildered. “What? Why?”
“Because I can’t do this anymore.”
“Emily, can’t we eat first? I’m starving.”
“No. We talk now.”
“Come on. You know I don’t drink, don’t cheat, don’t leave my socks lying about. I work, I provide. Never ask you for a thing. What more do you want?”
Emily let out a dry laugh.
“You live in my flat. You don’t pay rent, utilities, anything—that’s all me. Groceries, cleaning, cooking? Also me. So what exactly are you providing for?”
“I… bought myself a jumper. Downloaded a game update. Help Mum and Aunt Margaret sometimes—send them money. That’s normal, isn’t it?”
“Oh, perfectly normal. Except this morning, I started the laundry and asked you to hang it up. It’s still sitting in the machine.”
“I was on a break!”
“A change of task *is* a break, Daniel.”
“But I don’t know how! Mum and Aunt Margaret never let me near the cooker or hoover.”
“Right. You ‘don’t know how.’ Very convenient, isn’t it? Well, starting today—if you’re hungry, go cook. I’m not making dinner. The girls invited me out, and I’ve changed my mind. Good luck.”
With that, she hung the laundry, gestured to the kitchen, and left. At the pub, halfway through her wine, her phone lit up—her mother-in-law’s number. She silenced it and turned the screen face down.
When Emily returned, Patricia was already in her living room.
“Emily! Have you lost your mind?! Divorce?! Do you have *any* idea what a catch Daniel is? Men like him don’t grow on trees! He doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheat, doesn’t leave a mess! Women would kill for a husband like him!”
Emily met her gaze coolly.
“You sound like you’re bragging about a well-trained dog. He doesn’t do anything *wrong*—that’s your list. Can you name one thing he does *right*? For me?”
“He works!”
“So do I. Except I also clean, cook, shop, pay bills—for both of us. What does he actually *do*?”
“He buys you gifts! I help him pick them!”
“Ah, that explains the foot spa for Christmas and the woolly scarf for my birthday.”
“Expecting diamonds, were you?” Patricia sneered.
“A spa voucher would’ve been nice. Or a holiday. But no. I get a scarf. And disrespect. And the endless ‘I don’t know how.’ I’m done being his mother.”
“He doesn’t know how! Men in our family don’t do those things!”
“Exactly. You raised him to expect someone else to do everything. And he’s happy with that. I’m not.”
“Maybe don’t rush to divorce? Teach him—”
“No. I won’t teach a grown man how to be one. I tried. Eighteen months. Never again.” She took a sharp breath. “Right now, we’re packing his things, and you’re both leaving. I’m not cruel. Just exhausted.”
Half an hour later, a cab idled outside. Two bags, one suitcase. Daniel trailed behind, laptop tucked under his arm.
Emily shut the door. Sank onto the sofa. Breathed deep. Scrawled in her planner: *Divorce. Freedom.*
And for the first time in years, she slept soundly.
