**”Fracture Beneath the English Sun: A Drama in Greenborough”**
Emily returned home from her holiday, her chest tight with sorrow. Her husband, James, hadn’t written once the entire time. At Greenborough station, no one waited for her. The house was dark, supper unmade, chaos reigning in every room. “Probably spent all his time at his mum’s,” she thought bitterly. She grabbed a second suitcase and began packing. That’s when James walked in.
“Back, then?” he muttered, lingering in the doorway. “Didn’t expect you. Think a little fun excuses everything, do you?”
Emily laughed—sharp, frayed at the edges.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be long,” she said, her voice trembling.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” James scowled. Then it hit him.
“Jamie, how could you? We planned this trip for ages!” Emily was on the verge of tears.
A whole year of saving, researching deals, dreaming of sandy beaches and warm waves.
“Not my fault. Mum fell ill—had to stay,” he grumbled, avoiding her gaze.
“When’s ‘later’? If she’d been hospitalised, fine. But it was just a mild fever!”
“It spiked yesterday! She called an ambulance!”
“Then it vanished after paracetamol. Jamie, this was a last-minute deal! If we don’t go now, we’ll never get this price again!”
“You’re being selfish. I said no. What if Mum worsens?”
“She has a daughter too. Can’t Lydia take care of her?”
“You know Lydia’s busy. Drop it. We’ll go another time. Besides, I promised Mum I’d help with her attic. You’ll pitch in too.”
He walked off as if the matter were settled. Emily sobbed.
Two jobs—one she despised, just to keep their finances afloat—and now her only escape, stolen. Endless overtime, her boss’s nitpicking, all endured for this: salt air and golden light.
She’d wanted to quit for years. James forbade it—the pay was too good. They’d redone the kitchen, bought a new car. Yet his wages vanished into his mother’s whims: a new boiler, a new telly. Never enough.
Likely, she’d orchestrated this. Used to her son’s devotion. Lydia knew better than to argue; James never asked her. But his wife? An easier target.
The sea faded further. Emily imagined peeling wallpaper in her mother-in-law’s stifling flat and knew—she’d break. She needed this.
Half an hour later, she faced him. “I’m going. With or without you.”
“You’re mad!”
“You’re the mad one. You’re killing my one dream. Stay if you want. I’m leaving.”
“Who’s going with you?” he sneered.
“Just me.”
He paced, fists clenching. “I see. Fancy a fling, do you? Some holiday fling?”
Emily bit her tongue. So many words simmered.
“If you don’t trust me, come along,” she said flatly.
“I can’t leave Mum.”
“Then don’t.”
She stormed out, breathless with rage. Always his mother first. Always assumptions. She’d never given him reason to doubt her—all she’d wanted was peace.
James assumed she was bluffing.
By morning, she asked again. He called her daft. By afternoon, she held a ticket.
The fight was vicious. Unprecedented. She offered to book his trip too—maybe he’d relent. But pride dug in. His mother, of course, was perfectly fine by then.
As she left for the station, he snarled, “Don’t bother coming back! Useless wife!”
Tears streaked her face as the train pulled away. She didn’t know this trip would change everything…
The resort swallowed her whole. Turquoise waves, buttery sunlight, crisp sheets. That first night, she texted James: *Arrived safely. Wish you were here.* No reply.
Fine. If he wanted silence, so be it. He probably thought he was punishing her.
Her sadness lasted a day. Then freedom seized her. Alone, she explored ruins, swam at dawn, ate when she pleased. With James, they’d have bickered by the pool.
And she thought. Re-evaluated. Clarity came like tide washing sand.
Her job? Miserable, but James feared losing her paycheck. Yet she never enjoyed the money—he controlled it. This trip? She’d funded it entirely.
She lived with a man who didn’t cherish her. Convenient—quiet, wage-earning, compliant.
At twenty-eight, Emily was radiant; James had a beer belly, thinning hair. His mother? Not a single “thank you” in years.
Sipping a mojito, she wondered: *Why?* What did this marriage give her? Stress, disrespect.
She’d thought she loved him. Now, oceans away, she realised—she didn’t miss him. Dreaded returning.
No messages. Perhaps a blessing. Clean breaks hurt less.
At Greenborough station, no one waited. The house: dark, dinnerless, a bombsite. James, predictably, had been at Mum’s.
She didn’t unpack. Just fetched another suitcase.
“Back?” he sneered in the doorway. “Think I’ll just forgive you?”
Emily laughed—wild, weightless. How kind of him to make this easy.
“Don’t fret. I’m only here for my things.”
His rage contorted him. “Found some bloke, didn’t you?”
“No,” she zipped the bag. “Just myself. I’m leaving, Jamie. Divorce papers soon.”
“*I’m* throwing *you* out!”
“Whatever helps.”
She left for her old flat—the one she’d kept despite his demands to sell. Instinct, perhaps.
James thought it a tantrum. When the papers arrived, he panicked. Begged. Too late.
Emily began anew: divorced, job-quit, finally learning—life’s too short to live for others. The most important person had always been herself.
