**Mashed Potatoes, Roast Chicken, and the Divorce That Didn’t Happen**
London. A damp autumn evening. Chilly wind, tired eyes, and an even wearier heart. Emma trudged home after ten long hours on the shop floor of the supermarket. Only one thought kept looping in her mind:
*Maybe Danny at least fried up some potatoes…*
The flat greeted her with the cosy smell of something delicious. Emma kicked off her wellies, hung up her coat, and stepped into the kitchen—where plates of steaming mashed potatoes and roast chicken waited on the table. Cutlery, salt, bread, the kettle. Danny nodded silently at the chair.
“Sit down.”
“Blimey, what’s the occasion?” Emma forced a smile. “This is new.”
“Just a normal dinner,” he shrugged. “But we need to talk.”
They ate quietly. The chicken was tender, the mash perfectly seasoned. Emma boiled the kettle, made a pot of Earl Grey, and sat across from her husband.
“Out with it, then. Something’s eating at you.”
Danny stared out the window a long moment before meeting her eyes.
“Nan and Grandad’s golden anniversary is Saturday. They’ve invited us.”
“Oh, the ones who gave us fifty grand for our wedding?” She sighed. “How’s that work, then? Weren’t we about to file for divorce?”
“Just… let’s go. For them. They’re old—it’ll mean something. We’re still married, technically.”
Emma gave him a sceptical look. She had no energy left—not for fighting, not even for making up.
“Fine. Suppose it’ll be our last outing as a couple.”
They rode in Danny’s dad’s car. Him and his father up front, Emma and his mum in the back. Silence.
“Had a row, have you?” her mother-in-law whispered.
“No,” Emma lied, mustering a smile.
“Look at these rings we got them for the anniversary. Proper gold, lovely, aren’t they?”
“Lovely,” Emma echoed.
“Stick together. In fifty years, your kids’ll gift you the same.”
Emma looked down. *Fifty years? That’s a lifetime…*
The party was lively—young cousins, uncles, Nan’s friends. Piles of food, laughter, endless toasts. But Emma kept her distance from Danny. The women in his family pulled her into organising games. They were in their thirties, like her. Bickering, teasing their husbands, but… you could see the love.
Emma caught herself wondering:
*Do I love him? Does he love me?*
Maybe once. But now? The flat felt bleak. Money was always tight. She hadn’t bought a proper coat in three years. Kids? He never mentioned them. Couldn’t hold a steady job. Yet he’d been her dream once…
The party wound down late. Guests trickled home. Nan Lily patted Emma’s arm.
“Stay the night. Help us tidy up a bit.”
Wordlessly, Emma and Danny cleared the tables. Worked in sync, no talking needed. Two hours later, the house was spotless.
Nan set the kettle on.
“Well, Tom, fifty years we’ve managed,” she chuckled, nudging Grandad.
“Near split a dozen times,” he grumbled. “Got as far as the registrar’s office once.”
“And walked right back out.”
“I was jobless then, skint,” Grandad muttered.
“Remember when lads would gawk at me? Called me a right catch. And you’d puff up like a peacock.”
“*Catch*,” he snorted—but his eyes crinkled warm.
Emma watched them, a pang in her chest. They bickered, talked over each other, but… they loved. Properly.
*We were like that,* she realised. *Young, fiery, stubborn. So sure we were right. Now they laugh over what nearly broke them.*
Nan Lily pulled an envelope from her apron.
“Here. Get yourselves something nice. For autumn. No arguments—we’ve got plenty.”
Emma opened her mouth to refuse, but Danny took it.
“Ta, Nan.”
“Off to bed with you. Room’s ready.”
The spare room was where Danny had spent summers as a boy. Now the single bed held two. They lay stiffly, silent.
“Em…” he whispered.
She curled into his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Not money. Not designer coats. Just… him.
Danny dozed off. Emma stared at the ceiling.
*Glad we didn’t divorce. Tomorrow, I’ll get that trench coat. Then… maybe a baby. Grandkids one day. In forty-nine years… golden rings. Just like theirs.*
She smiled—properly, for the first time in ages. And slept. Peacefully. Beside him.
