**Deciding to Divorce…**
With a tray in hand, Emily endured the endless queue in the cafeteria and briskly addressed the young man behind the counter, “Three soups, three roast dinners, and three lemonades, please.”
There wasn’t enough space on the tray. She glanced several times at the table where her husband, James, and their ten-year-old son, Oliver, waited. Oliver was too young to think of helping, but James—buried in his phone—didn’t even look up. Emily had to make two trips, shuffling back and forth under the disapproving stares of other diners.
Without lifting his eyes from his screen, James slid a bowl of soup toward himself. He took a bite and scoffed. “Pea soup? I hate pea soup. You could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve gotten up and chosen yourself,” Emily sighed. “I’m not a mind-reader.”
“Oh, come off it! You couldn’t just ask? It’s not like we stood in the queue together!”
Emily bent over her bowl and decided not to respond. Arguing was pointless. James was always like this—perpetually dissatisfied. And, worse, Oliver was starting to mimic him.
“Ugh, Mum, roast dinner? I don’t like roast dinner,” the boy whined.
“Mum only thinks of herself,” James muttered through a mouthful of the very soup he’d just criticised, still glued to his phone.
“Eat what’s in front of you,” Emily hissed, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. The cafeteria was packed—holidaymakers rushing to breakfast before hitting the beach. Emily had planned the same, though she doubted James would join. He’d moaned yesterday about the walk to the shore.
Of course, it was her fault. She’d chosen this resort, despite asking James repeatedly to help decide. His response? *“You can’t handle it on your own? Just pick something. I need to relax after work.”*
So she had. And, as usual, nothing was right. The resort was too far from town, no sights to see, and the beach was a ten-minute walk. James hated it.
After breakfast, Emily stacked the dirty plates on the tray and noticed the couple from the next room entering—a polished woman in her fifties and her cheerful, attentive husband.
The woman glided in like royalty, claiming a table while her husband asked, “Darling, which dessert would you like today?”
Emily overheard while clearing the tray. Alone—because James and Oliver had already bolted. She envied the woman. *Where did men like that even come from?*
She used to think James was like that. He’d been charming, thoughtful. After their wedding, he’d meet her after work, they’d cook together, plan their evenings.
But when had it changed? Probably after Oliver was born.
Emily took maternity leave, and it became expected—dinner ready, house spotless. Oliver was an easy baby, so it wasn’t hard. She’d tried to be the perfect wife.
Then she’d gone back to work. Still, she did it all—cooking, cleaning, parenting. *She was the woman—wasn’t that her role?* If only James appreciated it. Or even noticed.
He took it for granted, then nitpicked. Shirt not ironed right, pasta leftovers. Emily took every criticism to heart, rushing to fix it. *He wasn’t a bad husband. Steady job, no cheating, came straight home. Just… grumpy. That’s just him.*
She hurried outside, catching up with James and Oliver, who hadn’t waited.
“Back to the room? Then the beach?” she panted.
“Ugh, trekking all that way in this heat,” James groaned. “This is what happens when you pick the place. Fine, let’s go.”
By the time they reached the beach, the sun was brutal. James stripped off his shorts and T-shirt, dumping them on the pebbles, and sprinted into the waves with Oliver—shouting at Emily to pay for the sun loungers and umbrella.
She seethed. *She* wanted to swim too. Why was *she* sweating her way through this errand? Was that her job too? Sighing, she obeyed. What else could she do? Argue over something so small?
Emily wasn’t a strong swimmer, so she stayed shallow. James left Oliver with her and swam off alone—as usual. He never stayed with them. What *really* irked her was when he left early.
“I’m heading back,” he announced after an hour. “The AC’s better.”
“Stay a bit longer? We could leave together.”
“Nah, too hot.”
He dashed off—no water bottle, no inflatables for Oliver, no thought for anyone else.
That was the whole holiday. James was on a break; Emily was just doing chores in a different place. Even the excursions—which *she* booked—earned complaints. *“Too long on a stuffy bus. Boring. Should’ve gone somewhere else.”*
The last evening, Emily packed alone while James and Oliver slept.
“Bus at five,” James had said. “You handle the suitcases. Just don’t forget anything, like last time.”
Last summer, she’d forgotten *one thing*—his razor. He’d never let it go.
Done packing, she checked the room. All set. Five hours until wake-up. But sleep wouldn’t come. Seven days, gone in a blink. What was there to remember? Running after James and Oliver? She could’ve done that at home.
She stepped onto the balcony, leaning on the railing. Cicadas chirped loudly. Then—a lighter clicked.
Their elegant neighbour stood there, cigarette glowing.
“Can’t sleep?” the woman asked.
“Leaving early. Just finished packing,” Emily said.
“Alone? Where’s your husband?”
“Asleep,” Emily laughed bitterly.
The woman heard it. “You’re Emily, right? You’re young, lovely. Forgive me, but your husband doesn’t appreciate you.”
“You noticed?”
In the dark, Emily suddenly wanted to confess. To this stranger she’d never see again.
“He wasn’t always like this. When we married, he was so caring—like your husband. I saw how he dotes on you.”
The woman exhaled smoke, amused.
“Hard to believe, but we divorced once. Two years apart. He chased me the whole time. I reevaluated everything. When we got back together, I changed how I saw marriage—and myself.”
She stubbed out her cigarette.
“You’re young. My advice? Love yourself first. Then your husband will too. Are you afraid of divorce?”
“Divorce?” Emily blinked. “I’ve never thought about it. I work, I have my own flat. I’m not dependent.”
“Good. Then *decide* to divorce. Not that you must, but *decide*. Change how you see yourself. Either he’ll accept it, or you’ll split. Here’s an example: Tomorrow, sit at the table. Say you won’t queue—*he* will. It’ll be hard. There’ll be rows. Have them. The real problem? Your son’s learning to disrespect you too.”
She left. Emily stayed, pondering. To act like that—to *decide* on divorce—was terrifying. But living like this was worse.
At five a.m., Emily woke James and Oliver. She grabbed only her handbag, took Oliver’s hand, and walked out. James had no choice but to haul the suitcases.
Catching up, he offered her one.
“No, James,” Emily said sweetly. *“You’re the man.”*
This meant one thing: She’d decided. Change—or leave.
On the plane, James fumed. *What’s gotten into her?* But the real shock came home.
Emily unpacked only her and Oliver’s things, then napped. “Exhausted,” she said. James’s suitcase sat untouched.
Later, she took Oliver out.
“We’re eating at a café,” she told James.
“What? What about me?” His eyes bulged.
“Find something in the fridge. Or figure it out.” She shrugged. “I’m not cooking.”
She never did. Or ironed. Days later, James—fuming—unpacked his own suitcase.
Before work, he went to bed as usual. Then morning came—no ironed shirt, no trousers.
“Have you lost your mind?” he roared. “What am I supposed to wear?”
“Iron it yourself.”
“You’re unbelievable! I’ll be late!”
“I’m staying in bed.” She turned away, trembling under the covers.
James botched the ironing. He spent the day uncomfortable—and furious. *What’s wrong with Emily?*
That evening, he planned to confront her—until she appeared, perfumed and polished, heading out.
“Oliver’s at my parents’. I’m going out.” She slipped past him.
No dinner. No ironing.The next summer, as Emily lounged by the pool with a book in hand, watching James chase after Oliver with an umbrella and a sunhat, she smiled to herself—knowing she’d finally found the secret to happiness: putting herself first.
