**Diary Entry – A Move That Became a Goodbye**
“What are you on about, Lorraine?” shouted Edward, waving his arms. “Where am I supposed to put my garage? My tools? Half my life is in that shed!”
“And where am I supposed to put my career?” Lorraine shot back, standing amid the clutter of boxes. “Twenty years at the same firm! They know me, they value me!”
“So find another job! Brighton’s got better weather, kinder folk, cheaper living!”
“Oh sure, at fifty-four, jobs just fall from trees!” Lorraine scoffed bitterly. “You’ve lost your mind, Edward!”
Their son, Daniel, sat silently on the sofa, watching his parents argue. At thirty-two, he still felt like a child caught between Mum and Dad.
“Dan,” Lorraine turned to him, “tell your father normal people our age don’t uproot their lives!”
“Mum, don’t drag me into this,” he sighed. “It’s your decision.”
“Whose decision?” Edward snapped. “Families decide together! But you, Lorraine, you’re as stubborn as an oak! Won’t bend an inch!”
Lorraine sank onto the sofa, covering her face. At fifty-four, the past month had aged her five years. It had started when Edward came home, eyes bright, saying his cousin had offered them a move to Brighton.
“Imagine, love,” he’d said, pacing the kitchen, “Robert’s bought a big house. Says we can stay while we find our own. The sea’s right there! Fresh produce, better air!”
She’d nodded then, thinking it another one of his passing fancies—beekeeping one week, a countryside cottage the next. But this time, he didn’t drop it.
“Lorraine, I’ve booked the tickets,” he announced days later. “We leave Thursday to see the place.”
“What tickets? What place?” She stirred the soup, bewildered.
“Brighton! Robert’s found us a house nearby. Owners are selling cheap.”
She turned off the hob and faced him. “Edward, what are you on about? What house? Brighton?”
“How d’you mean? We talked about this! You said you fancied a change!”
“When did I say that?”
“Last month! You moaned about the new management at work, how they don’t respect experience. This is our chance!”
Her head spun. “Edward, think! We’re in our fifties! Our lives are here—the flat, our jobs, our friends! You’d throw it all away?”
“Not throw away—start fresh! Robert says it’s brilliant. He’s thriving since moving.”
“And what does his wife say?”
“Margaret? She’s over the moon. Calls it their best decision.”
Lorraine shook her head. Margaret was a decade younger and didn’t work. Easy for her.
“I’m not going. Not even to look.”
“Why so bloody stubborn?” he exploded. “At least see it first!”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to move. Full stop.”
But Edward wouldn’t relent. Daily, he brought new arguments—the mild winters, the bustling markets, the easier life for retirees.
“Love, think,” he urged over tea, “we’ll live like kings! Robert’s got a big plot—might sell us part. Grow our own veg, maybe keep chickens…”
“Chickens, Edward?” she sighed. “Can you even muck out a coop?”
“We’ll learn! Others manage!”
“Let them. I won’t.”
Still, he pushed. He went alone, returned with photos of seafront cottages, sunlit orchards.
“Look how lovely!” he’d gush. “The air’s cleaner, people friendlier!”
She’d stare at them, thinking of her colleagues, weekend coffees with friends, her routines.
“I’m happy here,” she’d say. “Why change?”
“Because it’ll be better! Trust me!”
“And if it’s not? If we hate it?”
“We won’t!”
The talks turned to rows. Edward grew insistent; Lorraine dug in.
“You never listen!” she’d yell.
“I do! But you think wrong!”
“Wrong? How’s wanting stability wrong?”
“Proper thinking’s about the future! Not clinging to the past!”
“This isn’t the past—it’s our life!”
Eventually, Edward acted alone. He listed the flat, gathered paperwork.
“What’re you doing?” she gasped, spotting the ad online.
“What’s needed,” he said coolly. “If you won’t be reasonable, I will.”
“Without me? The flat’s in both names!”
“You’ll sign. Eventually.”
“Never!”
She barred him from showing buyers around. “This is my home too! It’s not selling while I’m alive!”
Edward finally snapped. “You’re ruining my life!”
“And you’re not ruining mine? Deciding where I live?”
“I’m thinking of us!”
“Of yourself!”
Daniel got dragged in—Edward complaining of her stubbornness, Lorraine begging him to talk sense into his dad.
“Dad, ease up,” Daniel tried. “Give Mum time.”
“How much time? It’s been months!”
“Mum, just visit. You don’t have to commit.”
“I don’t want to!”
The air turned toxic. They spoke only of the move, each talk ending in shouts.
“Know what?” Edward said one night. “I’m done fighting. I’ll go alone.”
“Go then,” Lorraine said coldly.
“I will. You stay with your job and mates.”
“I will.”
They stared, waiting for the other to fold. Neither did.
“Fine,” Edward said. “If that’s it, we’re done talking.”
“Seems so.”
Next morning, he packed a case and left for Robert’s. Lorraine watched in silence, sure he’d return in a week.
A month passed. He’d call sometimes, updating her on house-hunting, never asking her to join.
“How’s things?” she’d ask flatly.
“Alright. Found a decent place. Might buy.”
“Buy it.”
“And you?”
“Same as ever.”
The calls grew shorter, rarer. She realised he wouldn’t return.
Daniel visited weekends. “Mum, talk to him properly.”
“What’s to say? He’s chosen.”
“He’s waiting for you.”
“And I’m waiting for him.”
“Will you both just wait forever?”
She shrugged. It hurt to admit their marriage was crumbling over something as trivial as a move.
Edward called after three months.
“Lorraine, I bought the house. Nice, with a garden. Change your mind? Just visit.”
“No.”
“That’s it?”
“Guess so.”
“Then… we should divorce.”
Her chest tightened. She’d known this was coming, yet it still winded her.
“Suppose so.”
“I’ll send the papers.”
“Right.”
Silence.
“Lorraine?”
“What?”
“I didn’t want this.”
“Nor did I.”
“But you never got why this mattered.”
“And you never got why I couldn’t.”
He sighed. “Maybe we both messed up.”
“Maybe. But it’s too late now.”
“Yeah. Too late.”
After, she sat at the kitchen table, wondering how thirty years could unravel so fast.
Daniel took it hard. “Mum, can’t you fix it?”
“Too late, love. He’s started anew.”
“And you?”
“I’m staying in the old.”
“Regrets?”
She thought. “Plenty. But we wanted different things—he dreamed of change, I needed steadiness.”
“Could’ve compromised.”
“Takes two willing to try.”
The divorce papers came a month later. She signed without reading.
That evening, in the flat she’d fought so hard to keep, she saw the hollowness of her victory. It was too big, too quiet.
Photos of Brighton lay on the table—Edward’s sea views, quaint streets, golden sunsets. Maybe it would’ve been good. Maybe she should’ve risked it.
But it was too late now. Too many words, too many wounds. The move meant to unite them had driven them apart.
She tucked the photos away. Life went on, and she’d have to learn to live it alone.
At work, colleagues asked how she was. “Fine,” she’d say.
Friends wondered where Edward was. “Away on business,” she’d lie.
She couldn’t explain their marriage had ended over a move. It sounded too petty, too small against thirty years.
Yet that’s what happened. The move meant to bring them closer had left them on opposite shores.
**Lesson:** Sometimes, standing your ground means losing what you stood for. Compromise isn’t weakness—it’s the mortar that holds love together. Too late, I learned that.
