The Move That Led to Divorce
“What on earth are you saying, Margaret?” shouted Edward, waving his arms. “Where am I supposed to put my workshop? My tools? Half my life is in that shed!”
“And where am I supposed to put *my* career?” Margaret shot back, just as loud, standing in the middle of the room cluttered with boxes. “Twenty years at the same firm! They know me there, they respect me!”
“You’ll find another job! Cornwall has better weather, kinder people, lower prices!”
“Oh, find a job at fifty-five?” Margaret let out a bitter laugh. “You’ve lost your mind, Edward!”
Their son James sat silently on the sofa, watching his parents argue. Though he was thirty-two, moments like these made him feel like a child again, caught between his mother and father.
“James,” Margaret turned to him, “tell your father that sensible people our age don’t just pack up and move!”
“Mum, don’t drag me into this,” James sighed. “This is between you two.”
“How is it just between us?” Edward snapped. “Families make decisions together! But you, Margaret—you’re stubborn as a mule! Won’t budge an inch!”
Margaret sank onto the edge of the sofa, covering her face with her hands. At fifty-four, she’d aged five years in the last month alone. It had all started when Edward came home, eyes bright, announcing that his cousin had offered them a chance to move to Cornwall.
“Just imagine, love,” he’d said, pacing the kitchen. “Andrew bought a big house there. Says there’s plenty of room—we could stay with them while we find our own place. And the climate! The sea’s right there! Fresh produce!”
Margaret had nodded then, thinking it was just another of Edward’s passing whims. He often got swept up in schemes—beekeeping one month, buying a countryside cottage the next. But he’d always lose interest within weeks.
This time, though, it was serious.
“Margaret, I’ve bought the tickets,” Edward announced one evening, walking into the kitchen. “We leave the day after tomorrow to look.”
“What tickets? Look at what?” Margaret asked, stirring the soup.
“Cornwall! Andrew’s found us a house near his. Says the owners are selling cheap.”
Margaret turned off the stove and faced him.
“Edward, are you mad? What house? What on earth are you talking about?”
“Don’t you remember? We discussed it! You said yourself it might be nice for a change of scenery!”
“When did I say that?”
“Last month—you complained about the new management at work, how the younger lot don’t respect experience. Well, here’s our chance!”
Margaret sat down, her head spinning.
“Edward, be reasonable! We’re in our fifties! Our whole life is here! Our home, our jobs, our friends! You want to throw it all away for some mad adventure?”
“It’s not mad,” Edward insisted. “It’s an opportunity. Andrew says we could do well there. He’s never been better off since moving.”
“And what does his wife say?”
“Claire? She’s happy. Calls it the best decision they ever made.”
Margaret shook her head. Claire was ten years younger and didn’t work. Easy for her to uproot.
“Edward, I’m not going. I won’t even look.”
“Why are you being so bloody stubborn!” he exploded. “Just see it first, *then* decide!”
“I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to move. Full stop.”
But Edward wouldn’t relent. Every day, he brought new arguments—the milder winters, the lower cost of living, how pleasant it was for retirees.
“Love, just think,” he said over tea one evening, “we’d live like kings there! Andrew’s got a big plot—might even sell us part of it. We could tend a garden, maybe keep chickens, even a goat…”
“A *goat*, Edward?” Margaret sighed. “Can you milk a cow? Do I look like a farmer’s wife?”
“We’d learn! People manage!”
“Let them. I’ve no interest in learning to feed chickens at fifty-four.”
Still, Edward pressed on. He went to Cornwall alone, returned with photos, videos of pretty cottages, the sea, bustling markets.
“Look how lovely it is!” he’d marvel. “The air! The friendly faces!”
Margaret studied the images and thought of her office, her colleagues of twenty years, her weekend coffee with friends, the rhythm of her life.
“I’m happy here,” she’d say. “Why change it?”
“Because it could be *better* there!”
“And if it isn’t? If we don’t settle? What then?”
“We will! Of course we will!”
Gradually, discussions became rows. Edward grew more insistent, Margaret more entrenched.
“You never listen!” she’d shout.
“I *do* listen! But you’re being unreasonable!”
“Unreasonable? And you’re not?”
“I’m thinking of our *future*! What’s best for us! Not clinging to the past!”
“This isn’t the past—it’s our *life*!”
Finally, Edward acted without her. He listed the house, began packing paperwork.
“What are you *doing*?” Margaret gasped, finding the listing online.
“What should’ve been done ages ago,” he replied coolly. “If you won’t face facts, I will.”
“Without my consent? The house is in *both* our names!”
“You’ll come around. Eventually.”
But Margaret held firm. She refused to sign anything, even barred Edward from showing buyers around.
“This is *my* home too! And no one’s selling it while I’m alive!”
Edward’s patience snapped.
“You’re ruining everything!” he roared.
“And you’re not? Deciding where *I* should live, what *I* should do?”
“I’m thinking of *us*!”
“No, you’re thinking of *you*!”
James was caught in the crossfire—his father complaining of Margaret’s obstinacy, his mother begging him to talk sense into Edward.
“Dad, maybe don’t rush this?” James tried.
“Rush? It’s been *months*!”
“Mum, what if you just visit? Not to move, just to see.”
“I don’t *want* to see!”
The house grew unbearable. Edward and Margaret spoke only to argue, every conversation ending in shouts.
“Fine,” Edward said one evening. “I’m done fighting. I’ll go alone.”
“Go, then,” Margaret answered coldly. “No one’s stopping you.”
“Right. You stay with your job and your friends.”
“I will.”
They stared, each waiting for the other to relent. Neither did.
“Alright,” Edward said. “If that’s how it is, there’s nothing left to say.”
“Apparently not.”
The next day, Edward packed a suitcase and left for his cousin’s. Margaret watched in silence, certain he’d return within weeks.
But a month passed. Then two. Edward called sporadically, updating her on his new life, never inviting her to join.
“How are things?” Margaret would ask flatly.
“Fine. Andrew found us a good place. Thinking of buying.”
“Buy it, then.”
“And you?”
“Same as ever.”
Calls grew shorter, rarer. Soon, Margaret understood—he wasn’t coming back.
James visited every weekend.
“Mum, maybe talk to Dad properly?” he’d urge.
“About what? He’s made his choice.”
“He’s waiting for you to come.”
“And I’m waiting for *him* to come back.”
“And you’ll just… wait forever?”
Margaret shrugged. It hurt to admit their marriage had crumbled over something as small as a move.
Three months later, Edward called.
“Margaret, I’ve bought the house,” he said. “It’s… nice. Big garden. Maybe you’d reconsider? Just come see it.”
“No,” she said. “I told you.”
“So… that’s it?”
“Seems so.”
“Then we should… make it official,” Edward said quietly.
Margaret’s chest tightened. She’d known this talk would come, yet still wasn’t ready.
“Suppose we should,” she agreed.
“I’ll send the papers.”
“Alright.”
A silence.
“Margaret?”
“Yes?”
“I never wanted it like this.”
“Nor did I.”
“But you still don’t see why this mattered.”
“And you don’t see why I couldn’t.”
Edward sighed.
“Maybe we were both wrong.”
“Maybe,” Margaret said. “But it’s too late now.”
“Yeah. Too late.”
After, Margaret sat at the kitchen table a long while, thinking how quickly decades could unravel. Thirty years of marriage, ended over a move.
James took it hardest.
“Mum, isn’t there still time to fix this?”
“No, love. YourAnd as the years passed, Margaret often wondered if the stubbornness that had kept her rooted in familiarity was worth the empty silence of the house she’d fought so hard to keep.
