The Move That Ended in Divorce
“Don’t talk nonsense, Lucy!” shouted Edward, waving his hands. “What am I supposed to do with my garage? My workshop? Half my life is in there!”
“And what about my job?” Lucy fired back, standing in the middle of a room cluttered with boxes. “Twenty years with the same firm! They know me, they respect me there!”
“You’ll find another job! In Manchester, the weather’s better, people are friendlier, everything’s cheaper!”
“Oh, sure, at fifty years old!” Lucy let out a bitter laugh. “You’ve lost your mind, Edward James!”
Their son, Thomas, sat quietly on the sofa, watching his parents argue. At thirty-two, moments like these made him feel like a child again, forced to choose between Mum and Dad.
“Tom,” Lucy turned to him, “tell your father that normal people our age don’t just up and move across the country!”
“Mum, don’t drag me into this,” Thomas sighed. “This is between you two.”
“Between us?!” Edward snapped. “A family makes decisions together! But you, Lucy, you just dig your heels in! You won’t budge an inch!”
Lucy sank onto the edge of the sofa and buried her face in her hands. At fifty-four, she’d aged five years in the last month. It all began the day Edward came home, eyes alight, announcing that his cousin had offered them a chance to relocate to Manchester.
“Just imagine, love,” he’d said, pacing around the kitchen, “Michael bought a big house there. Says we can stay with them until we find our own place. And the weather—just think! Fresh produce, cheaper living!”
Lucy had nodded along, dismissing it as another one of Edward’s passing whims. He was always chasing new ideas—beekeeping one month, buying a cottage the next. But this time, he didn’t let it drop.
“Lucy, I’ve bought the tickets,” Edward announced one evening as he stepped into the kitchen. “We leave the day after tomorrow to look around.”
“What tickets? Look at what?” she asked, stirring a pot on the stove.
“Manchester! Michael’s found us a house near his. Says it’s going cheap.”
Lucy turned off the hob and faced him.
“Edward, are you serious? What house? What Manchester?”
“How can you ask that? We talked about this! You said yourself a change might do us good!”
“When did I say that?”
“Last month—you were complaining about the new bosses at work, how they don’t respect senior staff. Well, here’s our chance!”
Lucy sat down. Her head spun.
“Edward, be reasonable! We’re in our fifties! Our whole lives are here—the flat, our jobs, our friends! You want to throw it all away for some wild fantasy?”
“It’s not a fantasy,” he insisted. “It’s an opportunity. Michael says we could do well there. He’s never been better off since he moved.”
“And what does his wife say?”
“Mary? She’s happy. Calls it the best decision they ever made.”
Lucy shook her head. Mary was ten years younger and didn’t work. Easy for her to pick up and leave.
“Edward, I’m not going. Not even to look.”
“Why are you so stubborn?!” he exploded. “At least see it first, then decide!”
“I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to move. End of.”
But Edward wouldn’t let it go. Every day, he brought new arguments—the milder climate, the lower prices, how much better retirement was up north.
“Lucy, just think,” he said over tea one evening, “we’d be living the dream! Michael’s got a huge plot—might even sell us part of it. We could keep chickens, maybe even a goat…”
“A goat, Edward?” Lucy sighed. “Can you milk a cow? Do I look like a farmer?”
“We’d learn!”
“I don’t want to learn how to feed chickens at fifty-four.”
Still, Edward wouldn’t give up. He went to Manchester alone, returning with photos and videos—beautiful houses, the countryside, bustling markets.
“Look at this place!” he gushed. “The air! The people!”
Lucy stared at the pictures, thinking of her colleagues, her weekend meet-ups with friends, her routines.
“I’m happy here,” she said. “Why change?”
“Because it’ll be even better there!”
“And if it’s not? What if we don’t fit in?”
“We will!”
Gradually, these talks became shouting matches. Edward grew more insistent; Lucy more defiant.
“You’re not listening!” she yelled.
“I am! You’re just—wrong about this!”
“Wrong? What’s right, then? Your way or mine?”
“Right is thinking ahead! About what’s best for us!”
“This is our life—not some grand adventure!”
In the end, Edward took matters into his own hands. He listed the flat for sale and started packing.
“What are you doing?” Lucy gasped when she saw the listing online.
“What should’ve been done ages ago,” he said flatly. “If you won’t make sensible choices, I will.”
“Without me? The flat’s in both our names!”
“You’ll come around. Eventually.”
“Never!”
But Lucy stood firm. She refused to sign anything and barred Edward from showing buyers around.
“It’s half mine! No one’s selling it while I’m alive!”
Edward lost his temper completely.
“You’re ruining my life!” he shouted.
“And you’re ruining mine!”
Thomas got caught in the crossfire—his father complaining about his mother’s stubbornness, his mother begging him to talk sense into Edward.
“Tom, make her understand,” Edward pleaded. “I just want what’s best.”
“Your father’s lost his mind,” Lucy whispered tearfully. “He wants to tear me away from everything!”
Thomas tried to mediate.
“Dad, maybe ease up? Give Mum time.”
“Time? It’s been six months!”
“Mum, maybe just visit? You don’t have to move yet.”
“I don’t want to!”
The house became a battleground. When they did speak, it was only about the move—and always ended in screams.
“You know what?” Edward said one night, “I’m done fighting. I’m going alone.”
“Go, then.”
They stared at each other, waiting for the other to back down. Neither did.
“Fine,” Edward said. “If that’s how it is, we’ve got nothing left to say.”
“Apparently not.”
The next day, Edward packed a suitcase and left for his cousin’s. Lucy watched in silence, certain he’d be back in a week.
A month passed. He only called occasionally, never inviting her.
“How’s it going?” she’d ask stiffly.
“Alright. Found a decent place. Thinking of buying.”
“Buy it.”
These calls grew shorter, rarer. Lucy realized he wasn’t coming back.
Thomas visited every weekend.
“Mum, just talk to him properly,” he urged.
“About what? He’s made his choice.”
“He’s waiting for you.”
“And I’m waiting for him.”
“Will you both just wait forever?”
Lucy shrugged. It hurt to admit their marriage had crumbled over something as small as a move.
Three months later, Edward called.
“I bought the house,” he said. “It’s nice. Big garden. You could still come.”
“No.”
“Then this is it?”
“Seems so.”
A pause.
“We’ll… have to file for divorce,” he said quietly.
Lucy’s chest tightened. She’d known this was coming—but it still shocked her.
“I suppose we must.”
“I’ll send the papers.”
“Alright.”
Silence.
“Lucy.”
“What?”
“I didn’t want this.”
“Neither did I.”
“But you never understood why this mattered.”
“And you never got why I couldn’t.”
Edward sighed.
“Maybe we were both wrong.”
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But it’s too late now.”
The divorce papers arrived a month later. She signed without reading them.
That evening, she sat in the flat she’d fought so hard to keep—and wondered who the victory was for. The home felt hollow now.
On the table lay the photos Edward had brought back—rolling hills, stone cottages, sunny skies. Would it have been so terrible?
But it didn’t matter now. Too much had been said, too much hurt piled up. The move that was meant to be a fresh start had ended everything instead.
Lucy tucked the pictures into a drawer. Life went on—only now, she’d have to learn to live it alone.
At work, colleagues asked how she was. “Fine,” she said. Friends wondered where Edward was. “Away on business,” she lied.
She couldn’t bear to explain that thirty years of marriage had ended over a disagreement about moving.And as she closed the drawer, Lucy realized that the hardest part of starting over wasn’t learning to live alone—it was forgiving herself for not knowing when to let go.
