Alright, so here’s the thing—moving house ended up breaking them apart.
“Are you even serious, Emma?” shouted Henry, waving his arms. “What am I supposed to do with my shed? My tools? Half my life’s in there!”
“And what about my job?” Emma shot back, just as loud, standing in the middle of the room cluttered with boxes. “Twenty years at the same company! They know me there, they value me!”
“You’ll find another job! Brighton’s got better weather, friendlier people, everything’s cheaper!”
“Oh yeah, like I’ll find one at fifty!” Emma let out a bitter laugh. “Have you lost your mind, Henry?”
Their son, Oliver, sat silently on the sofa, watching his parents argue. He was thirty-two, but right now, he felt like a kid forced to pick sides.
“Ollie,” Emma turned to him, “tell your dad that normal people our age don’t just pack up and move across the country!”
“Mum, don’t drag me into this,” Oliver sighed. “It’s your business.”
“Our business?” Henry snapped. “Families make decisions together! But you, Emma, you’re just stubborn! Won’t give an inch!”
Emma sat on the edge of the sofa and covered her face with her hands. Fifty-four years old, and the last month had aged her five more. It all started when Henry came home one evening, eyes shining, saying his cousin had invited them to move to Brighton.
“Imagine, love,” he’d said, pacing the kitchen, “Tom’s bought this massive house there. Says there’s plenty of space—we could stay with them while we find our own place. And the weather! The sea’s right there! Fresh produce everywhere!”
Emma had just nodded then, thinking it was another one of Henry’s passing whims. He was always chasing ideas—beekeeping one month, buying a countryside cottage the next. But this time, he wouldn’t drop it.
“Emma, I’ve already bought the train tickets,” Henry announced one day, walking into the kitchen. “We’re going down to see it the day after tomorrow.”
“What tickets? See what?” Emma stirred the soup, confused.
“Brighton! Tom’s found us a place near his. Says the owners are selling cheap.”
Emma turned off the hob and faced him. “Henry, what are you on about? What house? What Brighton?”
“We talked about this!” he insisted. “You said yourself it might be nice for a change!”
“When did I say that?”
“Last month! You were complaining about the new bosses at work, how they don’t respect the older staff. Well, here’s our chance!”
Emma sat down, her head spinning.
“Henry, think about it. We’re in our fifties! Our whole life’s here—the house, our jobs, our friends! You want to throw that away for some adventure?”
“It’s not an adventure,” Henry said stubbornly. “It’s a fresh start. Tom says we’d do well there. He’s thriving since he moved.”
“And what does his wife say?”
“Sarah? She loves it. Says it’s the best decision they ever made.”
Emma shook her head. Sarah was ten years younger and didn’t work. Of course she’d say that.
“Henry, I’m not going. Not even to look.”
“Why are you so stubborn? At least see it first!”
“I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to move. End of.”
But Henry wouldn’t let it go. Every day, he had new reasons—the weather, lower prices, how great it was for retirees.
“Emma, love,” he’d say over tea, “we’d live like kings there! Tom’s got a big plot—might even sell us part of it. We could grow our own veg, maybe keep chickens—”
“Chickens, Henry?” Emma groaned. “Can you milk a cow? Do I look like a farmhand?”
“We’d learn! People manage!”
“Well, let them. I’m not learning to tend chickens at fifty-four.”
Still, Henry wouldn’t drop it. He went to Brighton alone, came back with photos, videos of pretty houses, the seafront, cheap markets.
“Look how lovely it is!” he’d gush. “And the air! The people are so friendly!”
Emma stared at the pictures and thought of her job, her colleagues, her friends, her routines.
“I’m happy here,” she’d say. “Why change?”
“Because it’d be even better there!”
“And what if it’s not? What if we hate it? Then what?”
“We won’t! We’d settle in fine!”
Soon, the talks turned into rows. Henry grew more insistent; Emma dug her heels in.
“You never listen!” she’d yell.
“I do! You’re just stuck in your ways!”
“Stuck? Or comfortable?”
“This isn’t living, Emma! It’s just existing!”
Eventually, Henry took matters into his own hands. He listed the house without her okay, started packing up papers.
“What are you doing?” Emma gasped, seeing the online ad.
“What should’ve been done ages ago,” Henry said coolly. “If you won’t make the right choice, I will.”
“Without me? The house is in both our names!”
“You’ll come around.”
“Never!”
But Emma stood firm. She refused to sign anything and banned Henry from showing buyers around.
“It’s my home too! No one’s selling it while I’m alive!”
Henry lost his temper for good.
“You’re ruining my life!”
“And you’re not ruining mine? Deciding where I live, what I do?”
“I’m thinking of us!”
“No, you’re thinking of you!”
Oliver got dragged in constantly—Dad griping about Mum’s stubbornness, Mum begging him to talk sense into Dad.
“Son, just tell her,” Henry would say. “I’m trying to do what’s best.”
“Ollie,” Emma would weep, “your father’s lost it. Wants to drag me to some strange town, away from everything.”
Oliver tried being the peacemaker.
“Dad, maybe ease off? Give Mum time.”
“Time? It’s been six months!”
“Mum, what if we just visit? Not to move, just to see.”
“I don’t want to see it!”
The house became unbearable. They barely spoke, and when they did, it was about Brighton. Every conversation blew up.
“Know what?” Henry said one day. “I’m done fighting. I’m going alone.”
“Go, then,” Emma said coldly.
They stared at each other, waiting for the other to fold. Neither did.
“Fine,” Henry said. “If that’s how it is.”
“Apparently it is.”
Next day, Henry packed a bag and left for his cousin’s. Emma watched him go, silent. She thought he’d be back in a week.
A month passed. Henry didn’t return. He called sometimes, talked about settling in, never invited her.
“How’s it going?” Emma would ask flatly.
“Alright. Tom found us a cheap place. Might buy it.”
“Go ahead.”
The calls got shorter, rarer. Emma realized he wasn’t coming back.
Oliver visited every weekend.
“Mum, maybe talk to Dad properly?”
“What’s left to say? He made his choice.”
“He’s waiting for you to go there.”
“I’m waiting for him to come back.”
“So you’ll just wait forever?”
Emma shrugged. It hurt to admit their marriage was crumbling over something as silly as a move.
Three months later, Henry called.
“Emma, I bought the house,” he said. “Nice one, with a garden. Changed your mind? Come see it.”
“No.”
“Then that’s it?”
“Guess so.”
Silence. Then, quietly: “We should… get a divorce.”
Emma’s chest tightened. She knew it was coming, but it still winded her.
“Probably should,” she whispered.
“I’ll sort the papers here. Send them to you.”
“Alright.”
A pause.
“Emma—”
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t want this.”
“Me neither.”
“But you never got why this mattered.”
“And you never got why I couldn’t.”
Henry sighed. “Maybe we both messed up.”
“Maybe. Too late now.”
After the call, Emma sat in the kitchen, thinking how thirty years could collapse over a disagreement.
Oliver took the news hard.
“Mum, is there really no fixing this?”
“It’s done, love. Your dad’s started fresh.”
“And you?”
“I’m staying where I am.”
“No regrets?”
Emma thought. “I regret it. But what can I do? We wanted different things. He wanted adventure. I wanted safety.”
“There could’ve been a middle ground.”
“Only if we both wanted one.”
The divorce papers arrived a month later. Emma signed themAnd as she tucked the signed papers into the envelope, Emma realized some dreams are only meant for one.
