An Ordinary Day—and a Divorce
Emily set the kettle on the stove and absentmindedly wiped down the counter, though it was already clean. Morning rituals. Richard had already left for work without a word, just as he had these past few months. Just the slam of the door. Back then, he’d always stopped in the kitchen, kissed her cheek, murmured something affectionate. Now? Now they were like strangers sharing a house.
The kettle shrieked. Emily poured boiling water into her favourite cup, the one with pale blue forget-me-nots—the one Richard had given her on their first anniversary. Thirty-two years ago. God, how time flew.
“Mum, where’s my navy jumper?” Charlotte burst into the kitchen. At twenty-eight, she still lived at home, saving up for a place of her own. “I asked you to wash it yesterday!”
“It’s drying on the line. Lottie, love, don’t you think it’s time you moved out? You’re a grown woman now.”
“Mum, not this again! My head’s splitting as it is.” Charlotte grabbed coffee from the French press Emily had prepared earlier. “By the way, Dad’s been acting weird. Last night he was whispering on the phone, then hung up the second I walked in.”
Emily stiffened. She’d noticed it too. Not just last night.
“Probably work,” she lied—to Charlotte, to herself.
“Oh, come off it! At eleven at night? He’s not a surgeon.” Charlotte rolled her eyes and dashed off to finish getting ready.
Alone, Emily let the thoughts churn. Richard *had* changed. He used to share everything—work, colleagues, weekend plans. Now he was tight-lipped, hiding his phone like a schoolboy with a failed test.
That evening, she made his favourite shepherd’s pie. Maybe over dinner they’d talk properly, like they used to. Charlotte was out with friends. The house was quiet. The perfect time for honesty.
Richard came home late, nearly nine. Emily had phoned him three times—no answer.
“Where were you? I was worried sick!” She met him in the hall.
“Had to finish a report.” He didn’t even glance at her, heading straight for the shower.
“Rick, I made shepherd’s pie. Fancy some?”
“Not hungry. Shattered.” His voice was muffled by the rush of water.
Emily lingered in the hallway, then trudged back to the kitchen. The pie sat cooling in its dish. She sank into a chair, poured tea, and let the tears fall—quiet, so he wouldn’t hear.
When Richard emerged, he walked straight past the kitchen without a look. The bedroom door clicked shut. Locked. For the first time in thirty-two years.
That night, she lay on the sofa in the front room, staring at the ceiling. Wondering when it had all changed. Wondering why they’d become strangers. Wondering if it was time to make a drastic choice.
Morning came. Richard left earlier than usual. Emily only woke when the front door slammed.
“Mum, why’d you sleep out here?” Charlotte stood in the doorway, hair tousled, still in her pyjamas.
“My back was sore. The sofa’s softer.” Emily folded the blanket stiffly.
“Don’t lie. Did you and Dad row?”
“It’s not your business, Lottie. Go eat.”
“Not my business? I *live* here! I see what’s happening!” Charlotte sat beside her. “Talk to me. Maybe I can help.”
Emily studied her daughter—grown, independent, sharp as a tack. Maybe it *was* time to say it aloud.
“Your dad and I… we’re strangers now. He dodges me. Shuts me out. And I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you tried *really* talking to him?”
“He just clams up or walks away.”
“D’you think… there’s someone else?” Charlotte’s whisper hung in the air.
The thought had crossed Emily’s mind, but she’d shoved it aside. Richard wasn’t *that* man. He was decent. A family man. Except… people changed.
“Don’t be daft,” she muttered.
“Mum, I’m not a child. Things happen. Especially after decades together.”
Emily stood abruptly, marching to the kitchen. Charlotte followed.
“You know what, Mum? If Dad’s changed this much—if he won’t even *talk* to you—maybe you should think about… well, a divorce.”
“Charlotte!” Emily spun round. “How can you say that?”
“Why not? Living with someone who ignores you? Pretends you’re *air*? That’s not life, it’s torture!”
“We’ve been together *thirty-two years*!”
“And if *he* doesn’t care about that, why should you?”
Emily froze. The girl had a point. What was the use clinging to ashes? But the thought of restarting at fifty-four—
That night, she steeled herself. When Richard returned, she cut straight to it.
“Rick. We need to talk.”
“About what?” He didn’t look up from his phone.
“Us. Our marriage. Whatever’s happening between us.”
“Nothing’s happening.” He tried to sidestep her, but Emily blocked his path.
“Don’t *walk away*!”
Finally, he met her eyes. Exhaustion. Irritation. Guilt?
“Em, not now. I’m knackered.”
“You’re *always* tired when I try to talk! But I won’t live like this anymore! We’re strangers! You avoid me, you barely speak, you *lock the door*—”
“What d’you *want* me to say?” Richard snapped. “That everything’s fine? That we’re happy? We’ve got *nothing* left! You nag, you criticise, you’re never *satisfied*!”
“*I’m* not satisfied?” Something inside her *fractured*. “Thirty-two years I’ve *slaved* for you! Cooking, cleaning, raising *your* children! And you accuse *me* of—”
“Yes! That *face* you pull! That *tone*!”
“What tone? The one I use when my *husband* ignores me?”
“For Christ’s *sake*!” Richard threw up his hands. “I’m *sick* of this house! Sick of these *talks*!”
“Sick of *me*,” Emily said softly.
Silence. His silence *answered*.
“Fine.” She nodded. “Let’s divorce.”
“*What*?”
“You heard me. If you’re *sick of it all*, let’s end it. Why suffer?”
“Em, have you *lost it*? At our *age*?”
“Is there an age *limit*?” The words left her lighter, like shedding a heavy coat in summer. “You’re right, Rick. We’re strangers. No sense pretending otherwise.”
“But—Lottie—”
“Lottie’s grown. She’ll understand. Or learn to.”
Richard slumped into an armchair, dragging a hand down his face.
“Em… maybe we can fix this.”
“Fix *what*? You just said you’re *sick of it all*. Well, so am I! Sick of being *invisible* in my own home! Sick of living with a man who looks *through* me!”
“I don’t—”
“When? When was the last time you *complimented* me? Had a *real* chat? Held me *just because*?”
Nothing. No defence.
“See?” Emily’s smile was bitter. “I remember. I *remember* the man you were. That man’s gone. And I won’t live with the ghost he left behind.”
Charlotte appeared in the doorway, drawn by the raised voices.
“What’s going on?”
“Your dad and I are getting divorced,” Emily said calmly.
“*What*?” Charlotte sank onto the sofa. “Mum, are you *serious*?”
“Deadly.”
“Dad?”
Richard lifted his head.
“Dunno, love. Dunno…”
“You know *what*, Dad?” Charlotte’s voice turned sharp. “Mum’s *right*! I’ve *watched* you this past year! You treat her like a *maid*! Cooking, washing, *nothing* but silence! And *yes*, I’ve seen you whispering on the phone! *Deleting* texts! Think I’m *blind*?”
“Lottie—”
“No! If there’s *someone else*, just *say it*! Stop torturing her! Mum *deserves better*!”
Richard stood abruptly.
“I’m going for a walk. Need to *think*.”
“Think hard,” Emily said. “I’ll see a solicitor tomorrow.”
When the door closed, Charlotte pulled her into a fierce hug.
“Mum… you’re *amazing*. This is *right*.”
“It’s *terrifying*, love.A year later, as Emily sat in her garden with a book and a fresh cup of tea, she realised—for the first time in decades—she wasn’t just surviving, she was *living*.
