Sunday evening diary entry: Standing by the kitchen window, cup of cold tea forgotten in my hand, I watched the neighbourhood children chase each other. Yesterday, I signed the final divorce papers. Today, strangely, I feel lighter than I have in years. Odd, that. I thought it would hurt more.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” asked Amelia, my ten-year-old, shuffling in wearing her school uniform.
“Dad lives separately now, love. Remember we talked?” I smoothed her hair. “He’ll collect you for the weekend tomorrow.”
“Why can’t you just make up? Lily Carter says her parents argued, then bought a new car and stopped.”
A sad smile touched my lips. If only it were that simple. If only arguments were the problem.
“Breakfast time, Amelia. You’ll be late.”
She sat obediently but stirred her porridge thoughtfully.
“Mum, are you sad?”
“A bit, sweetheart. But you know what? Sometimes people part not because they stop loving, but because being together hurts. Apart, they can be themselves.” She nodded, though I knew at ten she couldn’t truly grasp it. I hadn’t understood immediately either.
It hadn’t started yesterday, or even last year. It began when Edward started coming home later and later, his pockets holding receipts from cafes I’d never visited. Back then, I told myself they were work meetings. He *was* a manager for a building firm in London; meetings happened.
“You late again?” I’d ask over rushed breakfasts as he stared at his phone.
“Yeah. Project deadline. Chaos. Don’t wait up.”
“Maybe a weekend trip? Amelia wants to visit your mum in Cornwall.”
“Working weekends too. Sorry, Soph. We’ll rest later.”
‘Later’ never came. I grew used to eating alone, putting Amelia to bed solo, watching telly by myself. Sometimes I felt like a widow, not a married woman.
Friends sympathised over lukewarm tea at Costa.
“Men are all like that now,” sighed Emma. “Work, work. At least he brings in good money.”
“The money’s fine,” I’d agree, “But what use is it? We live like strangers sharing a flat.”
“Ever thought there might be someone else?” Charlotte asked carefully.
“I have. But how to know? I won’t ask outright, and rifling through his things feels wrong. Besides, where would he find time? He’s always working.” Charlotte’s silence spoke volumes.
At home, I kept waiting. Waiting for Edward to come back to me, waiting for him to ask about my day, Amelia’s school play, *us*. He lived in a parallel world.
“How was work?” I’d venture when he finally got in.
“Alright,” he’d grunt, phone still glued to him.
“Amelia had her school recital today. She recited her poem beautifully.”
“Mmm.”
“Edward, are you listening?”
“Listening, listening. Well done, our Millie.” But his face showed he heard nothing beyond his phone notifications.
Gradually, I stopped talking to him. Why bother? I took a full-time job instead of part-time, signed up for photography evening classes, saw friends more. Life settled into a rhythm, yet felt incomplete – like missing a vital piece.
“Mum, why won’t Dad come ice skating?” Amelia asked one day.
“Dad’s busy, sweetie.”
“He used to come.”
“He used to be less busy.”
“When will he be unbusy?”
I didn’t know what to say. When? Ever?
That evening, I steeled myself. Waited until Amelia was asleep. Cooked properly, set the table. Edward trudged in at half ten.
“Sit down. We need to talk.”
“What about?” He slumped into a chair, phone still out.
“Put the phone away. Please.” He reluctantly placed it screen down.
“Edward, what’s happened to us? We exist; we don’t live. You arrive, eat, sleep, leave. We don’t talk, go anywhere, you barely see your daughter.”
“Soph, I work. I have to provide.”
“But there’s no family left! There’s me, you, Amelia – but no family. We’re three separate people sharing a flat.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a busy patch. Bear with it.”
“I’ve borne it for three years. How much longer?”
He sighed irritably.
“Soph, I’m shattered. Can we do this later?”
“When later? Tomorrow you’re late, the next day too. *When*?”
“Dunno. When I’m free.”
His phone buzzed. His hand twitched towards it.
“Edward!”
“What? Sorry.” But his eyes darted to the screen.
“Is there someone else?” The question tumbled out.
“What?” His head snapped up, something like fear flashing in his eyes.
“I’m asking if you’re seeing another woman?”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question. Is there?”
Silence hung thick. He stared at his plate. My heart hammering felt audible.
“Yes,” he whispered finally.
Strangely, I felt relief, not pain. Truth, at last.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
“Do you love her?”
He met my eyes.
“Dunno. Suppose so.”
“And me?”
“You too. Just… differently.”
“How differently?”
“Well… you’re Millie’s mum. We’ve years together.”
“So I’m like comfy old furniture? Familiar, convenient, but not exciting?”
“Soph, don’t say that.”
“How should I? Edward, do you realise we stopped being husband and wife years ago? We’re flatmates.”
“Maybe we can fix this? I can end it with her.”
“And start fresh with someone else in a year?”
He was silent.
“Don’t end it,” I said suddenly. “I don’t want you staying out of duty. I can’t keep waiting for you to remember me.”
“So?”
“So let’s divorce. Honestly, openly, without a scene. For Amelia too.”
He exhaled, a sound of pure relief. I knew he’d wanted it too, just lacked the courage.
The divorce was unexpectedly civil. Edward didn’t fight the London flat in my name, pays maintenance reliably, takes Amelia weekends. We talk better now than our last married years.
“You alright?” he’d ask picking up Millie.
“Good. You?”
“Not bad. Millie, get dressed! We’re off to London Zoo!”
“Mum, come too?”
“No, sweetie, Mummy’s busy. Have fun.”
Truthfully, I *was* busy. I joined the gym, pursued photography, saw friends, went to the theatre. Life unexpectedly flooded with colour.
“You’ve bloomed,” Emma remarked. “Haven’t seen you this content in five years.”
“Surprises me too. Thought I’d grieve, but it’s opposite. Like shedding a weight.”
“No regrets?”
“About Edward? No. About a family life we never truly had? No. I grieved *during* the marriage – for connection, closeness, conversation. Now? I don’t.”
“And Millie?”
“She’s adjusted. Says having two homes is brilliant. Edward spends more time with her now. Values their time, I suppose.”
Six months after the decree absolute, I met Jonathan. At a photography evening class – he was the tutor. Initially, we chatted after lessons. Then coffee dates. Then he invited me to an exhibition.
“Children?” he asked once.
“A daughter, ten. You?”
“Not yet. But very much want to.”
“Not every man admits that.”
“I’m not every man,” he smiled.
And he wasn’t. Truly listened. Cared what I thought. Remembered details. We talked effortlessly – work, photography, books, dreams.
“Mum, will Uncle Jon come for Sunday roast?” Amelia asked after I introduced them.
“If he wishes,” I
Standing by the kitchen window, lukewarm tea cooling in my hands, I watched children playing outside. Yesterday, I signed the final divorce papers, yet today feels lighter than any day in years. How odd, when I expected the opposite weight.
“Mom, where’s Dad?” ten-year-old Emma asked, her school uniform crisp as she entered.
“Dad lives separately now, remember?” I smoothed her hair. “He’ll fetch you tomorrow for the weekend.”
“Why can’t you just make up? Sophie’s parents argued, then bought a new car and stopped.”
I managed a sad smile. If only it were that simple. If only arguments had been our true trouble.
“Eat your toast or you’ll miss school.”
She sat obediently but stirred her cereal, lost in thought.
“Mom… are you sad?”
“A little. But sometimes people part not because love dies, but because staying hurts more. Apart, they can be kinder.”
She nodded, though ten is too young to grasp such things. I hadn’t understood at first either.
It began long before yesterday—or last year. Perhaps when Mark started returning late, receipts from cafés I’d never visited tucked in his pockets. I’d told myself they were work meetings. As a construction manager, he had many.
“Late again?” I’d ask over his rushed breakfast, eyes glued to his mobile.
“Yeah. Project deadline. Don’t wait up.”
“Could we visit your mum’s Cotswold cottage this weekend? Emma’s asked.”
“Working weekends too. Sorry, Luce. We’ll rest later.”
“Later” never came. I grew used to solitary dinners, putting Emma to bed alone, watching telly alone. Some days I felt widowed, not wedded.
Friends pitied me. “Men are all like that now,” Sarah would say at Costa Coffee. “Work, work, work. Still, he provides.”
“He provides,” I’d agree. “But what good is it? We live like strangers sharing a flat.”
“D’you think he’s seeing someone?” Claire ventured cautiously.
“I’ve wondered. But how to know? I refuse to rifle through his things. And when would he have time, always at work?” Claire’s silence spoke volumes.
At home, I kept waiting. Waiting for Mark to return to me—for conversations, shared interests, concern over Emma’s school plays or our plans. But he lived in a parallel world.
“How was work?” I’d ask when he finally arrived.
“Fine.” Eyes still on his phone.
“Emma recited a poem brilliantly at assembly today.”
“Mhm.”
“Mark, are you listening?”
“Yeah, yeah. Clever girl.” But his vacant expression said only the phone’s glow mattered.
Gradually, I stopped sharing. Why speak to someone who doesn’t hear? I took a full-time job instead of part-time, enrolled in pottery classes, met friends. Life inched forward, yet felt incomplete—like missing a vital ingredient.
“Mom, why won’t Dad skate with me?” Emma asked once.
“He’s busy, sweetheart.”
“He used to.”
come
Our divorce saved me.
I sat at the kitchen window, holding a lukewarm cup of tea, watching children play in the garden below. Yesterday, I’d signed the final divorce papers, and today, strangely, I felt lighter than I had in years. Shouldn’t it be the other way round?
“Mum, where’s Dad?” asked ten-year-old Katie, appearing in her school uniform.
“Dad lives somewhere else now, remember? We talked about it,” I replied softly, smoothing her hair. “He’ll fetch you for the weekend tomorrow.”
“Why can’t you just make up? Sarah Miller says her parents used to argue till they bought a new car.”
I smiled sadly. If only it were that simple. If only arguments were the whole problem.
“Come eat your breakfast, love, or you’ll be late.”
Katie sat obediently but stirred her porridge thoughtfully. “Mum, are you sad?”
“A little. But d’you know? Sometimes people part not because they stop loving, but because staying hurts more than leaving. Apart, they can be happier.”
She nodded, though I knew at ten, she couldn’t fully grasp it. Took me long enough too.
It hadn’t begun yesterday, or even a year ago. Probably started when David began coming home later and later, when I kept finding receipts for cafes I’d never been to in his pockets. Back then, I told myself they were work meetings. David managed a building firm; meetings happened.
“Working late again?” I’d ask as he hurriedly ate breakfast, eyes fixed on his phone.
“Yeah. Big project deadline. Don’t wait up.”
“Maybe we could go somewhere this weekend? Katie’s been asking about your mum’s cottage.”
“Working weekends too. Sorry, Em. We’ll rest another time.”
That ‘another time’ never came. I grew used to eating alone, putting Katie to bed alone, watching telly alone. Sometimes it felt like widowhood, not marriage.
My mates sympathised. “Men are all like that these days,” said Helen over coffee one day. “Work, work, work. At least he brings home the bacon.”
“He brings home the money,” I agreed, “but what use is it? We’re like lodgers sharing a house, not a life.”
“D’you ever think he’s seeing someone?” Olivia asked gently.
“Of course I’ve thought it. But how would I know? Asking outright feels impossible, and rifling through his things feels wrong. Besides, where would he find the time for an affair if he’s always working?”
Olivia just gave me a knowing look.
At home, I waited. Waited for David to come back to *us*, to talk like we used to, to ask about my day, Katie’s school, *our* plans. But David seemed to inhabit another world entirely.
“How was work?” I’d venture when he finally shuffled in.
“Fine,” he’d mutter, phone still glued to his hand.
“Katie had her Nativity play today. She recited her poem beautifully.”
“Mmm.”
“David, are you listening to me?”
“Course I am. Well done, Katie.”
But his vacant stare told me he’d heard nothing beyond the glow of his screen.
Gradually, I stopped telling him anything at all. What was the point? I switched my part-time job to full-time, enrolled in a photography evening class, met friends more often. Life slowly improved, but felt incomplete – like something vital was missing.
“Mum, why won’t Dad come skating with me?” Katie asked one Saturday.
“Dad’s busy, sweetheart.”
“But he came before.”
“He was less busy before.”
“When will he be less busy?”
I hadn’t known how to answer. When? Ever?
That night, I decided to talk. Waited till Katie was asleep, cooked dinner, laid the table. David stumbled in at half ten.
“Sit down, love. We need to talk.”
“About what?” He slumped into a chair, phone on the table.
“Put the phone away. Please.”
He placed it face down reluctantly.
“David, what’s happening to us? We’re not living, just existing. You come in, eat, sleep, leave. We don’t talk, go anywhere, you barely see Katie.”
“Em, I’m working. Got to provide for my family.”
“What family? There *is* no family! There’s me, you, Katie, but we aren’t *a* family anymore. We’re three separate people sharing a house.”
“Don’t overdramatise. It’s a busy patch at work. Just be patient.”
“I’ve been patient for three *years*. How much longer?”
David sighed irritably. “I’m knackered. Can we do this later?”
“When is later? You’ll be late tomorrow, same the next day. When *do* we talk?”
“Dunno. When I’ve got time.”
His phone buzzed. He instinctively reached for it.
“David!”
“What? Sorry.” But his eyes darted to the screen anyway.
“Is there someone else?” The words tumbled out.
“What?” He looked up, something flickering in his eyes – alarm, maybe.
“I’m asking if you’re seeing another woman?”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Answer the question. Is there?”
Silence hung thick. David stared at his plate. I stared at him. My heart hammered so hard I swore you could hear it next door.
“Yes,” he whispered finally.
Strangely, I felt relief, not pain. Truth at last.
“Long?”
“Six months.”
“Do you love her?”
He met my gaze. “Dunno. Suppose so.”
“And me?”
“I love you too. Just… different.”
“Different how?”
“Well… you’re Katie’s mum. We’ve years behind us.”
“So, I’m like old furniture? Comfortable, familiar, but not exciting anymore?”
“Em, don’t twist it.”
“How should I put it? David, we haven’t been husband and wife in years. We’re flatmates. Nothing more.”
“Maybe we can fix things? I could end it.”
“And start again with someone else next year?”
He said nothing.
“Don’t end it,” I said suddenly. “I don’t want you staying out of duty. And I’m done waiting for you to remember I’m here.”
“So?”
“So, let’s divorce. Cleanly, quietly, no big rows. For Katie’s sake too.”
He breathed out, a clear sigh of relief. He’d wanted this too, just lacked the courage to say it first.
The divorce was surprisingly civil. David didn’t claim the house (in my name), paid the maintenance diligently, took Katie weekends. We even talked better now than we had during the marriage’s final years.
“How are you?” he’d ask, collecting Katie.
“Good. You?”
“Getting by. Katie-Pops, get your coat, we’re off to London Zoo!”
“Hooray! Mum, you coming?”
“No, love, got my own bits to do. Have a lovely time.”
And it was true. My life was filling up – I joined a Pilates class, got serious about photography, met friends, saw West End shows. Life suddenly felt colourful, rich.
“You’ve blossomed,” Helen remarked. “Haven’t seen you this sparky in five years!”
“I surprise myself. Thought I’d be heartbroken, but it’s the opposite. Like a weight’s lifted.”
“Don’t you miss him?”
“David? No. Miss the family we *weren’t*? No. I missed that when we were still together. Missed the closeness, real talks. Now? I don’t miss it.”
“And Katie?”
“She’s adjusted fine. Says she’s got two proper homes now and it’s brilliant. And her dad spends more quality time with her than before. Reckons he values it more now.”
Six months after
