That cold December morning, Margaret stood at the kitchen window, the chill from outside almost seeping into her untouched tea as she watched children playtime in the square. Yesterday she’d signed the final divorce papers; today, unexpectedly, she felt lighter than she had in years. Strange, when she’d expected only heaviness.
“Mum? Where’s Dad?” asked ten-year-old Emily, appearing in her school uniform.
“Dad lives elsewhere now, remember? We talked about it,” Margaret replied softly, smoothing her daughter’s hair. “He’ll collect you tomorrow for the weekend.”
“But why can’t you just make up?” Emily persisted. “Sophie Anderson says her parents fought loads, then bought a new motor and stopped.”
A sad smile touched Margaret’s lips. If only it were that simple. If only rows were the problem.
“Breakfast now, love. You’ll be late for school.”
Emily sat obediently but stirred her porridge thoughtfully. “Mum? Aren’t you sad?”
“A little sad. But you know, sometimes people part not because they stop caring, but because being together hurts. Apart, they can be better.” Emily nodded, though Margaret knew ten was too young to grasp it fully. She hadn’t grasped it straight away herself either.
It hadn’t started yesterday, nor even last year. Perhaps it began when Geoffrey started returning home ever later, and she found receipts in his coat pockets for cafes she’d never visited. Back then, Margaret told herself they were business lunches. Geoffrey managed projects for a London firm; meetings happened.
“Late again tonight?” she’d ask as he hurried his breakfast, eyes fixed on his mobile.
“Afraid so. Deadline looming. Don’t wait up.”
“Maybe a trip this weekend? Emily wants to visit your mum in the Cotswolds.”
“Working weekends too. Sorry, Meg. Rough patch. We’ll get away later.”
Later never came. Margaret grew used to solitary dinners, putting Emily to bed alone, watching telly alone. Sometimes she felt like a widow, not a wife.
Friends offered sympathy over tea. “Men are all like that now,” Claire would sigh. “Work, work. At least he provides.”
“He provides,” Margaret agreed, “but what use is it? We live like strangers in a boarding house.”
“Have you thought… he might have someone else?” Sarah ventured cautiously once.
“Thought it. But how to know? Can’t just ask, won’t rifle through his things. Where would he find time for an affair with that workload?” Sarah’s silence spoke volumes.
At home, Margaret waited. Waited for Geoffrey to come back *to her*, for conversation like before, for interest in her day, Emily’s school triumphs, their shared dreams. But Geoffrey seemed to inhabit another world.
“How was work?” she’d ask when he finally appeared.
“Fine,” he’d murmur, phone still in hand.
“Emily had a school play today. Recited her poem beautifully.”
“Hmm.”
“Geoffrey? Are you listening?”
“Hearing you, hearing you. Well done, our Em.”
But his expression showed he heard only the sounds of his mobile.
Gradually, Margaret stopped sharing her news. Why bother? She took on full-time hours instead of part-time, enrolled in French classes, met friends. Life slowly righted itself, yet felt incomplete, lacking something vital.
“Mum, why won’t Dad come ice-skating?” Emily asked one day.
“Busy, sweetheart.”
“He used to.”
“He used to be less busy.”
“When will he be not busy?”
Margaret had no answer. When? Ever?
That evening, she steeled herself. Waiting until Emily slept, she cooked dinner and laid the table. Geoffrey came in half-past ten.
“Sit down. We need to talk.”
“What about?” He slumped wearily into a chair, phone still out.
“Put the phone away. Please.”
Reluctantly, he placed it face-down.
“Geoffrey, what *is* this? We exist; we don’t live. You come home, eat, sleep, leave. No talking, no outings, barely time with your own daughter.”
“Meg, I’m grafting. Got to provide.”
“Provide for *what*? There’s no family left! Just you, me, Emily – three separate lives sharing a flat in Kensington.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s a tough stretch. Bear with me.”
“I’ve borne it three years. How much longer?”
Geoffrey sighed irritably. “Meg, I’m knackered. Can this wait?”
“Wait until when? Late tomorrow? Late the next day? When do we talk?”
“Dunno. When I’m clear.”
His phone buzzed. His hand twitched towards it.
“Geoffrey!”
“What? Oh. Sorry.” But his eyes flicked to the screen.
“Is there someone else?” Margaret asked abruptly.
“What?” His head snapped up, a flicker of alarm in his eyes. “Where’d you get that?”
“No denials. Is there isn’t there?”
Silence hung thick. Geoffrey stared at his plate. Margaret watched him. Her heart hammered loud enough, she thought, for the neighbours to hear.
“There is,” he whispered finally.
Strangely, Margaret felt not pain, but relief. Truth, at last.
“Long?”
“Six months.”
“Do you love her?”
He lifted his gaze. “Dunno. Suppose so.”
“And me?”
“You too. Just… different. You’re Emily’s mum. We’ve years together.”
“So I’m like an old armchair? Comfy, familiar, but not exciting anymore?”
“Meg, don’t.”
“Then how? Geoffrey, can’t you see? We stopped being husband and wife ages ago. We’re flatmates. Nothing more.”
“Maybe… maybe we can fix it? I could end it.”
“And start again with someone else next year?”
He said nothing.
“Don’t end it,” Margaret said suddenly. “I won’t have you staying out of duty. And I won’t keep waiting for you to remember what we used to have.”
“So?”
“So let’s divorce. Cleanly. Honestly. For Emily too.”
Geoffrey exhaled, a sound of unmistakable relief. Margaret knew he’d wanted this too, but lacked the courage to speak first.
The divorce unfolded surprisingly smoothly. Geoffrey didn’t claim the Kensington flat in her name, paid good alimony promptly, took Emily weekends. They even talked better now than in the final years of their marriage.
“You alright?” he’d ask, collecting Emily.
“Fine. You?”
“Can’t complain. Emmy! Coat on. Zoo today!”
“Hooray! Mum, aren’t you coming?”
“No, darling, Mummy’s busy. Have a lovely time.”
And it was true. Margaret *was* busy. She joined a gym, took up photography, met friends, went to the theatre. Life had suddenly bloomed with colour.
“You’re glowing,” Claire remarked. “Haven’t seen you this happy for five years.”
“Surprises me too,” Margaret admitted. “Thought I’d be heartbroken. Instead, it’s like a weight lifted.”
“Don’t you miss him?”
“Geoffrey? No. Miss the family we *didn’t* have? Also no. I missed all that while we *were* together. Missed real closeness, talking. Now I don’t.”
“And Emmy?”
“Emily’s adjusted. Says having two homes is brilliant. And her father spends more real time with her now. Values it more, I think.”
Six months after the decree absolute, Margaret met Philip. He taught the photography
Claire stood watching young Sophie play in the garden, the memory of signing those divorce papers years ago a distant ripple on the pond of her life, now still and surprisingly peaceful. Edward might be living with Ella now, and Sophie, thriving with her expanded family, never thought it strange to have two homes; Claire’s own life, once hollowed by Edward’s distractions, had bloomed unexpectedly with Stephen. The solace she found after leaving wasn’t found in bitterness, but in the quiet dignity of honest days and Stephen’s unwavering presence – his laughter filling the house where silence used to hang heavy, their shared dreams carrying them towards summers spent sketching in Devon, winters debating by the fireside, and a togetherness that needed no words. Stephen’s photograph from their Cornish honeymoon sat on the mantle, a reminder of how she once feared the end, but now cherished every ordinary, golden moment with the man who saw her truly; the fracture had healed, leaving something tougher and far more precious than before. Time proved that courage had been necessary, for the sorrow shed long ago felt justified by the deep contentment warming her heart today.
