**Divided as Best I Could**
“Hello, Mum,” Emily said, trying to sound as though nothing was wrong, though her voice came out clipped and cold.
“Oh, Emily! What brings you here? Wasn’t expecting you today,” replied Margaret Wilson.
Emily studied her mother closely. “Wasn’t expecting”—those words burrowed into her heart like a thorn, echoing loudly in her mind. Lately, it seemed no one ever expected her anywhere.
“Well, don’t just stand there like a statue! Come in, I’m in the middle of pickling cucumbers. You dropping by for a reason? Everything all right with Oliver?”
“Everything’s fine, Mum. With Oliver too. We rented them a flat for now. Michael paid three months upfront—after that, it’s up to them.”
Emily watched as her mother bustled about the kitchen, just as she always had. From childhood, Emily had known her mother to be forever rushing, always behind schedule. “Hurry up,” “Just nipping to the shops,” “Stay here, I’ll go,” “Emily, don’t bother me—can’t you see I’m busy?” Margaret had always been practical, while Emily had learned to wait.
“Pour yourself some tea, love—no time, I’ve still got jars to sterilise. All right?”
“Fine, Mum,” Emily murmured, filling a cup though she had no appetite for it.
“So, what’s brought you round?”
“Mum…” Emily hesitated. “Did you ever think of leaving Dad?”
Margaret paused mid-wipe, jar forgotten. “What? No! Why on earth would I? Swapping one fool for another? Men—they’re all the same. Why?”
“I think… I want a divorce.”
“What?! What’s happened? Has he been unfaithful?”
Emily swallowed. “It’s our silver wedding anniversary today. He didn’t even mention it. Just asked where his socks were and when breakfast would be ready.”
“And that’s it? Oh, Emily, don’t be daft! A wedding anniversary—big deal! Your father never gave me so much as a card in forty years, and I didn’t waste money on him either. What’s the point?”
Emily fought back tears. She’d been a fool to expect understanding. A tear escaped.
“Don’t start! You know the mess a divorce will cause—the flat, the holiday home, the car… What about your savings? I’ve always kept cash stashed at home. And that three-bed—all the money you sank into it!”
Emily barely heard her. Margaret was tallying assets like an estate agent. The weight in Emily’s chest grew heavier.
“Listen, love—go home and put this nonsense out of your head. Fancy some flowers? I’ve peonies out back—they’ll be gone soon anyway.”
“No, thank you,” Emily sniffed.
“Suit yourself. Off you go, then. Oh—they’ve got cheap compost at the garden centre. Need any?”
Emily shook her head and hurried out. The air in her childhood home had become unbearable.
She headed for the bus stop but changed her mind, turning instead toward the riverbank. Her phone buzzed—Oliver’s name flashed up.
“Hi, love.”
“Mum, you got a minute? Need to talk.”
“Of course. Meet me at The Rose Café in an hour?”
“Perfect. Actually… I’ve got something to tell you too.”
Twenty minutes later, she slid into a booth. Oliver arrived shortly after.
“So,” he began, “Melanie’s pregnant.”
Emily froze. Oliver had only moved in with his girlfriend weeks ago. At forty-five, she wasn’t ready to be a grandmother.
“Mum? You there?”
“Just… surprised, love. Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Course. You’ll help, won’t you? What did you want to talk about?”
“Oliver… how would you feel if Dad and I divorced?”
“Wait—you’re splitting up? Why?”
“We’ve grown apart. Today’s our twenty-fifth anniversary, and he didn’t even remember.”
“Right. Well, do what you want—I’m not a kid. Gotta dash.”
She paid for her untouched coffee and walked home mechanically, stopping at the supermarket. Dinner was ready when Michael returned, grumbling about his boss and a coworker’s new car. She nodded along.
The next morning, after he’d left for work, Emily washed the dishes in a daze. Part of her stung from his indifference; another part recoiled at dismantling twenty-five years over a forgotten date. Maybe her mother was right—maybe she was overreacting.
Oliver called again.
“Mum, about the divorce—been thinking. You should split the assets now to avoid court. Sell the three-bed, get two one-beds instead—might even profit. Sell the holiday home too, and Melanie and I could put it toward a two-bed. Makes sense, yeah?”
Emily’s throat tightened. “We’ll talk later.”
She fled to the river, sinking onto her usual bench. A man sat nearby.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all. Lovely day.”
“You seem down.”
“Just… life.”
“Wait here.” He returned with two ice creams. “They say this stuff’s full of happy hormones. Fancy testing the theory?”
“Thank you.” The first bite took her back to childhood.
“I’m Jonathan, by the way.”
“Emily.”
“Fancy a stroll?”
As they walked, he shared his own divorce story—how he’d left everything to his practical ex, dreaming now of travel. Emily imagined stepping into a new life beside him.
That evening, she returned to find Michael waiting.
“Where’ve you been? No dinner.”
“There won’t be. I’m leaving.”
“Suit yourself.”
His indifference cut deeper than anger.
The next day, she rented a flat. The lift was broken—seven floors with a suitcase. On the third landing, a voice called:
“Need a hand?”
She turned. “Jonathan?!”
“Emily? What are you—”
“I live here now. Seventh floor.”
“Blimey—I’m on the eighth!”
He carried her case up, then left. Oliver called—he’d found a buyer for the holiday home.
“Sell it, love. Your dad will handle it.”
She spent the day unpacking, lighter than she’d felt in years. That evening, Jonathan knocked with lilies—her favourite.
Three months later, the divorce was final. Michael and Oliver sold the holiday home, short-changing her, but she let it go. When her grandson arrived, she visited occasionally but kept Oliver at arm’s length.
She and Jonathan married, moving into a cosy two-bed. On their first anniversary, he baked a cake and brought her lilies.
Emily finally understood—it’s never too late to start again.
