**A Friendly Divorce**
Can you stay friends when your closest mates get divorced? I thought divorce was just about husbands and wives. Turns out, it’s about everyone who ever called them friends too.
Our group came together in Manchester—or rather, its suburbs, where long streets are lined with nearly identical houses, tidy lawns, and postboxes perched by the kerb. At first, we met at self-improvement classes, community events, children’s birthday parties, and school plays. Within a couple of years, none of us could imagine weekends or holidays without the others.
There were six couples in the group.
Me and my husband.
Emily and Andrew—the closest of us all.
And four other families with kids around the same age.
Our calendar was packed like one big family’s:
Summer—trips to the lake, barbecues, grilled sweetcorn, and fireworks in the park for Bonfire Night.
Autumn—apple picking, Halloween costumes, and Christmas prep.
Winter—sledging, Hanukkah, New Year’s Eve, and winter getaways to Spain.
Spring—Easter egg hunts and bank holiday BBQs.
It felt like this friendship would last forever.
Then one day, Emily called and calmly announced,
“Andrew and I are getting divorced.”
I froze like an old laptop. They were the golden couple! Not a single cloud in their sunny marriage… Or had we just ignored the signs because it was easier?
The first thing that tumbled out of my mouth was,
“But what about Christmas at yours? You promised to do the turkey with chestnut stuffing!”
The dinner still happened—just at mine. No sense wasting a good bird.
Andrew showed up with a new girlfriend.
“We’re civilised people,” he said with an awkward wink.
She couldn’t have been thirty—waist-length hair, legs for days, and shorts that barely covered anything. The men subtly gulped; the wives rolled their eyes.
Emily scoffed,
“Just wait till she finds out how tight he is with money!”
Then she rounded on me:
“Whose side are you even on?!”
The night was ruined.
In revenge, Emily brought some ageing academic in a baggy suit and round glasses to the next birthday bash. He spent the evening droning on about obscure theories, peppered with terrible jokes, and slunk off when no one—men or women—gave him the time of day.
Back home, the ex-couple became our main topic.
The wives rallied behind Emily.
The husbands pretended to be outraged by Andrew’s betrayal but secretly admired him.
A delicate dance began.
For my birthday, we invited just Emily and the kids—”so the little ones can play.”
For the summer BBQ, Andrew and his latest fairy—”everyone’s too busy eating and drinking to chat.”
The hardest part? Milestone celebrations.
Sophie, planning her silver wedding anniversary, groaned down the phone:
“Kate, I don’t know where to seat them. The tension will be unbearable.”
We spent an hour sketching seating charts:
Andrew and his plus-one tucked behind a pillar.
Emily by the fireplace near the dessert table.
The kids wherever they’d fit.
“Maybe someone will catch flu and bail?” Sophie sighed hopefully, then muttered apologies to herself.
The peak came at their daughter’s graduation.
A pizza parlour, balloons, music.
Emily at one end of the long table.
Andrew at the other.
A cake in the middle like a demilitarised zone.
Andrew’s latest, in a low-cut top that delighted the lads, scrolled through her phone. Wives glared at husbands. Husbands pretended their pizza was the most fascinating thing in the room.
I tried to lighten the mood:
“The important thing is you’re both here. It means the world to her.”
The chill was so thick, the pizza might as well have been ice cream.
Slowly, things settled.
We saw Emily more—safer, and frankly, more fun.
With Andrew, it dwindled to the odd “like” or bumping into him at Tesco.
And I realised something simple: divorce isn’t just between husband and wife. Friends get a little divorced too.
Now every celebration feels like a UN summit—strict etiquette, carefully planned seating. Take Christmas:
First with Emily—turkey and all the trimmings.
Then with Andrew—beef Wellington and his latest in skinny jeans.
Recently, it hit me:
If anyone else splits up, we’ll need separate WhatsApp groups for every occasion.
The friendship’s still alive, but now it’s like a Tesco Clubcard—individual membership, strict terms and conditions.
Sometimes I think: if you could legally divorce a friendship, we’d all sign the papers.
No lawyers, no settlements.
Just a rota for BBQs and custody of mutual mates on alternate weekends.
Divorce is contagious. Even when it’s not yours.
