“I want a divorce,” she whispered, turning her face away.
It was a chilly evening in London when Emily quietly said, “I want a divorce,” her gaze slipping from her husband Charles eyes.
Charles went pale in an instant. An unspoken question hung between them.
“Im leaving you to the woman you truly love,” Emily said, realising the most important woman in his life had always been his mother. “I wont play second fiddle anymore.”
Her throat tightened, her eyes betraying her with unwelcome dampness. Years of pain and disappointment pressed down on her, stealing the breath from her lungs.
“What are you talking about? What other woman?” Charles stared at her, bewildered.
“Weve talked about this so many times. Ever since we got married, your mum has drained usfinancially, emotionally, every way possible. And you just let her, because her roast dinners are heartier and her scones fluffier. I cant do this anymore.”
Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. She mourned the dreams shed once held so clearlya promising fiancé, a respected career, life in bustling central Londononly to find it all swallowed by a battle for her own happiness.
Five years earlier, Emily had stepped nervously into the grand living room of Charles flat. The furniture, the china, the decorit all seemed impossibly expensive and fragile to a girl whod spent most of her life in shared houses and student digs.
“However did I land a man with his own place?” shed joked, resting her hands on Charles shoulders.
“Just wait till you see my socks strewn everywherethen tell me how impressed you are.”
Shed moved in quickly after they met, swept up in a whirlwind romance that demanded continuation. Back then, she was finishing her journalism degree at Kings College, while Charles, five years older, worked as a sales manager with a comfortable salary.
A year after moving in, they married.
“Soon well turn the spare room into a nursery,” Emily had once murmured, hugging him, hinting she was ready for a baby.
But a month later, an unexpected arrival appearedCharles mother, Mrs. Whitmore, stood at their door with two suitcases. She had an *excellent* relationship with her sonat least, in her mind.
Her parenting, built on guilt and the demands of a single mother, had shaped a man who felt eternally indebted. She took full credit for his success and saw no issue in reaping the rewards.
Every payday, Charles repaid his “debts”mortgage, car, even his own childhood. Emily watched from the sidelines, biting her tongue, only occasionally daring to mention it.
“Where did the money from selling the house go?” Emily asked casually, pouring tea. Mrs. Whitmore had come from a tiny village near Oxford, where shed inherited a modest cottage with a garden.
Every year, Charles offered to help her find a place in the city, but she refused. Then, suddenly, she sold the cottagefast, and for far too little.
“Some for my future holiday, some invested in my new business.”
Mrs. Whitmore, despite her hard-knock upbringing, was endlessly ambitiousand endlessly controlling.
People like her were dangerous. Give them an inch, and theyd snatch a mile.
Lately, shed discovered an online cosmetics company. The catch? To “work” with them, she had to buy their productsin bulk. Naturally, the cottage money vanished into this “investment.”
“Ive decided theres no harm in me staying here,” Mrs. Whitmore declared, stirring honey into her tea.
“Of course, we love having you!” Emily forced a smile, desperate to clarify this was temporary. “Ill ask my mate Sophieshes an estate agent. Shell find you a lovely flat in a nice area.”
“No need. Two homes are wasteful. Better to save money by staying hereits no trouble.” Mrs. Whitmore played the martyr flawlessly.
Emily shot Charles a pleading look. She didnt dislike his mother, but sharing her home*permanently*was a step too far. Yet Charles just shrugged. “Whatever you think best.”
He backed his mothers every whim, no matter how absurd, convinced he owed her unquestioning loyalty.
And there were *many* whims: candle-making, scrapbooking, soap-crafting. Each hobby required expensive equipment, all funded by Charles, along with her generous “living allowance.”
Since his promotion, Mrs. Whitmore hadnt worked a single day.
Charles childhood guilt strangled his independence, manifesting in endless financial support and blind obedience.
It was astoundinga grown man, successful by all accounts, reduced to a puppet by his mothers strings.
The spare room never became a nursery. Three years passed with little change. Emily now worked at a publishing house, her articles featured in the *Relationships & Family* section.
Ironically, while she analysed other peoples happyand tragicstories, she couldnt untangle her own.
Her opinions meant nothing. Mrs. Whitmore held the reins, ruling their home with an iron grip in a velvet glove.
Emily understood the psychologya single mothers only son marries a woman whod demand his time and money. The threat had to be neutralised by total control.
And in Mrs. Whitmores case, it came with a smug sense of entitlementthe belief her son *owed* her.
Only she could fix her own issues. Only Charles could wake her up. But he was blind.
Their flat was now stocked with her pyramid-scheme cosmetics. Emily couldnt stand the sight of the endless bottles. The “business” brought no profit, just empty promises.
Shed tried discussing it, but Charles always said, “Mum knows what shes doing,” while Mrs. Whitmore chirped, “Good things take time! Rome wasnt built in a day.”
Except Rome *had* been builtin three years. Their expenses, however, kept climbing.
When Mrs. Whitmore suggested *Emily* start “investing,” she knew drastic action was needed.
The final straw came from a conversation that should never have happened.
On New Years Eve, theyd finally gone on a rare dateice skating, then hot chocolate in a cosy café. Rosy-cheeked and glowing, Emily radiated happiness.
“Charles, are you happy?”
“Of course,” he squeezed her hand. “How could I not be, with you?”
“I want a baby,” she whispered, leaning closer.
“Right now?” He grinned, kissing her fingers.
That night, they agreed it was time. But 24 hours later, Mrs. Whitmore stormed into their bedroom as Emily returned from work.
“You *cant* have a baby now!”
Stunned, Emily froze.
“Charles hasnt finished paying the mortgage! Theres the car loan”
“Youre just terrified hell stop funding your little hobbies,” Emily snapped, finding her voice. It was the first time shed ever spoken back.
“Ive *always* wanted whats best for my soneven if Ive needed a little help. Hes all I have! I raised him, clothed him, made him the man he is!”
“You dont *own* him for that. You chose to have a child*he* doesnt owe you. If he helps, it should be out of love, not duty.”
Mrs. Whitmore understood perfectly. But her cushy setup was too good to give up. After a pause, she hissed, “Charles will see Im right.”
And Emily feared she might be.
No obstacle wouldve stopped her from wanting a baby. But for Charles, his mother *was* the obstacleand that broke her heart.
A late-night talk confirmed the worst: Charles was hopelessly lost, even to himself.
Yesterday, hed loved the idea of a child. Today? “Maybe its not the right time. Why rush? Were not ready.”
Emily knew thenit was over.
“I want a divorce.” The words were deliberate. Her marriage was a dead end.
Charles paled.
“Im leaving you to the one you really love. I wont be second best anymore.”
The injustice burned. How many times had she tried talking? He never listened, never faced reality.
Tears welled.
“What are you on about? What other woman?” Charles gaped at her.
“Since we married, its always Mum says this, Mum says that. *Her* gravys richer, *her* Yorkshire puddings rise higher. She *controls* our money. I cant”
Charles barely heard the rest, too shocked to process how things had spiralled. When she finally fell silent, he sat beside her, studying her tear-streaked face.
“Is this *really* just about Mum living here?”
“How can you *not* see? Shes consumed you. You dont even *belong* to yourself. Without my salary, wed struggle. Your mum *banned* me from getting pregnant to protect her cash flow!”
“Your mums not a bad personbut she
