My husband gave me an ultimatum, and without hesitation, I chose divorce
Well? Why are you so quiet? I thought I made myself perfectly clear. Either we build this house, or we go our separate ways. Im a man of fifty-five, and I want to live on land, not in this concrete birdcage! Victor slammed his cup onto the saucer, causing tea to splash onto the tablecloth. Are you even listening to me, Irene?
Irene slowly lifted her gaze from her plate. The kitchen was filled with the scent of fried meatballs, andpeculiarlyvalerian, though she hadnt touched her pills yet. Perhaps the tension of their two weeks of ceaseless arguments had left its mark. Victor sat opposite her, his face flushed, with that stubborn furrow on his brow she once thought evidence of his masculinity. Now it only stirred irritation.
I hear you, Victor, she responded calmly, blotting the spilled tea with a napkin. You want a houseIve understood that for months now. But I dont understand why my flat must be the price.
There you go again, your flat! he exclaimed, waving his hands. How long will this go on? Arent we a family? Five years together! Everything should be shared. Yet you cling to your one-bed like a leech. It stands empty, gathering dust, while we couldve already started laying foundations!
Its not empty, Victor. Tenants live there, and the rent is a nice supplement to my wages. And yours too, since I use it to buy groceries we both share, Irene spoke evenly, though inside she trembled.
Pennies! he dismissed her. Whats twenty thousand pounds? Now, a housethats an asset! Thats real wealth! Thats a family home! Think about getting older. Do you want to sit by the block entrance, or step onto a veranda with morning coffee, birds singing and the air fresh and clean
Irene looked out the window. Beyond, the evening city was alive, lights blinking down the avenue. She liked that bustle. She liked their comfortable two-bed, their daily walk to the Tube, the surgery across the road, her daughter and grandson living nearby. At fifty-two, as finance manager in a small firm, growing vegetables, septic tanks, and shoveling snow thirty miles from civilisation held no appeal.
But Victor dreamed. And over the past year, his dream had become obsession.
Victor, you have a plot. Its yours, inherited. Build if you wishbut with your own means, she repeated for the umpteenth time, knowing full well her words would infuriate him.
What means?! he erupted. You know business is slowno clients, wrong season. My moneys stuck in construction! Sell your flat; thats our jumpstart. Well raise the shell quickly, finish the interiors, then my work picks up, debts get cleared.
Irene rose silently, clearing the table. She was familiar with his schemeWhen work picks upa phrase shed heard all five years. Victor installed doors, always out of season: January everyones drinking, May theyre away at holiday cottages, summer on leave. She was the main breadwinner, and that solitary flat, left to her by her grandmother before marriage, was her safety net. Her own untouchable reserve, saved for her daughter, Olivia, or for a crisis.
Are you ignoring me? Victor leapt up, blocking her path to the sink. Im serious, Irene! Im tired. I feel like a guest in your flats. I want to be master in my home. If you dont trust me, if youre miserly about this miserable flat for our future, wellour love is worth nothing.
Whats love got to do with it? Irene met his gaze. Its economics. And common sense. Selling solid city property to invest in a build out in a field, which could drag for years? What if something happens? What will see us through?
Youre always pessimistic! Victor snapped. So heres the deal. You have until Monday to think it over. Its Friday. On Monday, either you call the estate agent and list your flat, or we go to the registrars office and file for divorce. I refuse to live with a woman who doesnt believe in me and sneaks around behind my back.
He grabbed his coat and exited with such force that glasses rattled in the cabinet.
Irene was left alone in the quiet kitchen. Water dripped from the tap: drip, drip, drip. She tightened the valve with effort, her hands trembling. An ultimatumso simply put. Sell your asset, or I leave.
She sat, clutching her head. Five years ago when they met, Victor seemed a stroke of fortunecharming, handy, always with flowers and picnics. After her first husband, who drank, Victor felt like a steady wall. He moved in with his suitcase and toolbox, and for a while, it was goodhe fixed taps and floors; they took holidays.
Yet she remembered now, in the ringing silence, all the warning signals.
The first time he asked her for money for business promotionshe gave it, but he bought a fishing rod instead and said, Business can wait.
How he grumbled when she helped Olivia financially: Shes got a husband, let him provide, we need it more.
How he refused to register her at his cottage when tax issues arose, insisting, Its family property, you never know whats next.
Now he wanted her to sell her pre-marriage flat.
Irene made herself a cup of tea and rang her daughter.
Mum, hi! Why so late, is everything alright? Olivia sounded cheerful; in the background, her grandson splashed in his bath.
Liv Victor gave me an ultimatum. Either I sell Grans flat to fund his build, or we divorce.
A heavy pause. Then Olivia spoke sharply, with an unfamiliar seriousness.
Mum, dont you dare.
He says I dont trust him. That Im destroying our family.
Mumswitch to accountant mode! Olivia cried. What house? Whose name goes on it? The lands his! The house built in marriage would be shared, but the land is strictly his! The money from selling your own pre-marriage flat, Mum, youll lose it in the communal pot. If you divorce later, how will you prove you invested your own? Years in court! Youll end up homeless, hell have the house.
I know, Olivia. I know. But five years. Im used to it. Im scared to be alone.
Its worse to be alone and have no home, Mum. And with debt, which hell surely drag you into for finishing work. You know his son, Adam?
Whats Adam got to do with it?
Well, Victor rang my husband, begged for money. Said Adams car got smashedneeded urgent repairs and Dad couldnt pay. Mum, hes always got problems. And Victor wants to sort it all out at your expense. Build the house, then: Oh, Adams homeless, let him stay upstairs. And youll be looking after two grown men out in the sticks.
The call sobered Irene a little, though the bitterness lingered.
Saturday passed in anxious anticipation. Victor didnt sleep at home. He appeared at lunchtime, silent and brooding, went straight to the bedroom and watched TV. Irene cooked soup. She wanted to speak, perhaps find compromisesuggest starting modestly, with a garden shed, saving up
But then she overheard him talking on the phone. The bedroom door was ajar.
Yes, Adam, dont fretIm sorting it. Shes stubborn, but she wont resist. Shes too afraid Ill leave, who else would want her now? Ill press her by Monday, sell the flat, send you a packet, clear your debt collectors The rest goes into the build. My land, so house is mine, de facto. She can deal with her flower beds.
Irene froze with the ladle still in hand, blood draining from her face.
Afraid Ill leave. No one wants her. Press her.
Something inside snapped, the fine thread of pity, attachment, and fear of loneliness snapped with a clang.
She laid the ladle down gently, turned off the hob. The soup unfinishedno longer mattered.
Irene walked to the closet, retrieved a large wheely suitcase, the one theyd taken to Spain three years prior. She opened it and rolled it to the bedroom.
Victor lay on the sofa, phone in hand. Seeing her with the suitcase, he smirked.
Packing your things? Off to evict the tenants, are you? Good move, you shouldve done this ages ago. No need for drama when your husbands being reasonable.
Irene walked over to the wardrobe, opened his half, and started pulling out his shirts, jeans, jumpers.
Oi, what are you doing? Victor propped himself up. Why my clothes?
Packing, Irene replied calmly, tossing his things into the suitcase. You wanted a decision by Monday? No need to wait. Ive decided now.
Youare you chucking me out? He sat up, his face lengthening in disbelief. Irene, have you lost your senses? I was just kidding! Just trying to push you a little!
Im not kidding, Victor. Up you get. Gather your socks, underpants, and your tools from the utility room. Ill call you a cab to your boarding house. Or wherever youre registeredyour mums place, isnt it? Thats where youll go.
You wont dare! he shouted, face reddening. Its my home too! I lived here five years! I hung wallpaper here! Fitted skirting boards!
Skirting boards? Irene gave a sardonic smile. Very well. Ill reimburse you for the skirting boards. And the wallpaper glue. As for the bills I paid all these years, the groceries, your petrolpaid from my cardI wont bother sending you an invoice. Consider it payment for male companionship.
Irene, stop being hysterical! He tried to hug her, switch tactics, use his old charm. Whats gotten into you? Alright, you win. If you wont sell, we wont. Lets get a loanIll take it, you just stand as guarantor
Irene pushed him away, suddenly repulsed and ashamedashamed that shed gone five years seeing nothing, or refusing to see.
I heard your conversation with Adam, Victor. About old woman, afraid youll leave, about how youll press me.
He paled. Real fear flickered in his eyes. Hed gone too farthere was no turning back.
You were eavesdropping?!
I was in my own home, my own kitchen. The door was open. Now pack your things. One hour. Then Im changing the locks.
The next hour was a daze. Victor alternated between shouting threats of lawsuits and property division, and falling to his knees, begging for forgiveness for stupid words spoken without thinking. He resembled a furious bulldog, then a battered mongrel. Irene sat in her chair, watching unsympathetically. She felt no pity, only shame for having allowed herself to be treated so.
She knew the law. The flat they lived in was hers, bought a decade before marriage. The other flather inheritance. The carhers, and bought on a loan she paid. Victors assets consisted of the rural plot and an old Land Roverworth less than her winter coat. There was nothing to divide, save spoons and forks.
When Victor finally left, Irene didnt cry. She locked the door, double deadbolt, chain. She emptied the soup, which Victor loved, down the lavatory, and opened the window wide to air out the scent of his cologne and valerian.
On Monday, she filed for divorce. The registrar gave them a month for reconciliation, but she submitted a written statementreconciliation impossible.
Victor didnt give up easily. He lurked outside her office with bouquets, acted out remorse. Then came angry messages, demanding compensation for wasted years. Then Adam phoned, brashly threatening Victor would sue for half.
Irene changed her phone number. Retained a skilled solicitor to guard her assets. Just as Olivia predicted, there was nothing to dividehome improvements didnt count, and Victor kept no receipts, as shed always paid for materials.
Six months passed.
Irene stood on the balcony. It was a warm summer evening. Children played below in the courtyard. She sipped tea from a new, pretty mug. The flat was peaceful and quiet. No one demanded dinner, switched her favourite drama to football, or told her she spent money wrongly.
She didnt sell her grandmothers flat. In fact, she paid a professional team for sprucing it up, then rented it for higher income. She was saving for travel. Shed always wanted to see the Lake District, but Victor would say, Why Lake District? Better put up fencing at the cottage.
Now thered be no fencesbut there would be Lake District.
The doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts. Olivia and her grandson arrived.
Hello, Grandma! three-year-old Michael hugged her legs. We brought cake!
Mum, how are you? Olivia appraised her carefully. You look wonderfulnew dress?
New, Irene smiled back. And a new haircut. You know, Olivia, I thoughthow fortunate that he gave me that ultimatum. Otherwise, I might have carried on another five years, tolerating, giving pieces of my life away. But like opening an abscesspainful, but healing was quick.
They had tea in the kitchenthe same kitchen where, half a year before, the fateful words had been spoken. Now it smelled of vanilla and fresh baking.
By the way, Olivia said, biting into cake, spotted Victor recently, at the shopping centre. Didnt look goodrumpled. He was with a woman who shouted at him because he’d pushed the trolley the wrong way.
Irene shrugged indifferently.
I hope she doesnt own a spare flat he might try to sell.
Mum, do you ever regret it? Isnt being alone odd?
Alone? Irene surveyed her kitchen, glanced at her daughter, her grandson busy smearing icing over his plate. Im not alone, love. Im with myself, and with you. Much better than being with someone who sees you solely as a resource for his whims. Maybe old, as he called me, but certainly not foolish.
That evening, after the family left, Irene sat at her computer. She had work documents to reviewbut first, she opened the travel website. Her Lake District trip was already booked. She gazed at photos of clear water, green hills, and endless skies.
Life hadnt ended at fifty-two. It was just beginning. And in this new chapter, there was no room for ultimatums, manipulations, or greedy relativesonly freedom and self-respect.
She remembered Victors incredulous face as she thrust the suitcase forward. How hed believed shed never leave. Many women endure, fearing to lose married status, dreading public opinion, fearing an empty flat. Irene had feared too. But the fear of losing herself had proved stronger.
She closed her laptop and went to bed. Tomorrow was a new dayand it belonged entirely to her.
