**A Friendship Divorce**
Can you stay friends when your closest friends divorce? I always thought divorce was about husbands and wives. Turns out, it’s about everyone who was friends with them too.
Our group came together in Manchester, or rather its suburbs—where long streets are lined with nearly identical houses, neatly trimmed lawns, and postboxes on stands by the roadside. At first, we met at “new life” workshops, events at the local Jewish community centre, children’s birthday parties, and school plays. After a couple of years, none of us could imagine holidays or weekends without the others.
There were six couples in the group. Me and my husband. Ella and Andrew—the closest of the lot. And four more families with kids around the same age. Our calendar was packed like one big family’s:
Summer—trips to the lake, barbecues, corn on the cob, and Bonfire Night in the park with fireworks.
Autumn—apple picking with cider, Halloween, and Christmas markets.
Winter—ice skating, Hanukkah, New Year’s Eve, and half-term breaks in Spain.
Spring—Passover with the traditional Seder meals.
It felt like this friendship would last forever.
Until one day, Ella called and calmly announced, “Andrew and I are getting divorced.”
I froze like an old laptop. They were the golden couple! Not a cloud in their perfect marriage… Or had we just chosen not to notice because it was easier?
The first thing I blurted out was, “But what about our Christmas dinner at your place? You promised the turkey stuffed with chestnuts!”
The dinner happened anyway—just at mine. No point wasting a good turkey.
Andrew showed up with his new girlfriend. “We’re civilised people,” he said with an awkward wink.
The beauty couldn’t have been thirty—waist-length hair, legs for days, and shorts that barely covered anything. The men subtly swallowed their drools; the wives rolled their eyes.
Ella snorted, “Let’s see how long she sticks around when she realises how tight he is with money!” Then she turned on me. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
The evening was ruined.
In retaliation, Ella brought some ageing, nerdy bloke in a baggy suit and round glasses to the next birthday party. He droned on with “intelligent” monologues peppered with terrible jokes and faded into the background without winning over anyone.
At home, the former couple became a constant topic. The wives unanimously sided with Ella. The husbands pretended to be outraged at Andrew’s betrayal but secretly admired him. A delicate diplomacy began.
For my birthday, we only invited Ella and the kids—”so the children can play together.”
For the summer barbecue, Andrew and his latest fairy got an invite—”everyone’s too busy eating and drinking to chat much.”
The hardest part? Anniversaries.
Becky, preparing for her silver wedding, sighed dramatically over the phone, “Liz, I don’t know where to seat them. We can’t handle their dagger stares.”
We spent an hour sketching a seating plan: Andrew and his girlfriend tucked behind a pillar. Ella by the fireplace and dessert table. The kids wherever they’d fit.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and someone will cancel last minute?” Becky whispered hopefully before apologising to herself.
The climax was their daughter’s graduation party. A booked-out pizza place, balloons, music. Ella on one side of the long table. Andrew on the other. The cake in the middle like a demilitarised zone.
Andrew’s latest fling, with a neckline that delighted the younger guests, scrolled through her phone. Wives shot warning looks at their husbands. Husbands pretended the pizza was the most fascinating thing in the world.
I tried to lighten the mood. “At least you’re both here. That’s what matters to your daughter.”
The chill in the air could’ve frozen the pizza solid.
Eventually, things settled. I saw Ella more often—safer and more enjoyable. With Andrew, it faded to the occasional “like” and accidental run-ins at Tesco.
And I realised something simple: divorce isn’t just between a husband and wife. Friends get a little divorced too.
Now every celebration feels like a UN summit—strict etiquette and carefully planned seating. Thanksgiving, for example, happens in two shifts: first with Ella (turkey and roast potatoes), then with Andrew (steak and his latest fairy in tiny shorts).
Recently, it hit me: if another couple splits, we’ll need separate group chats for every holiday.
The friendship’s still alive, but now it’s like a Costco membership—individual, with restrictions and strict terms of use.
Sometimes I think: if we could officially file for a friendship divorce, we’d sign the papers—no lawyers or alimony, just a schedule for barbecues and shared custody of mutual friends on weekends.
Divorce is contagious. Even when it’s someone else’s.
