An Ordinary Day—and a Divorce
Margaret set the kettle on the stove and absently wiped the counter, though it was already clean. A morning ritual. William had already left for work without a word, as he had done these past months. Just the slam of the door. In the old days, he would always come into the kitchen, kiss her cheek, whisper something sweet. Now… now they lived like strangers under the same roof.
The kettle whistled. Margaret poured boiling water into her favourite rose-patterned cup—the very one William had given her on their first anniversary. Thirty-two years ago. Good Lord, how time flew.
“Mum, where’s my blue jumper?” burst in Emily, their eldest. At twenty-eight, she still lived at home, saving on rent. “I asked you to wash it yesterday!”
“It’s drying on the line. Em, love, don’t you think it’s time you found your own place? You’re a grown woman now…”
“Mum, not this again! My head’s already pounding.” Emily poured herself coffee from the pot Margaret had prepared earlier. “By the way, Dad’s been acting odd. Last night he was whispering on the phone, and when I walked in, he hung up straight away.”
Margaret flinched. She had noticed it too. Not just last night.
“Probably work,” she lied, to Emily and to herself.
“Oh, come off it! Work at eleven p.m.? He’s not a surgeon.” Emily shrugged and hurried off to get ready.
Margaret was left alone with her thoughts. William *had* changed. Once, he’d told her everything—about his job, his colleagues, their weekend plans. Now he was silent as a grave, hiding his phone like a schoolboy with a bad mark.
That evening, she made his favourite roast. Perhaps over dinner they would talk, properly, as they used to. Emily was out with friends, the house empty—perfect for an honest conversation.
William came home late, near nine. Margaret had been frantic, ringing his mobile again and again, but he never picked up.
“Where were you? I was worried sick!” she met him in the hall.
“Work ran late. Urgent report.” He barely looked at her, heading straight for the bathroom.
“Will, I’ve made roast—your favourite. Will you eat with me?”
“Not hungry. Too tired.” His voice through the door was muffled.
Margaret lingered in the corridor, then returned to the kitchen. The meat had gone cold in the pan. She sat at the table, poured herself tea, and wept—quietly, so he wouldn’t hear.
When William emerged, he walked past the kitchen without a glance. She heard the bedroom door lock. For the first time in thirty-two years of marriage.
That night, she lay on the sofa in the sitting room, thinking. Thinking of when things had shifted. Of why they’d become strangers. Of whether it was time for something drastic.
Next morning, William left even earlier than usual. Margaret didn’t hear him go—only the slam of the front door woke her.
“Mum, what’s happened? Why were you on the sofa?” Emily stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed, her dressing gown askew.
“Oh, my back ached. The cushions helped.” Margaret folded the blanket.
“Mum, don’t lie. I’m not blind. Did you and Dad fight?”
“Not your business, Em. Go have breakfast.”
“How is it not my business? I live here! I can see what’s happening!” Emily sat beside her. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”
Margaret studied her daughter—grown now, with a job, independent. Perhaps it was time to speak.
“Your father and I… we’ve grown apart, love. He avoids me, won’t talk. I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you tried talking to him properly?”
“I have. He brushes me off or walks away.”
“Maybe there’s someone else?” Emily said it softly, but Margaret heard.
The thought had crossed her mind—always pushed aside. William wasn’t like that. A family man, decent. Though… people change.
“Don’t be silly,” Margaret muttered.
“Mum, I’m not a child. I know what can happen between men and women. Especially after so many years.”
Margaret rose, moving to the kitchen. Emily followed.
“You know what, Mum? If Dad’s changed so much he won’t even speak to you, maybe you should think about… well, divorce.”
“Emily!” Margaret spun round.
“What? Stay with a man who ignores you? Pretends you’re not there? That’s not living—that’s torture!”
“We’ve been married thirty-two years!”
“And so what? If those years mean nothing to him, why should they to you?”
Margaret paused. The girl was right. What was the use clinging to what was gone? But how frightening to start anew at fifty-four…
That evening, she steeled herself. When William returned, she met him at the door.
“Will, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He didn’t look up from his phone.
“About us. Our marriage. What’s happening between us.”
“Nothing’s happening.” He tried to pass, but Margaret blocked his way.
“Stop! I’m speaking to you!”
Finally, William met her eyes. Tiredness there—and something else. Annoyance? Or guilt?
“Margaret, not now. I’m exhausted.”
“You’re always exhausted when it comes to us! But I can’t live like this anymore! We’re strangers! You avoid me, sleep apart—”
“What d’you want me to say?” William snapped. “That everything’s fine? That we’re happy? We’ve nothing left! You’ve worn me down with nagging, always wanting more, never satisfied!”
“I’m not satisfied?” Margaret felt something boil within her. “Thirty-two years I’ve waited on you! Cooked, cleaned, raised your children! And you say *I’m* never satisfied?”
“Yes! With that sour face of yours! Always blaming me for everything!”
“For what? For not speaking to me? Avoiding me?”
“Enough!” William waved a hand. “I’m sick of it! Sick of this house, these talks!”
“Sick of me,” Margaret whispered.
William said nothing. That silence spoke louder than words.
“Fine,” she nodded. “Let’s divorce.”
“What?” William gaped.
“You heard. If you’re sick of it all, sick of me, let’s part ways. Why suffer?”
“Margaret, are you mad? At our age?”
“Is there an age limit?” She felt an odd relief. The words were out now. “You’re right, Will. We’re strangers. No point pretending otherwise.”
“But the children… Emily—”
“Emily’s grown. She’ll understand. If not now, she’ll learn to.”
William sank into a chair, dragging a hand down his face.
“Meg, maybe it doesn’t have to be so final? Maybe we try again?”
“Try *what*, Will? You just said you’re sick of it all. Well, guess what? So am I. Sick of feeling invisible in my own home. Sick of living with a man who looks straight through me.”
“I do see you—”
“When? When was the last time you said anything kind? Had a proper chat? Hugged me just because?”
William had no answer.
“Exactly,” Margaret smiled sadly. “But I remember. I remember how you used to be. That man’s gone. And I won’t live with the shell he left behind.”
Emily appeared in the doorway, drawn by the raised voices.
“What’s going on?”
“Mum and I are divorcing,” Margaret said calmly.
“What?” Emily dropped onto the sofa. “You’re serious?”
“Quite.”
“Dad? What do you say?”
William lifted his head.
“I don’t know, love. I don’t know…”
“You know what, Dad?” Emily’s voice turned hard. “Mum’s right. I’ve watched you both for months. You speak to her like she’s staff! She cooks, cleans, and you can’t even say thanks! And yes, I’ve heard you whispering on the phone—seen you deleting texts! Think I’m blind?”
“Emily—”
“No, Dad! If there’s someone else, just say it! Stop stringing Mum along! She deserves better!”
William stood.
“I’m going for a walk. Need to think.”
“Think,” Margaret nodded. “And tomorrow I’ll see a solicitor.”
When the door shut behind him, Emily hugged her mother.
“You’re brave, Mum. This is right.”
“It’s terrifying, love. I’ve not worked properly in thirty years. How will I manage?”
“I’ll help. And Mum—it’s time you lived for *you*. You’re still lovely, still interesting. You’ll find someone who treasures you.”
“Oh, don’t talk nonsense… At my age—”
“At your age, life’s just beginningSix months later, on a bright autumn morning, Margaret sat by the window of her little flat, sipping tea with Emily, laughing at nothing in particular—and for the first time in years, she realized she was truly happy.
