An Ordinary Day—and a Divorce
Emily fills the kettle and absently wipes the kitchen counter, though it’s already clean. A morning ritual. Richard left for work without a word, as he’s done for months now. Just the slam of the front door. Once, he used to come into the kitchen, kiss her cheek, whisper something sweet. Now? Now they live like strangers sharing a house.
The kettle whistles. Emily pours boiling water into her favourite rose-patterned mug—the one Richard gave her for their first anniversary. Thirty-two years ago. God, how time flies.
“Mum, where’s my blue jumper?” Charlotte bursts in, their eldest daughter. At twenty-eight, she still lives at home, saving on rent. “I asked you to wash it yesterday!”
“It’s drying on the line. Charlie, love, don’t you think it’s time you moved out? You’re a grown woman now.”
“Mum, not this again! I’ve got a splitting headache.” Charlotte grabs coffee from the pot Emily made earlier. “Dad’s acting weird, by the way. Last night, he was whispering on the phone for ages, but the second I walked in, he hung up.”
Emily stiffens. She’s noticed too. And not just last night.
“Probably work,” she lies—to Charlotte and herself.
“Oh, come on! Work at eleven p.m.? He’s not a surgeon.” Charlotte shrugs and rushes off.
Left alone, Emily’s thoughts spiral. Richard *has* changed. He used to tell her everything—about his job, colleagues, weekend plans. Now he clams up like a guilty schoolboy hiding his phone.
That evening, she makes his favourite bangers and mash. Maybe they’ll talk over dinner, like they used to. Charlotte’s at a friend’s; the house is quiet. Perfect for honesty.
Richard comes home late, past nine. Emily’s called twice—no answer.
“Where were you? I was worried!” She meets him in the hallway.
“Got held up at work. Urgent reports.” He barely glances at her before heading to the shower.
“Rick, I made your favourite. Fancy dinner?”
“Not hungry. Exhausted.” His voice is muffled through the door.
Emily lingers, then returns to the kitchen. The food grows cold. She sits, pours tea, and cries silently.
When Richard emerges, he walks straight past the kitchen. The bedroom door clicks shut—locked. For the first time in thirty-two years.
That night, she lies on the sofa, wide-eyed. When did it all change? Why are they strangers now? Maybe it’s time for something radical.
Morning comes too soon. Richard leaves earlier than usual; she only wakes to the door slamming.
“Mum, why were you on the sofa?” Charlotte stands in the doorway, rumpled and sleepy.
“Bad back. The cushions help.” Emily folds the blanket briskly.
“Mum, don’t fib. Did you and Dad row?”
“It’s not your business, Charlie. Breakfast’s ready.”
“Not my business? I *live* here! I see what’s going on!” Charlotte sits beside her. “Talk to me. Maybe I can help.”
Emily studies her daughter—grown, working, independent. Maybe it’s time to confide.
“Your dad and I… we’ve drifted apart. He avoids me. I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you tried talking properly?”
“He won’t engage.”
Charlotte hesitates, then whispers, “D’you think there’s someone else?”
The thought’s crossed Emily’s mind—always swiftly buried. Richard’s a family man, decent. But people change.
“Don’t be silly.”
“Mum, I’m not a kid. Affairs happen—especially after decades.”
Emily retreats to the kitchen, Charlotte trailing.
“Listen,” Charlotte says firmly. “If Dad’s this checked out, maybe… maybe divorce isn’t the worst idea.”
“Charlie!”
“What? Living with someone who ignores you? That’s not a life!”
“We’ve been together thirty-two years!”
“And if those years mean nothing to *him*, why cling to them?”
Emily pauses. Her daughter’s right. But starting over at fifty-four?
That night, she steels herself. When Richard returns, she blocks his path.
“Rick, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He doesn’t look up from his phone.
“Us. Our marriage. Whatever this is.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He tries to step past.
“Stop!” Her voice cracks. “Look at me!”
Finally, he does. His eyes are tired—and something else. Irritation? Guilt?
“Emily, not now.”
“You’re *always* too tired to talk! But I can’t live like this! We’re strangers! You lock me out—literally!”
“What d’you want me to say?” he snaps. “That we’re happy? We’ve got *nothing* left! You nag, you’re never satisfied!”
“*I’m* never—?” Her hands tremble. “I’ve spent thirty-two years cooking, cleaning, raising *your* children! And *I’m* the problem?”
“Yes! You’ve got a face like a wet weekend! Always blaming me!”
“For *what*? For you shutting me out?”
“Enough!” He throws his hands up. “I’m sick of this house! Sick of these rows!”
“Sick of me,” Emily murmurs.
His silence says everything.
“Fine.” She nods. “Let’s divorce.”
“What?”
“You heard me. If you’re so miserable, let’s end it.”
“Emily, are you mad? At our age?”
“Is there an age limit?” Relief washes over her. The words are out. “You’re right, Rick. We’re done. No point pretending.”
“But Charlotte—”
“Charlotte’s grown. She’ll cope.”
Richard sinks into a chair, rubbing his face.
“Em… maybe we can fix this?”
“Fix *what*? You just said you’re sick of it all. Well, so am I. Sick of being invisible in my own home.”
“I *see* you—”
“When? When did you last compliment me? Hug me? Talk *to* me, not *at* me?”
He has no answer.
Emily smiles sadly. “That’s what I thought. The man I married is gone. And I won’t live with the ghost.”
Charlotte storms in. “What’s going on?”
“Your dad and I are divorcing,” Emily says calmly.
“*What*?” Charlotte gapes. “Mum, are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Dad?”
Richard sighs. “I don’t know, love.”
“You know *what*?” Charlotte’s voice hardens. “Mum’s right! I’ve watched you treat her like a maid for *months*! Cooking, cleaning—no thanks! And yes, I’ve seen you deleting texts! Think I’m blind?”
“Charlotte—”
“No! If there’s someone else, *say it*! Stop torturing her!”
Richard stands. “I need air.”
“Think hard,” Emily says. “I’ll see the solicitor tomorrow.”
When he’s gone, Charlotte hugs her. “Mum, you’re brave. This is right.”
“I’m terrified, Charlie. I haven’t worked properly in thirty years. How will I—?”
“I’ll help. And honestly? It’s *your* time now. You’re stunning—you’ll find someone who *deserves* you.”
“At my age?”
“Your age is *perfect*! Freedom, Mum!”
Emily almost laughs. Maybe her daughter’s right.
Richard returns late. She’s already asleep. By morning, he’s at the kitchen table, aged ten years overnight.
“Em,” he rasps. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe… we should split.”
“Alright,” she says. “I’ll see the solicitor today.”
“Just… let’s keep it civil. No fighting. For Charlotte.”
“Obviously.”
A pause.
“Funny,” Emily murmurs. “I feel lighter. Like a weight’s gone.”
“Me too,” he admits.
Charlotte appears. “So?”
“Divorce,” Emily confirms.
“Good!” Charlotte pours coffee. “And I’m moving out. Found a flat near work.”
“Charlie—”
“Mum, it’s time. And you two need space.”
After breakfast, Emily heads to the solicitor’s. Walking familiar streets, she marvels at life’s twists. Yesterday, a wife of thirty-two years. Today, filing for divorce. Yet there’s no fear—just quiet exhilaration, like shedding a winter coat in spring.
The solicitor, a kindly man in his forties, listens carefully.
“Thirty-two years is a long marriage,” he says. “Certain this is what you want?”
“Absolutely.”
“No under-eighteens?”
“Charlotte’s twenty-eight.”
“Assets?”
“NothingAnd as she walked home that afternoon, the autumn sun warm on her face, Emily realised—for the first time in decades—she was exactly where she needed to be.
