“Are You Getting Divorced? I’m Staying with Dad”
Emma had sensed for a while that things between her and Robert were cracking apart. The warmth had faded, love had turned into routine, and conversations fizzled out into silence. Resentments piled up like unwashed dishes, and the air in their tiny London flat hummed with tension—like the quiet before a storm.
She’d been waiting, half-hoping things would magically fix themselves. But every time she prodded at the problem, it only got worse. And what then? They had a daughter to think about.
Emma kept the flat tidy, made sure meals were on the table, and nagged their teenage daughter, Hannah, about homework and curfews. Hannah had started locking her bedroom door, whispering into her phone—typical teenage stuff. But Robert? His contribution began and ended with handing over his paycheck.
Lately, he’d been glued to his phone like a lovesick teenager.
Then Emma got sick. Fever, pounding headache, muscles aching like she’d run a marathon. She begged Robert to make dinner. Hannah was out with friends—again.
“Let’s just have tea and toast,” Robert said.
Too weak to argue, Emma drifted in and out of sleep. Two days later, she shuffled into the kitchen to find the sink piled high with dishes, no clean mugs left, the bin overflowing with takeaway boxes. The washing machine groaned under a heap of Robert’s shirts, sand crunched underfoot in the hallway, and the fridge was a wasteland. She scrubbed, cooked, and collapsed exhausted by evening.
After dinner, the dishes piled up again. Emma nearly cried. Years of swallowed grievances burst out.
“I’m not your maid. I work just as much as you do, then come home to this. You could’ve at least washed one plate.”
“You’d have done it anyway,” Robert said, eyes on his phone.
“Take the rubbish out tomorrow before work. I’ll leave a bag by the door.”
“Fine,” he muttered, scrolling.
“Not *fine*. Just do it.” She exhaled sharply. “You used to help—you even vacuumed! I’m not asking for the moon, just for you to *notice* I exist. Are you even listening?”
He blinked up. “What? I do enough.”
“Like what?”
“You’re overreacting. You’re the woman—this is your job. I bring in the money. What more do you want? Two women in the house, and I’m supposed to wash plates too?”
“You just called our daughter a *woman*?” Emma’s voice rose.
“Speaking of, where is she? *Your* parenting—letting her run wild. All this over a plate,” he grumbled.
“It’s not about the plate. It’s about you treating me like furniture!”
“Enough! I’m done.” Robert stormed out. The bathroom door slammed.
Then, on the table, his forgotten phone lit up. Emma caught the name—*Lottie*—before the screen went dark.
So *that* was the crack she’d felt but refused to name.
Robert returned, snatched his phone.
“Lottie—short for Charlotte? Or just *Lottie*?” Emma kept her voice flat.
He froze. “You went through my phone?”
“It’s locked. Got something to hide?” *Lie. Just lie, for once.*
“And if I do?” He squared up, defiant. “Yeah, there’s someone else. Let’s sort this like adults.”
“How’s *that* supposed to look?” Her voice cracked.
“Here we go,” he sneered. “Play the victim if you want. But nothing changes.”
Her world collapsed. Thunder cracked, and the downpour began.
“Pack your things,” Robert said.
“What? Where?”
“My parents bought this flat. I’m not selling it.”
“And Hannah and I just… vanish? You’re joking.”
“I’m dead serious. Go to your mum’s.”
“I’m not leaving.” Hannah’s voice cut in from the hallway.
“Eavesdropping now?” Robert snapped.
“It’s not eavesdropping when you’re shouting loud enough for the neighbors to hear. Are you divorcing? I’m staying with Dad.”
Robert smirked. “And *I’m* the bad guy?” He left, probably texting Lottie about his soon-to-be-vacant flat.
“You *can’t* stay with him, Hannah. He’s—” Emma choked. “He won’t be alone.”
“Whatever. I’ve got my own room. I’m not moving in with Nan and Grandad—they live in the middle of nowhere. My school, my friends are *here*.” Hannah flounced off.
Panic swallowed Emma. What now? Her family was a house of cards, and the wind had blown it flat.
The next morning, she left before they woke. At work, her colleague, Sarah, took one look at her.
“No family, no home, nowhere to go. I’m basically homeless,” Emma whispered.
Sarah sighed. “I’ve got a flat—tiny, needs work. My dad’s old place. Stay as long as you need, just cover the bills.”
Gratitude flooded Emma.
The flat was grim—dingy curtains, Soviet-era furniture. She scrubbed until midnight. Hannah wouldn’t have lasted a night here.
No one called to check on her.
The next day, Sarah’s husband helped her move. Emma bought wine, drank, and mourned.
She called Hannah daily. “Everything’s fine,” Hannah chirped. “Lottie moved in. She’s *cool*. Gave me jeans and makeup…”
*So everyone’s happy but me.*
She waited outside Hannah’s school once. Her daughter, caked in makeup, hissed, “Don’t come back.”
Emma cried all night.
To drown the grief, she took a second job at a DIY superstore—restocking shelves, mopping floors. By year’s end, she’d scraped together a deposit for a one-bed flat.
She slept on a discount mattress, then scrimped for a sofa. A coworker, David—divorced, kind—helped assemble the furniture. Over bangers and mash, he said, “That ex of yours kept Hannah to make kicking *you* out easier. She’ll figure it out. No stepmum replaces a mum.”
David started coming round—fixing lights, hammering shelves. One night, talking till dawn, he stayed. Then moved in. He proposed; Emma said no. She was still waiting for Hannah.
Then, a knock.
“Hannah!” Emma flung her arms open. “You’re *here*!”
“Asked at your work.” Hannah eyed the flat. “Not bad.”
Over tea, Hannah admitted she’d flunked her A-levels. Robert refused to pay for a foundation year. “Lottie said they need the money for *their* holiday. Mum, can you—?”
Emma’s stomach dropped. “I’m still paying the mortgage. Try next year?”
David nodded. “Your mum worked two jobs for this flat. We’ll get you a job at the store—save up.”
Hannah’s face soured.
Emma softened. “It’s late. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
In the morning, Hannah was gone. No note.
Emma called, frantic.
“I’m going back to Dad. I’m not sleeping on a kitchen floor. You *chose* David over me.”
“—Hannah, *wait*—”
“Don’t call me.”
Emma stared at the phone.
David squeezed her shoulder. “She didn’t come for *you*. She came for cash. She’ll be back when she *needs* you.”
Six months later, Hannah married some bloke she met clubbing—pregnant, desperate. Emma wasn’t invited.
Then, the call: “Mum, I can’t do this.”
The husband vanished into pubs; Lottie refused to help. “I *tolerated* you for Robert,” she’d snapped.
David persuaded the in-laws—wealthy, mortified—to buy Hannah and the baby a flat in exchange for their son’s freedom.
Every evening, Emma went over, bathing the baby, humming lullabies.
And, for the first time in years, she was happy.
