At the Divorce, She Told Him: “Take Everything!” – But a Year Later, He Regretted Believing Her Natalie looked calmly at the papers. Surprisingly, she felt no anger at all. “So, you’ve finally made your choice?” Victor eyed his wife with barely concealed irritation. “What now? How do we split things?” Natalie raised her eyes. There were no tears or pleading—just the resolve that comes after a sleepless night spent thinking about a life wasted. “Take everything,” she said quietly, but firmly. “What do you mean, ‘everything’?” Victor squinted suspiciously. “The house, the car, the accounts. Everything,” she gestured around. “I don’t want any of it.” “Are you joking?” he started to grin. “Or is this some kind of woman’s trick?” “No, Victor. No tricks, no jokes. Thirty years, I put my life on hold. Thirty years of washing, cooking, waiting. Thirty years of being told holidays were a waste, my hobbies were silly, my dreams were childish. Do you know how many times I wanted to go to the seaside? Nineteen. Know how many times we went? Three. And every time you grumbled about the price, about how pointless it was.” Victor snorted. “Same old story. We always had food and a roof—” “Yes, we did,” Natalie nodded. “And now you’ll have everything else too. Congratulations on your victory.” The solicitor looked on, astonished. He was used to tears, shouting, accusations. But this woman was simply letting go of everything most people fight over. “Do you understand what you’re saying?” he asked quietly. “By law, you’re entitled to half of everything.” “I understand,” she smiled, as if shedding a great unseen weight. “But I also understand that half a wasted life is still a wasted life—just smaller.” Victor barely hid his delight. He’d planned to barter, maybe even threaten, certainly manipulate. But this—this was a stroke of luck. “Now that’s mature!” he smacked the table. “Finally, you’re being reasonable.” “Don’t confuse reason with freedom,” Natalie replied softly, signing the papers. They drove home in the same car, yet as if on different planets. Victor hummed an old tune from childhood. The car rocked gently, his whistle drifting and fading… Natalie didn’t listen. She stared at the rain-speckled window, heart fluttering like a bird on its first flight. The ordinary road, the tired evening – and suddenly, an overwhelming sense of open space inside. As if the heavy stone she’d carried for years had vanished. She smiled, touched her cool cheek, and thought: “This… this is freedom.” Sometimes, that’s all it takes—one moment, one glance at rushing trees—to see life suddenly coloured with forgotten brightness. Three weeks later, Natalie stood in a small rented flat in Kent. It was modest: bed, wardrobe, table, a small TV. On the windowsill, two pots of violets—the first thing she’d bought herself for her new home. “You really have lost it,” her son Chris sounded annoyed on the phone. “You left everything just to move to some hole in the middle of nowhere?” “I didn’t leave, Chris,” she replied calmly. “I let go. There’s a difference.” “But Mum—Dad said you gave him everything. He’s even planning to sell the summer house now. He says he doesn’t need all the hassle on his own.” She smiled, catching her new haircut’s reflection—something she’d never dared with Victor. “Too trendy,” “you’ll look silly,” “what will people say”—she could still hear him. “Let him sell it,” she said lightly. “Your father’s always known how to handle things.” “And you? You’ve got nothing left!” “I’ve got the one thing that matters, Chris. My life. Turns out it’s never too late to start living—fifty-nine isn’t the end of the world, you know.” She found work as the manager of a small private retirement home. The job was challenging, but interesting, and most importantly, her time was at last her own. Meanwhile, Victor revelled in his “victory”—for the first two weeks, he strutted around his home like Lord of the Manor. No more nagging, no reminders about socks or dirty dishes. “You’ve really landed on your feet, Vic,” grinned his friend Dave over brandy. “Most blokes lose half, some lose more—but you? You got the lot! House, car, savings—everything.” “At last, Natalie’s seen sense. She knows she can’t cope without me,” Victor smirked. But after a month, the thrill faded. Clean shirts no longer magically appeared. The fridge was empty. Cooking a proper dinner was harder than it looked. Colleagues commented he looked unkempt. “You’ve lost a bit of your spark, Vic—is everything all right at home?” “Better than ever,” he replied. “Just a bit of an adjustment, that’s all.” One evening, opening his fridge to find only ketchup, cheese slices, and a half-empty bottle, his stomach rumbled. He remembered how Natalie would always have a meal ready. “Bloody hell—this can’t go on…” He ordered takeaway—again. The bills piled up. Energy, internet, food—it all seemed so much more expensive. The doorbell rang, snapping him from his thoughts. “£6,” said the delivery boy. “For stew and a bottle of water?!” Victor spluttered. “Standard, mate,” the boy shrugged. He paid, stood in his quiet kitchen, and listened to the silence. The big, stylish flat with all the things he’d once coveted now just felt cold. Empty. As if the wind could howl down the hallway—just like in his soul. Meanwhile, Natalie stood on a beach in Brighton, face to the sea breeze and sun. All around her, laughter and chatter—she’d joined an active seniors club, off on their first ever seaside trip. For the first time in her life, she travelled without anyone sniping about wasted money or moaning about costs. “Nat, come get in the photo!” called her new friend, lively Irene, whom she’d met at an art class. Natalie skipped to join the group. Who’d have thought, at nearly sixty, she’d wear a bright sundress, her hair loose, laughing like a girl? “Selfie time!” Irene waved her phone. “Let’s put it in the group!” That evening, Natalie scrolled through the photos: a woman with sparkling eyes, grinning with happiness—a woman she hardly recognised. No more worry-lines. Relaxed shoulders. A lightness in her step. “Perhaps I’ll post these,” she decided, and uploaded a few to her almost forgotten social media profile. Back in London, Victor was battling a burst pipe in the kitchen. Water everywhere—the handyman said the pipe was out-of-date and the whole lot would have to go. “Bloody hell! Where’s that number for the plumber? Natalie always knew.” He realised she’d kept the house running behind the scenes with a hundred contacts—plumber, hairdresser, butcher. Now, that invisible backbone was gone. Evening, water finally off and the kitchen mopped, Victor idly scrolled through social media. There was Natalie, beaming by the sea in a vivid sundress and new haircut—she looked… happy? He frowned, scrolling further: “You look so much younger, Natalie!” “You look fantastic!” “Brighton suits you!” More photos: tea at a library group, painting in the park, Natalie on a bench, arms full of wildflowers. He stared around his messy kitchen. “She was supposed to—she was supposed to…” He couldn’t finish the thought—because deep down, he’d always thought Natalie would be lost without him. But there she was, years younger and finally free. A few days later, his country house sprung a leak. Storm on the way—someone had to deal with the roof. “Dave, mate, help! Bring some nails, I can’t manage on my own.” “Sorry, Vic—my mother-in-law’s ill, I’m at hospital. Why don’t you ask Natalie?” “She’s… she’s gone.” “Gone where?” “Just gone, Dave.” But fixing the roof on his own was hopeless. It poured down, the ceiling stained, damp pervading everything. The garden was overgrown—the apple trees unpruned, pathways invisible under weeds. It had all wilted without her. He stopped at a roadside café. Tired, he ordered soup. First spoonful—sharp and tasteless. Not like Natalie’s. “You all right, love?” the waitress asked gently. He just nodded. How could he explain that soup, of all things, triggered memories of a whole lost life? At home, he gazed at old photos—Natalie laughing in front of Buckingham Palace, their son as a boy, their twentieth anniversary. “What a bloody fool,” he whispered, looking at her younger face. He picked up his phone, taking a breath, and sent her a message. But the reply wasn’t what he hoped for. Because Natalie had moved to a seaside town. Surrounded by new friends and music, life—at long last—belonged to her. At nearly sixty, she had finally started to live.

At the divorce, his wife said, Take it all! but a year later, the husband regretted trusting her.

Margaret looked at the documents with remarkable composure. Strangely, there was no anger left in her.

So, you’ve finally made up your mind then? Richard gazed at her with thinly veiled irritation. What happens now? How are we splitting everything?

Margaret lifted her eyesnot a trace of tears, no pleading, just the steady resolve born of a sleepless night spent reflecting on three decades of a life put on hold.

Take it all, she said quietly, but with a calm firmness.

What do you mean, all? Richard squinted suspiciously.

The house, the car, the savings, the share portfolio. Everything, she gestured vaguely around their sitting room. I dont want any of it.

Youre joking? He let out a short, incredulous laugh. Or is this some sort of trick?

No, Richard. No games, no drama. For thirty years, I shelved my own life. Thirty years I washed, cooked, tidied, waited. Thirty years I listened as you said travel was a waste of money, my hobbies were childish, my dreams nonsense. Do you know how many times I wanted to see the sea? Nineteen. You know how many we actually went? Threeand every trip you complained it was too expensive, too much hassle.

Richard snorted. Oh, here we go. At least we always had a roof over our heads, a decent meal

Yes, Margaret nodded. And now, youll have everything else on top. Congratulations on your victory.

The solicitor watched, astonished by the calm scene. He was used to divorce as a battleground, filled with tears and shouts and stubborn claims. But here, this woman just gave up everything others fought tooth and nail for.

Are you sure you understand what youre doing? he asked, his voice gentle. Youre legally entitled to half of everything acquired during your marriage.

I do understand, she smiled, her face relaxed as if shed shrugged off years of invisible weight. But you see, half of an empty life is just an empty life in miniature.

Richard could barely conceal his delight. This was a twist he hadnt expected. Hed planned for negotiationsmaybe grandstanding, perhaps even threatsbut fate had dropped him a windfall.

Well, thats exceptionally reasonable! He slapped the desk with his palm, grinning. Finally, some common sense from you.

Dont confuse common sense with freedom, Margaret replied quietly, signing her name with a steady hand.

They drove home together in the same car, but it felt as if they occupied different worlds.

Richard hummed some marching tune from his childhood, steering over the bumps and humming along with the rhythm. Margaret wasnt listeningin fact, she barely heard the world around her. Her gaze fixed on the rain-blurred window, watching the English hedgerows rush by, her heart fluttering like a bird venturing from the nest for the very first time.

How strange, she thought. Just an ordinary road, just another tired eveningand yet now there was this rush of space inside her, as if that hard lump in her chest had finally evaporated. Margaret smiled softly, brushed cool fingers over her cheek. So this, she realised, is freedom

Sometimes all it takes is a single momenta glance through a car window at the trees racing pastfor a life to light up in forgotten colours.

Three weeks later, Margaret was standing in the middle of a small rented room in Whitstable.

It was humble: a single bed, a wardrobe, a little table, and an old telly. Two pots of violets sat on the sillher first purchase for this new chapter.

You really have lost it, her son, Brian, grumbled down the phone, irritation colouring his words. You walked away from everythingto live in that dump?

I didnt walk away, love, replied Margaret serenely. I let it go. Theres a difference.

But Mum, how could you? Dad said you gave everything up by choice. Now hes on about selling the cottagesays hes no use for all the fuss on his own.

Margaret looked into the little mirror on her wall, smiling at the woman staring back. For a week now shed worn a new short haircutsomething shed never have dared with Richard. “Too youthful,” “improper,” “what will people think”she could still hear his favourite phrases.

Let him sell it if he wants. She shrugged lightly. Your dad always did love the sound of his own decisions.

But what about you? Youve got nothing left!

Ive got the most important thing, Brian. My life. Do you know whats funny? Turns out, you can start over at fifty-nine.

Margaret had taken a job as the receptionist at a small, private care home for the elderly. It wasnt easy, but it was actually rewardingand most importantly, it gave her new friends and something she hadnt felt in decades: free time that belonged to her, and her alone.

Richard, meanwhile, basked in his so-called triumph.

For the first fortnight, he strutted around the house as if king of a castle, admiring each possession with ownerships glow. No one to nag him about muddy boots or unwashed dishes now.

You jammy git, Rich, his mate Geoffrey exclaimed over brandy in the kitchen. Most blokes lose halfif not moreand youre rolling in it! The house, the cottage, the carall yours.

Exactly. Richard gave a smug little laugh. At last, Margarets seen reason. Shell learn soon enough she cant manage without me.

But as the first month drew on, euphoria gave way to niggling inconveniences.

Crisp shirts failed to appear in the wardrobe. The fridge became emptier by the day, and home-cooked meals were trickier than hed guessed. Colleagues at work began to notice his decline from his previously tidy self.

Looking a bit rough around the edges, old man, his boss remarked. Everything alright at home?

Oh, just doing a bit of reorganising, Richard replied breezily, forcing a quick smile.

One evening he opened the fridgeketchup, a pack of cheese slices, and half a bottle of something. His stomach rumbled in protesthed only managed toast since morning.

Bloody hell, he grumbled, slamming the fridge closed. This won’t do Need to sort myself out.

Desperate, he caved to takeaway yet againwhat else to do when the fridge was as barren as the Yorkshire moors? While waiting, he idly flicked through yet another stack of bills. This time, the numbers stung: council tax, internet, bank fees, electricity.

Once, all those things seemed part of some distant, harmless white noise. Hed never noticed the household ticking overthat just seemed to happen by itself, as if by magic, when someone was close by. Now the costs stared right back at him.

The doorbell jerked him from his reverie. The delivery driver announced, Thatll be twelve pounds fifty.

Twelve-fifty?! Richard nearly dropped his keys. For stew and a bottle of water?

Going rates, mate, the man replied with a shrug as if hed fielded a hundred such complaints already today.

Back in the shadowy kitchen, Richard was strutted at the threshold. Silence filled the spaceonly the fridge seemed to sigh, humming louder as if missing company. The flat-gloss kitchen and fancy lights, all the things hed once coveted, now shrank around him. The place felt cavernous and cold, waiting for something that would never return; a wind could have whistled through the hallway, much like the emptiness in Richards chest.

Margaret breathed in the briny breeze along the Brighton seafront, tilting her face to the sunlight.

Around her, a lively group of retirees chatted and laughedthe local over-fifties club had taken a weeks trip to the coast. For the first time in her life, she was travelling without anyone moaning about wasted money, without keeping receipts or counting the savings if only she’d stayed home.

Maggie, come join us for a photo! called out her new friend Joan, a sprightly sixty-year-old widow shed met in her watercolour class.

Margaret hurried over, laughing as the group posed for a selfie, Joan brandishing her phone at arms length. Whod have dreamed shed wear a bright sundress, let her hair loose, and giggle like a teenager at her age?

And now, a group selfie for our club page! Joan insisted, waving her selfie stick.

That evening, Margaret sat on her bed, flipping through the days snapshots. In them was a woman with sparkling eyes, a beaming smilesomeone she barely recognised. When had that deep tension between her brows faded? How long had her shoulders been this light?

She hesitated, then uploaded a few photos to her long-neglected social media page.

Meanwhile, back in Oxford, Richard was wrestling a burst pipe under the kitchen sink. Water spilled over the floor and ruined the cupboard. The plumber, with disinterested professionalism, informed him, These old pipes arent made anymoreyoull need to replace the lot.

For crying out loud! Richard cursed, sopping up water with worn-out towels. Wheres that damn plumbers number? Margaret always had it to hand

It hit him, all at onceMargaret had kept a dozen numbers in her mind: plumber, butcher, cobbler, hairdresser. The web of comfort shed quietly maintained had vanished, leaving him to untangle a knotted mess.

Stupid pipe! He hurled a sodden rag in frustration. Cooking, washing, fixing things and all on top of work!

When the water was at last shut off and the puddle more or less cleared, Richard slumped onto the sofa. On a whim, he opened up his old social media accountsomething he hadnt bothered with in ages. As he scrolled, he froze: there was Margaret, laughing in the sun with the sea behind her, a bright new bob framing her face, looking undeniably happy.

This cant be right, he muttered, enlarging one image. She left with practically nothing!

Each comment knocked him further askew:

Maggie, you look twenty years younger!
Good for you, love!
Seaside suits you!

He scrolled further: afternoons in the library, painting with friends in a park, Margaret holding a wildflower bouquet on a bench.

What on earth Richard trailed off, glancing at his silent kitchen, cluttered sink, and missing her presence keenly. She should have been should have been

He couldnt finish the thought, because for the first time it struck him: hed expected Margaret to be suffering without him, without all shed left behind. But in those pictures was a totally different womanone lighter, younger, liberated.

A few days later, the cottages roof sprang a leak. A storm lurked on the horizon and the attic needed patchingurgently.

Geoffrey, mate, you have to help! Richard pleaded on the phone. Bring some nailstheres no way I can manage this alone.

Sorry, Rich, came his friends reply. Mother-in-laws hospitalised, Im flat out. Listen, why not ring Margaret? She always sorted stuff like this for you.

She Richard tripped over his own words. Shes moved. Gone.

Gone where? said Geoffrey, confusion thick in his voice.

Shes just gone. Richard cut the call, chest tight. Fine. Ill manage.

But he didnt, not really. Rain battered the roof as he fumbled with sheeting, and in one slick misstep he crashed to the ground. The sharp pain in his ankle took his breath away.

A spraincouldve been much worse, said the casual young doctor at A&E. Best to rest; foot up for a week.

A week? But whos going to fix my roof?

Not my problem, shrugged the medic, scribbling on a pad. Why not let your wife look after youand get some rest, mate.

Richard wanted to argue, but bit his tongue.

Three days staggered by in complete loneliness, Richard hobbling about on crutches. The last of the takeaway was gone, and he was shocked by how quickly it burned through his wallet. Cooking on his own was out of the questionstanding at the stove on one foot was a challenge too far.

On the fourth day, he gave in and rang Brian.

Hello, son, Richard dived into feigned cheerfulness. Hows tricks?

All fine, Dad, came the cautious reply. Something up?

Oh, nothing really, just twisted my ankle. Hoping you could pop round and help me out?

A pause.

Sorry, Dad, Im up in Manchesterwork trip. Ill be back in three days.

Oh right, never mind, disappointment catching in his throat. Ill manage.

Brian hesitated. Have you called Mum? She

No! Richard snapped. No need. Im absolutely fine.

He hung up first, flinging his phone on the sofa. Stupid pride, he thought, not admitting he missed Margarets warmth, her care, her simple presence. All these years, hed never realised quite how much shed donebecause shed done it all so quietly, without fuss or demand for gratitude.

After a week and a half, Richard hobbled out without crutches. First stop: the cottage, to assess the damage. What he found was grim. Damp stains bloomed across the attic ceiling, his favourite armchair was ruined, and the air was heavy with mildew.

For Gods sake, he muttered, sinking onto a bench in the garden.

The apple trees, once lovingly tended by Margaret, ran wild. The long grass swallowed the winding paths she used to line with stones. Everything seemed abandoned, bereft without her.

On the return journey, he pulled off at a motorway café. Exhausted and glum, he ordered stew and a pint. But the stew was thin and sharpnothing like Margarets stew, hearty and sweet.

Everything alright, love? the young waitress asked kindly.

Fine Richard mumbled, but he couldnt explain. How do you tell a stranger that a bad stew could remind you of everything youve lost?

Back home, Richard sat motionless, staring at photo frames on the shelf. There he was with Margaret, young and happy outside Buckingham Palace. There was Brian as a child, then their anniversary dinner, twenty years in

What a fool Ive been, he whispered to the smiling faces in the past.

He found his courage then and sent Margaret a message. The reply was nothing like hed expected.

Margaret had moved to a breezy coastal town. Laughter, music, and new friends filled her life. True livingreal, vibrant, her ownhad finally begun.

At almost sixty years old, Margaretat lastwas truly living.