**Diary Entry: A Friendship Divorce**
I always thought divorce was just between a husband and wife. Turns out, it’s about everyone who was friends with them, too.
Our group came together in Manchester, or rather, its suburbs—where rows of nearly identical houses line the streets, each with trimmed lawns and postboxes at the kerb. At first, we met at self-improvement classes, community events at the local synagogue, children’s birthday parties, and school plays. Within a couple of years, holidays and weekends were unthinkable without each other.
There were six couples in our circle. Me and my husband. Emily and Andrew—the closest of us all. And four other families with kids roughly the same age. Our calendar was packed like one big family’s:
Summer meant trips to the lake, barbecues, grilled corn, and Bonfire Night with sparklers in the park.
Autumn brought apple-picking, cider, Halloween, and Christmas prep.
Winter was for skiing, Hanukkah, New Year’s Eve, and the kids’ half-term breaks in Spain.
Spring rolled around with Passover and its endless Seders.
It felt like this friendship would last forever. Until the day Emily called and calmly announced, *“Andrew and I are getting divorced.”*
I froze like an old computer. They were the *perfect* couple! Not a cloud in their sky… or had we just chosen not to see the storms?
The first thing I blurted out was, *“But what about Christmas at yours? You promised to roast the turkey with chestnut stuffing!”*
The dinner happened anyway—at ours. Couldn’t let a good turkey go to waste. Andrew showed up with a new girlfriend. *“We’re civilised people,”* he muttered, awkwardly winking at the lads.
She couldn’t have been thirty—waist-length hair, legs for days, and shorts that barely covered anything. The men subtly wiped their chins; the wives rolled their eyes. Emily snorted, *“Let’s see how long *she* lasts once she realises how tight he is with money!”*
Then she turned on me: *“Whose side are you on, anyway?”*
The night was ruined.
For revenge, Emily brought some ancient, rumpled bloke in a baggy suit and round glasses to the next birthday bash. He droned on about politics, peppered with terrible jokes, and fizzled out when no one—men or women—could feign interest.
At home, the ex-couple became our go-to topic. Wives rallied behind Emily. The husbands pretended to be outraged by Andrew’s betrayal but secretly admired him.
Then came the diplomacy.
For my birthday, we invited just Emily and the kids—*“so the little ones have playmates.”*
For the summer barbecue, Andrew got an invite—*“just bring your latest fling; everyone’s too busy eating to chat.”*
The worst was anniversaries. Sarah, planning her silver wedding, groaned down the phone: *“Liz, I don’t know where to seat them. We can’t handle the glare-crossfire.”*
We spent an hour sketching seating plans:
Andrew and his latest in the corner, behind the pillar.
Emily by the fireplace, near the dessert table.
The kids—wherever they’d fit.
*“Maybe someone will catch flu and bail,”* Sarah whispered hopefully, then muttered apologies to herself.
The peak was their daughter’s graduation. A pizza place decked in balloons and flowers. Emily on one side of the long table. Andrew on the other. The cake in the middle like a demilitarised zone.
Andrew’s latest, in a plunging neckline, scrolled through her phone while the wives shot dagger-eyes at their husbands. The men pretended 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 for her.”*
The chill was so thick, the pizza might as well have been ice cream.
Eventually, things settled. We saw Emily more often—safer, easier. With Andrew, it dwindled to the odd ‘like’ or a passing *“Alright?”* at Tesco.
And I realised something simple: divorce isn’t just between a husband and wife. Friends get divorced a little, too.
Now, every gathering feels like a UN summit—strict etiquette, strategic seating. Christmas? Two shifts:
First, Emily—turkey and roast potatoes.
Then, Andrew—steak and his latest in denim shorts.
Sometimes I wonder: if another couple splits, we’ll need separate WhatsApp groups for every event.
The friendship’s alive, but it’s like a gym membership now—individual, with terms and conditions.
And sometimes? I think if we could *officially* divorce our friends, we’d sign the papers—no lawyers, no alimony, just a rota for barbecues and shared mates on alternate weekends.
💔 Divorce is contagious. Even when it’s not yours.
