**Friendly 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 little gang came together in Manchester—well, the suburbs, really—where the streets are lined with nearly identical semi-detached houses, perfectly trimmed hedges, and letterboxes perched by the pavement. At first, we met at self-improvement workshops, community events at the local synagogue, kids’ birthday parties, and school plays. After a couple of years, none of us could imagine weekends or holidays without the others.
There were six couples in our circle. Me and my husband. Emily and Andrew—the closest of the bunch. And four other families with kids around the same age. Our calendar was packed like a proper extended family’s:
Summer meant trips to the lake, barbecues, corn on the cob, and fireworks in the park for the Fourth of July.
Autumn was apple-picking, cider, Halloween, and Thanksgiving.
Winter brought skiing, Hanukkah, Christmas, and the kids’ half-term break in Spain.
Spring was Passover with the traditional Seder.
It felt like this friendship would last forever.
Then one day, Emily called and calmly announced, “Andrew and I are getting divorced.”
I froze like an old laptop. They were the perfect couple! Not a cloud in their sky—or had we just chosen not to see them because it was easier?
All I managed to blurt out was, “But what about Thanksgiving at your place? You promised to stuff the turkey with chestnuts!”
The holiday happened anyway, though at my house—no sense wasting a good turkey. Andrew showed up with a new girlfriend. “We’re civilised people,” he said with an awkward wink.
She was stunning—barely thirty, waist-length hair, legs for days, and shorts so tiny they might as well have been a belt. The husbands subtly wiped their chins; the wives rolled their eyes.
Emily snorted, “Let’s see how long she sticks around when she realises how tight he is with money!” Then she rounded on me: “Whose side are you even on?”
The party was ruined.
In revenge, Emily brought some ancient, tweed-wearing professor with round glasses to the next birthday do. He droned on about some obscure academic theory, peppered with cringe-worthy jokes, and quietly deflated when no one—men or women—paid him any attention.
At home, the ex-couple became the main topic of conversation. The wives loudly backed Emily. The husbands pretended to be outraged by Andrew’s betrayal but secretly admired him.
Diplomacy got complicated.
For my birthday, we only invited Emily and the kids—“so the little ones have fun.”
For the summer barbecue, it was Andrew and his latest fairy—“everyone’s just eating and drinking, no deep chats needed.”
The hardest part? Big anniversaries.
Milly, prepping for her silver wedding, sighed dramatically over the phone: “Liz, I don’t know where to seat them. We can’t handle a full-on stare-off.”
We spent an hour sketching seating plans: Andrew and his girlfriend tucked behind a pillar, Emily by the fireplace and dessert table, the kids wherever they’d fit.
“Maybe someone will cancel last minute?” Milly whispered hopefully before muttering an apology to herself.
The peak was their daughter’s graduation.
A back room at her favourite pizza place, balloons, flowers, music.
Emily—one end of the long table.
Andrew—the other end.
A cake in the middle like a demilitarised zone.
Andrew’s latest, in a low-cut top that had the teenage boys enthralled, scrolled through her phone. Wives glared at husbands. Husbands pretended their pizza was the most fascinating thing in the room.
I tried to lighten the mood: “At least you both came. That’s what matters to her.”
The chill in the air could’ve frozen the pizza solid.
Eventually, things settled.
We saw Emily more often—safer and far more interesting.
With Andrew, it was down to the odd like on social media and bumping into him at Tesco.
And I realised something simple: when a couple divorces, their friends divorce a little too.
Now, every celebration feels like UN negotiations—strict etiquette, carefully planned seating.
Take Thanksgiving: two sittings.
First with Emily—turkey and roast potatoes.
Then with Andrew—steak and his latest fairy in micro-shorts.
And it struck me recently—if anyone else splits up, we’ll need separate group chats just to organise a meal.
The friendship’s still alive, but now it’s like a Costco membership—individual, with restrictions and strict usage rules.
Sometimes I think: if you could officially divorce a friendship, we’d have signed the papers by now. No lawyers, no alimony—just a rota for barbecues and custody of mutual friends on weekends.
Divorce is contagious. Even when it’s someone else’s.
