*Are You Getting Divorced? I’ll Stay with Dad*
Elizabeth had long sensed the cracks in her marriage to Robert. The warmth between them had faded, love giving way to routine, their conversations dwindling to nothing. Resentments piled up like unread letters, the air thick with the quiet before a storm.
She waited, convincing herself things would mend. But to dig deeper meant facing truths she wasn’t ready for. What then? They had a daughter. Grace was her priority.
Elizabeth cooked, kept the flat tidy, made sure Grace wasn’t out too late and did her schoolwork. Lately, Grace had secrets—normal for a girl her age, she supposed. And Robert? Robert handed over his wages. That was the extent of his contribution.
These days, he hardly looked up from his phone, hunched over it like a schoolboy.
Then Elizabeth fell ill. Fever spiked, her head throbbed, her bones ached. She asked Robert to make dinner. Grace was off with friends again.
“Tea and toast will do,” Robert muttered.
Too weak to argue, Elizabeth drifted in and out of sleep. Two days later, she dragged herself to the kitchen. The sink overflowed with dishes, not a clean mug in sight. The bin was stuffed with takeaway boxes. Laundry piled up—Robert’s shirts, mostly. Grit crunched underfoot, the fridge barren. She cleaned, cooked, collapsed by evening.
After supper, another mountain of dishes awaited. Elizabeth nearly wept. The dam broke.
“Enough. I’m not your maid. I work just as you do, then come home to this. Couldn’t you even rinse a plate?”
“You’d wash them anyway,” Robert replied, eyes on his screen.
“Take the rubbish out tomorrow. I’ll leave a bag by the door.”
“Fine.”
“Not ‘fine.’ Don’t forget.” Exhaustion roughened her voice. “You used to help—even hoovered. I’m not asking for the moon, just basic decency. Are you listening? Look at me!”
“What? I do plenty.”
“Like what?”
“Why the fuss? You’re the woman—it’s your job. I bring in the money. What more d’you want? Two women in the house, and I’m scraping plates?”
“Did you just call our daughter a ‘woman’?” Elizabeth snapped.
“Speaking of—where is she? Your doing, letting her roam. All this over a plate.”
“It’s not about the plate. It’s about you not caring—”
“Christ. Nag, nag, nag.” He stalked out. The bathroom door slammed.
His forgotten phone lit up on the table. A name flashed before the screen went dark. *Lottie.*
So there it was—the crack she’d ignored. Robert returned, snatched up the phone.
“‘Lottie’—short for Charlotte? Or Lottie herself?” Elizabeth kept her tone flat.
Robert froze. “You went through my phone?”
“It wasn’t locked. Something to hide?” *Lie to me,* she thought. *Like always.*
“What if there is?” He met her glare. “Yes, there’s someone else. Let’s handle this like adults.”
“Handle what?” Her voice splintered. Tears came.
“Here we go. Play the victim all you like. Stay if it suits you.”
Her world collapsed. Thunder cracked, the downpour endless.
“Pack your things.”
“What? Where?”
“This is my flat. My parents bought it. I’m not selling.”
“And Grace and I—you’re joking.”
“Dead serious. Go to your mum’s.”
“I’m not leaving.” Grace stood in the doorway.
“Eavesdropping?” Robert snapped.
“You were shouting loud enough.” Her chin lifted. “Are you getting divorced? I’ll stay with Dad.”
Robert smirked. “See who’s the villain now?” He left—probably texting *Lottie* that the flat would soon be free.
“You can’t stay with him, Grace. He’s—” Elizabeth faltered. “He won’t be alone.”
“So? I’ve got my room. I’m not moving to Nan’s middle-of-nowhere. My school’s here, my friends.” Grace turned away. “I’ve got homework.”
Panic seized Elizabeth. What now? A family, a home—gone. Like a storm had tossed her out, breathless and broken.
Grace wouldn’t understand yet. Elizabeth wept in the bath. Later, a pillow and blanket lay on the sofa. Robert was texting *her* again.
“What’s this?”
“Figure it out.”
The sofa was too short, too narrow. She lay awake all night. A good wife, a good mother—yet neither, it seemed. No begging. No forgiveness. The flat wasn’t worth fighting. But Grace was.
At dawn, she left. The office cleaner startled at her early arrival.
A colleague took one look. “What’s happened?”
“No family. No home. Nowhere to go.” Elizabeth hid her face.
“That bad?”
“Worse. I need a place.”
“Well… Dad left me a flat. Tiny, needs work. Stay if you like. Just cover the bills.”
“Thank you.” Hope flickered.
“See it first, you daft thing.”
The flat was cramped, stuck in the 70s.
“Dad died three years back. Toss what you hate.”
Elizabeth scrubbed until midnight. Curtains gray with dust made her sneeze. Just as well Grace stayed—she’d have hated it. No one called to check on her.
Next day, she fetched her things while Robert was out. Her colleague and husband helped her move. Wine, crisps, and misery followed.
She called Grace daily. “All fine,” Grace said. *Lottie*—Charlotte—had moved in. “She’s fun. Gave me her jeans and makeup…”
Everyone happy. Except Elizabeth.
She waited at Grace’s school. The girl’s makeup was thick. “Don’t come again,” Grace said. Another night of tears.
To keep busy, Elizabeth took a second job—stocking shelves at a hardware shop near her flat. Late shifts, sore feet, but good pay. She saved every penny. A year later, she bought a studio on mortgage. If Grace ever came back, they’d manage.
She slept on a discount mattress, then bought a wardrobe and sofa. A coworker, William, offered to assemble them. She made him steak pie as thanks.
Over lunch, William confessed: his wife left him for a wealthier man. He’d moved in with his mum. He shook his head at Elizabeth’s story. “Your Robert kept Grace to make kicking you out seem fair. She’ll figure it out. No stepmum replaces a mother.”
William started visiting—fixing shelves, staying late. One night, he didn’t leave. Soon, he moved in. He proposed; she refused. She was waiting for Grace.
Grace didn’t rush back. Rarely answered calls.
Time dulled the pain. William kept her steady. “If she’s content, let her be.”
Then, one evening, the buzzer rang.
“Grace!” Elizabeth hugged her. “You’re so grown! William, look!”
The girl eyed the flat. “Not bad.”
Over tea, Grace admitted she’d flunked her A-levels. Robert refused to pay for uni. “Charlotte said they need the money—they’re holidaying in Spain. Mum, can you help?”
“I’ve none left. The mortgage…”
William stepped in. “Your mum worked two jobs for this. We’ll get you a job at the shop. Save up.”
Grace pouted. “Mum…”
“I can’t, love.”
“I won’t waste a year!”
Elizabeth studied her. Had Grace always been this spoiled?
“Stay tonight,” William urged. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Elizabeth fetched the air mattress. “It’s just for tonight.”
Grace balked. “On the *kitchen* floor?”
“You can’t sleep with us. We’ll sort something—”
“I’m going back to Dad’s.” Grace left without a word.
No calls. No apologies.
Six months later, Grace married a club-goer, pregnant. Elizabeth wasn’t invited. Grace rang only when the baby came—overwhelmed, her husband still clubbing. Charlotte refused to help: “I barely tolerated you.”
William negotiated with the groom’s well-off parents. They bought Grace a flat in exchange for their son’s freedom.
Now, Elizabeth visits daily, tending her granddaughter. And she’s happy.
