They divorced a week after the wedding.
“Have you lost your mind? What divorce?” Emily flung the wilted bouquet onto the floor—the same one she’d thought was the most beautiful in the world just yesterday. “We only got married a week ago!”
“And what of it?” James didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Mistakes happen. Better to fix it now than waste years pretending.”
“Mistakes?” Emily’s voice cracked into a shriek. “Am *I* a mistake? Was our wedding a mistake?”
James finally looked up, meeting her eyes. His wife’s. Or ex-wife. What even was the right term now?
“Listen, Em, why the drama? I’m trying to be decent about this. We’re not right for each other, that’s all. I knew it the first night when you kicked off because I didn’t brush my teeth.”
“Then *brush them*! How hard is that?”
“Why should I? Never did it at home, and I turned out fine.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, clutching her head. Had she really spent seven years with this man and not noticed? Or had she just assumed marriage would change him?
“James, love,” she forced calm into her voice. “We *love* each other. Remember when you proposed? On your knees, promising I’d be the happiest woman alive…”
“That was romance. Real life’s different. Face it—we’ve argued every single day since the wedding. Yesterday, it was socks left out. The day before, a borscht-stained plate. And this morning? Coffee I didn’t make you.”
“I was asleep!”
“Exactly. Should I have woken you to ask? And if you’d said no, you’d have moaned about that too.”
Emily stared, bewildered. Was he serious? Were these trivialities enough to end a marriage?
“Jamie,” she reached for him, but he shifted away. “This is *nothing*! All couples go through this—we’ll adjust!”
“I don’t *want* to adjust. I was fine before. Why did I even marry you?”
The question hung between them. Seven years together. A year of wedding plans. Thousands spent. Guests still asking about their honeymoon…
“You know what?” She wiped her tears. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we rushed.”
James blinked. “So… you agree to divorce?”
“What choice do I have? Force you to love me?” She picked up a wedding photo—their beaming, blissful faces. “Just answer me one thing. If you didn’t want this, why propose?”
He scratched his head. “Well… you kept hinting. Your friends were marrying. ‘It’s time,’ you’d say. I thought… if it mattered so much, fine.”
“‘Fine’?” Emily echoed. “You married me because it was *fine*?”
“Not just that. We got on. You cooked, cleaned… I assumed it’d stay like that.”
“And what’s changed?”
“You’ve turned naggy. Everything’s a problem now. Before, you never minded.”
Emily sat down. True, she’d once bitten her tongue when he left socks strewn about. Done his laundry, his dishes. Why? Fear he’d leave if she asked too much.
“Maybe I *was* naggy,” she admitted slowly. “But only because I wanted you to *care*. A husband’s meant to be a partner, not a child to clean up after.”
“Exactly!” James brightened. “I don’t want chores or orders. I want peace.”
“And I want a *husband*, not a lodger.”
Outside, rain tapped the window. Emily remembered their first meeting—a café, her reading alone, him approaching with that easy smile. Flowers, theatres, even reciting Shakespeare.
“Remember when you quoted *Sonnet 18* to me?” she asked.
“Vaguely. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Em,” he sighed. “Why torture ourselves? You want domestication. I want freedom. You’re ready for kids—”
“You’re not?”
“Not now. Maybe someday. But you’re already planning nurseries.”
She nodded. Thirty-two, craving a family. Him? Thirty-five and still acting like a student.
“Fine,” she whispered. “We’ll divorce.”
“Really?” He perked up. “Finally, sense!”
“On one condition. You tell the truth—to my parents, yours, our friends. I won’t take the blame.”
“What truth?”
“That you married out of obligation. Not love.”
James frowned. “Why air that? Let’s say we clashed.”
“No. Either you tell them, or I will. And trust me, *my* version won’t flatter you.”
“Fine,” he grumbled.
Emily stood by the window. The rain heavied. At least she wasn’t outside. They could’ve been on honeymoon—Maldives bookings now void.
“Who’s refunding the wedding costs?” James asked abruptly.
“What costs?”
“Your parents paid for the venue. Mine covered the band…”
“Seriously? *Money* is your concern?”
“It’s a lot wasted for a week’s marriage.”
“*Was* it wasted? Or did it cost you something to be a husband?”
“Honestly? Yes. I’m used to solitude. Now someone’s always there—can’t even watch telly without you changing channels.”
“Because you watch football *nonstop*!”
“My flat, my telly.”
“*Ours*.”
“Bollocks! The flat’s in my name. *I* bought the telly.”
Rage flared. Had he always been this selfish?
“Know what, James?” She yanked open a suitcase. “I’m leaving tonight. Filing for divorce tomorrow.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“Mum’s. Temporarily.”
“And your stuff?”
“I’ll collect it when you’re out.”
“Fine. Leave the keys.”
*Leave the keys.* Like she was some guest. A week ago, he’d vowed eternity at the altar.
“James,” she turned. “Did you ever love me?”
He pondered. “I was… comfortable with you. But love? Dunno what that is.”
“Right.”
Keys clattered on the table.
“Mum? It’s me,” she phoned from the lobby. “Can I come over? Yes, it’s bad. Really bad.”
James hovered in the doorway.
“Emily,” he called. “Don’t hate me. It’s just who I am.”
“I know. That’s why we’re divorcing.”
The lift doors shut.
At her friend’s flat later:
“Divorcing. Meet tomorrow, I’ll explain.”
“WHAT?! After a *week*?!”
“Dead serious.”
“Come straight to mine. We’ll talk.”
In the taxi, Emily watched London blur through rain. What would Mum say? *Endure, adjust*—the older generation’s mantra. Or maybe she’d understand. She’d divorced Dad too, when Emily was ten. Back then, Emily had blamed her. Now she wondered if Dad, like James, had only known how to coexist—not love.
Over tea, Mum listened, then stirred her cup thoughtfully.
“You’ll divorce him,” she said finally.
“You’d do the same?”
“In a heartbeat. Better alone than with someone who just *tolerates* you.”
“What if I never meet anyone else?”
“You will. You’re clever, kind, lovely. Someone will *love* you—not just put up with you.”
Emily cried—relief, exhaustion, gratitude for being understood.
“Cry it out,” Mum soothed. “Tomorrow’s a fresh start. *Your* life.”
At the registry office, James was almost chipper.
“Well,” he said afterward. “Free again.”
“Yes,” Emily nodded. “Free.”
A month later, she heard he was dating a younger woman—one who didn’t demand brushed teeth or washed dishes. *Yet.*
Six months on, Emily met Daniel. Also divorced, with a daughter. He knew how to love.
And he brushed his teeth without being asked.
