“Done in Secret”
“Ellen, have you lost your mind?” screeched Natalie into the phone. “How could you get divorced without telling anyone? Why keep it quiet?”
“Lower your voice,” Ellen muttered, holding the receiver away from her ear and glancing at the kitchen door. “The children are home.”
“What children? They’re well past thirty! Ellen, do you realise what you’ve done? Twenty-eight years of marriage, and now—divorce!”
“Nat, please, don’t shout. It’s hard enough as it is.”
“But why didn’t you say anything? We’ve been friends since uni! I could’ve helped, supported you…”
Ellen pressed the phone to her chest and shut her eyes. Good Lord, she was exhausted by these calls. First Margaret from work, then Aunt Clara, now Natalie. As if they’d all been waiting for a reason to gossip.
“Ellen? You still there?” came Natalie’s voice.
“I’m here,” she sighed, lifting the receiver again. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“How can you not? This is huge! You’re the first in our circle to divorce. At least tell me something. Did he cheat?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Was he drinking?”
“No.”
“Then what? Ellen, say *something*!”
Ellen drew a heavy breath. How could she explain being simply… tired? Tired of grey routines, the same conversations, the gnawing sense of living someone else’s life?
“I’m tired, Nat. That’s all.”
“Tired of *what*? William’s a decent man—doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, earns well.”
“Exactly. Decent. Just not *mine*.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Not yours? You spent twenty-eight years together!”
A noise in the hallway cut her off. Ellen hastily said goodbye and hung up. Her daughter Anne walked in, grocery bags in hand.
“Mum, you alright?” Anne set the bags down, studying her. “You look pale.”
“Just a headache.”
“Was that Natalie? I heard you defending yourself.”
Ellen nodded. Anne began unpacking, her back turned.
“Mum… do you regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“Divorcing Dad.”
Ellen looked at her. Anne had her same dark hair, the same grey eyes—but with a resolve Ellen had never possessed.
“I don’t know yet, love.”
“Does Dad regret it?”
“We haven’t spoken.”
Anne faced her. “Mum, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ever really love him?”
Ellen froze, cup in hand. Where had *that* come from?
“Why would you think that?”
“I’ve watched you my whole life. You never hugged, never kissed. Not even held hands. Like flatmates, not spouses.”
“Annie, don’t say that. Your father’s a good man.”
“He is. But you didn’t love him. And I don’t think he loved you, either.”
Ellen set the cup down. Her daughter was right. She’d married William because it was expected—friends were settling down, parents insisted.
“Mum… who *did* you love?” Anne asked softly.
“Why ask?”
“Everyone deserves love. At least once.”
Ellen turned to the window. Of course there’d been love. Edward from the next block over, a med student—handsome, clever, full of dreams. They’d met in secret; her parents deemed him unsuitable.
“Medicine’s a calling,” Edward would say. “I’ll save lives.”
“And I’ll help you,” she’d reply.
But her parents pushed her toward William. Stability, a house, a *proper* family. Edward took a post up north. He wrote, called, even visited. But by then, Ellen was married, expecting her first child.
“Mum—are you crying?”
“No, just tired.”
Anne squeezed her shoulders. “Better alone than unhappy together.”
“You think so?”
“Look at you since the divorce. Lost weight, cut your hair, bought new clothes. Like you’ve woken up.”
Ellen caught her reflection in the window. She *had* changed. Gone were the dull jumpers, the scraped-back bun. Now she wore colour, kept her hair stylishly short.
“How did Paul take it?” Anne asked.
“Badly. Called me selfish, said I broke the family.”
“Paul’s always been Dad’s boy. He’ll come round.”
Ellen nodded. Her son *was* closer to William—fishing trips, car repairs, football matches. Anne had always been hers.
“Mum… ever thought of remarrying?”
“Annie, I’m fifty-three.”
“So? Aunt Valerie remarried at fifty-five. She’s happy.”
“Valerie’s the exception.”
“Why? You’re lovely. And free now.”
*Free.* A word Ellen feared voicing. Free from breakfasts at seven sharp, from socks strewn about the bedroom, from conversations about work, football, the neighbours’ new car.
But freedom brought loneliness. Evenings alone, no one to share small joys or gripes.
“Annie… do you think I did wrong?”
“No. You did *right.* Finally.”
Anne poured tea, sitting close.
“All my childhood, I wished you’d divorce.”
“*What?*” Ellen nearly dropped her cup.
“It was obvious you were both miserable. Dad always cross, you always sad. The house felt like a morgue.”
“We tried to hide it—”
“Children *feel* things, Mum.”
Ellen went quiet. All those years playing happy families, and the children had known.
“Now look at you,” Anne continued. “You’re glowing. Italian classes, amateur theatre. *Living*, finally.”
“But people talk. They think I’ve gone mad.”
“Since when do you care?”
The doorbell rang. Anne went to answer.
“Mum, it’s Margaret from work.”
Ellen sighed. Margaret loved prying into others’ drama.
“Ellen, *darling*!” Margaret bustled in. “Tell me *everything*! I’ve been beside myself!”
“Tea, Margaret?”
“Please. How *could* you? I’d never dare.”
“Why not?”
“Alone at fifty-three? It’s *terrifying*!”
Ellen sipped her tea. “The children are grown. I’ve my job, my health.”
“But the *loneliness*! Who’ll want you now?”
“Did William want me? I was furniture to him.”
“At least he didn’t cheat.”
“Margaret—do you love your husband?”
“Of course!”
“Truly? Or just… used to him?”
Margaret stirred her tea. “Well… love’s a strong word. But we’re family. Shared history, interests.”
“Exactly. Habit. And I’ve had enough.”
“At our age, romance is done. Stability matters.”
“Says who?” cut in Anne. “Mum’s still young.”
“Anne, adults are speaking,” Margaret snapped.
“I’m her *daughter*. I know she’s happier now.”
Margaret pursed her lips. “Children shouldn’t cheer divorce.”
“We cheer *her*,” Anne said calmly. “Finally living for herself.”
“Selfish, that’s what it is.”
“And living for others is what? Doing what’s expected?” Ellen challenged.
“Well… yes! Family, children, husband—that’s life.”
“At what cost?”
Margaret faltered. “It’s just… how things are.”
Paul walked in—tall, broad, his father’s double. He kissed Ellen’s cheek.
“Mum, Dad says he’ll reconcile.”
Ellen exhaled. William’s third attempt via the children.
“Paul, it’s done. The papers are signed.”
“But they canShe picked up the phone, dialled Edward’s number, and for the first time in decades, allowed herself to hope.
