They divorced a week after the wedding.
“You’ve lost your mind! What do you mean, divorce?” Emily hurled the bouquet of wilted roses onto the floor—the same one she’d thought was the most beautiful thing in the world just yesterday. “We only got married a week ago!”
“And?” James didn’t even glance up from his phone. “A mistake, plain and simple. Better to fix it now than suffer for years.”
“A mistake?” Her voice cracked into a screech. “I’m a mistake to you? Our wedding was a mistake?”
James finally looked up, meeting her gaze—his wife, or rather, his ex-wife. What was she now, anyway?
“Listen, Em, why the dramatics? I’m being reasonable. We’re not right for each other. I knew it straight away, that first night when you kicked off because I hadn’t brushed my teeth.”
“Then just brush them! How hard is that?”
“Why should I? I never did at home, and I turned out fine.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, gripping her head. Had she really spent seven years with this man and missed it all? Or had she noticed but told herself marriage would change him?
“James, love,” she forced calm into her voice. “We care for each other. Remember your proposal? On your knees, promising I’d be the happiest woman alive—”
“That was romance. Real life’s different. We’ve been married a week, and every day’s a row. Yesterday, you had a go at me over socks not making it to the hamper. The day before, my unwashed plate after bangers and mash. This morning, it’s why I made coffee just for myself.”
“I was still asleep!”
“Exactly. Should I wake you to ask if you want a cuppa? And if I do, and you don’t, there’s another argument.”
She stared at him, bewildered. Was he serious? Were these trivial things enough to wreck a marriage?
“Jamie…” She moved to hug him, but he pulled back. “It’s nothing! We’ll adjust—every couple does!”
“I don’t want to adjust. I was fine before. Why did I even get married?”
The question hung in the air. Emily felt something inside her snap. Seven years together, a year planning the wedding, thousands of pounds spent, guests still asking about the honeymoon…
“You know what?” She straightened, wiping her tears. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we rushed into this.”
James blinked. “So… you agree to the divorce?”
“What choice do I have? Force you to love me?” She picked up a wedding photo from the dresser—both of them beaming, joyous. “Just answer me one thing. If you didn’t want this, why propose?”
He scratched his head. “Well… you kept hinting. Your friends were getting married, you’d say it was time… I thought if it mattered that much, why not?”
“‘Why not?’ You married me because it was convenient?”
“Not just that. We got on fine. You cooked well, kept the place tidy… I thought marriage would be more of the same.”
“And what’s changed?”
“You’ve turned naggy. Nothing’s good enough now. Before, you never complained.”
She sank back onto the sofa. True—she’d once bitten her tongue over his mess. Cleaned up after him, cooked, washed. Why? Fear he’d leave if she demanded more.
“Maybe I was naggy,” she said slowly. “But do you know why? Because I wanted a partner, not a teenager I had to pick up after.”
“Exactly!” James brightened. “I don’t want nagging or rules. I just want peace.”
“And I want a husband, not a lodger.”
Silence fell. Rain tapped the window. Emily remembered their meeting—a café, her reading, him approaching. Charming, attentive, reciting Keats by heart.
“Remember when you quoted Keats to me?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just remembering.”
“Em,” he sat beside her. “Why drag this out? We want different things. You’re all about home, kids…”
“And you’re not?”
“Not now. Maybe someday. But you’re already planning nurseries.”
She nodded. Thirty-two, craving family. Him? Thirty-five and still acting like a fresher.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “We’ll divorce.”
“Seriously?” He perked up. “Finally, sense!”
“On one condition. You tell everyone the truth—my parents, yours, our friends. I won’t take the blame.”
“What truth?”
“That you weren’t ready. That you married out of habit, not love.”
He frowned. “Why air that? Let’s just say we clashed.”
“No. The truth, or I’ll tell my version—and you won’t like it.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll tell them.”
Emily stood, watching the rain. Good thing they weren’t away. Honeymoon plans—flights, hotels—thank God they hadn’t gone.
“Who’s paying back the wedding costs?” James asked abruptly.
“What costs?”
“Your parents paid for the venue, mine for the band…”
“Are you serious?” She turned. “You’re seriously nickel-and-diming me now?”
“It’s a lot of money for nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. We were married for a week. That meant something to you, didn’t it?”
“Honestly? No. I’m used to my own space. Now someone’s always there, even telly’s a fight—you keep flipping channels.”
“Because you watch football morning till night!”
“So? My house, my telly.”
“Our house. Our telly.”
“Bollocks! The flat’s in my name, and I bought the telly.”
Rage surged. Was he always this selfish? Had seven years blinded her?
“Know what, James?” She grabbed a bag, stuffing in clothes. “I’m leaving tonight. We’ll file tomorrow.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“Mum’s. For now.”
“What about your things?”
“I’ll collect them when you’re out.”
“Fine. Just leave the keys.”
She froze. Leave the keys. Like a stranger. A week ago, he’d vowed love at the altar. Now he wanted her keys.
“James, be honest. Did you ever love me?”
He hesitated. “I was used to you. It was comfortable. But love… Dunno what that is.”
“Right.”
She zipped the bag, grabbed her coat.
“Mum? It’s me. Can I come over? Yeah, it’s bad. Really bad. I’ll explain later.”
James saw her to the door.
“Em,” he called. “Don’t hate me. It’s not personal. I’m just me.”
“I know. That’s why we’re divorcing.”
The lift arrived. She stepped in, pressed ‘G’. James watched from the doorway.
“Maybe we could try again?” he said suddenly. “Maybe I’d adjust?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want someone to adjust to me. I want to be loved.”
The doors closed.
In the lift, she texted her best mate: “Getting divorced. Meet tomorrow?”
A reply flashed: “What?! After a week? You serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Come to mine. We’ll talk.”
“Thanks. Mum’s first, then you.”
Outside, rain sheeted down. She hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
She gave her mum’s address. What would she say? Probably scold her—should’ve endured, adjusted. That’s what their lot always said.
Or maybe she’d understand. Mum had divorced Dad when Emily was ten. Back then, she’d blamed her mum. Now she got it. Maybe Dad, too, hadn’t known how to love.
The cab stopped. Emily paid, climbed to the fourth floor. Mum waited in the open doorway.
“Love,” she hugged her. “What’s happened?”
“Everything, Mum. It’s all gone wrong.”
“Come on, I’ll put the kettle on.”
Over tea, Emily spilled it all. The socks, the teeth, the coffee, the nursery that’d never be.
“And he said he doesn’t know what love is?” Mum stirred her tea.
“Yeah.”
Long silence.
“Love,” Mum finally said. “I’d have left too.”
“Really?”
“Really. Better alone than with someone who just tolerates you.”
“What will people say?”
“They’ll talk. When I left your dad, half of Bristol gossiped. Then they moved on. Everyone’s got their own dramas.”
“What if I never meet anyone else?”
“You will. You’re lovely, smart, kind. You’ll find someone who loves you—not just puts up with you.”
Emily cried. From relief, exhaustion, being understood.
“Cry it out,”A year later, as Emily watched her toddler giggle while playing with her new husband’s daughter, she realized some broken things lead to even better beginnings.
