**Diary Entry – June 15th**
We got divorced a week after the wedding.
“Have you lost your mind? What do you mean, divorce?”—Emily hurled the bouquet of wilted roses onto the floor—roses that just yesterday had seemed the loveliest in the world. “We only just got married! A week ago!”
“So what?” Oliver didn’t even look up from his phone. “It was a mistake. Happens to the best of us. Better fix it now than suffer for years.”
“A *mistake*?” Her voice teetered on the edge of a shriek. “I’m a *mistake* to you? Our *wedding* was a mistake?”
Oliver finally looked up, meeting his wife’s—his *ex*-wife’s, or whatever she was now—eyes.
“Listen, Em, why make such a fuss? I’m being reasonable about this. We’re not right for each other. Full stop. I knew the moment we had that row on our wedding night because I didn’t brush 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, clutching her head. Had she really spent *seven years* with this man and never noticed? Or had she noticed but convinced herself marriage would change him?
“Ollie, darling,” she forced calm into her voice. “We love each other. Remember when you proposed? You got down on one knee, swore I’d be the happiest woman alive—”
“That was romance. Life’s different. Think about it—one week in, and we’re already rowing daily. Yesterday, you had a go at me for leaving socks on the floor. The day before, it was about not washing the plate after bangers and mash. And this morning—why didn’t I make *you* coffee?”
“I was still *asleep*!”
“Exactly. Should I have woken you just to ask if you wanted some? And if you didn’t, I’d never hear the end of it.”
Emily stared at him, bewildered. Was he serious? Were these trivial things really enough to break a marriage?
“Ollie,” she stepped forward, reaching for him, but he pulled away. “It’s *nothing*! We’ll adjust, we’ll get used to each other. Every couple goes through this!”
“I don’t *want* to adjust. I was fine before. Why did I even get married?”
The question hung between them. Something inside Emily snapped. Seven years together, a year planning the wedding, thousands of pounds spent, friends still asking how the honeymoon was going…
“You know what?” She wiped her tears. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we did rush into this.”
Oliver blinked. “So… you agree to the divorce?”
“What choice do I have? Force you to love me?” She picked up a wedding photo. In it, they were smiling, radiant, in love. “Just answer me one thing—if you didn’t want this, why propose?”
He scratched his head. “Well, you kept hinting. First your mate got married, then another. Always going on about how it was ‘time.’ I figured if it mattered that much, fine.”
“*Fine*?” Emily echoed. “You married me because it was *fine*?”
“Not just that. We had a good thing. You cooked, cleaned… I thought after the wedding it’d be the same.”
“And what’s wrong now?”
“You’ve gone all naggy. Nothing’s ever right. Before, you never kicked up a fuss.”
Emily sank back onto the sofa. It was true—she used to let the socks slide, cleaning up after him without a word. Why? Because she was afraid. Afraid he’d leave if she demanded too much.
“Maybe I *was* naggy,” she said slowly. “But do you know why? Because I wanted you to *participate*. I thought a husband was a partner, not a child to pick up after.”
“Exactly!” Oliver brightened. “I don’t *want* to be managed. I want to live my life.”
“And I want a *husband*, not a lodger.”
Silence. Rain tapped against the window. Emily remembered their first meeting—a café, her reading, him approaching. Handsome, smiling, attentive. Flowers, theatre dates, even reciting poetry.
“Remember when you quoted Keats to me?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason. Just remembered.”
“Em,” Oliver sat beside her. “Why torture ourselves? Let’s be honest—we want different things. You’re homebound, family-minded. I like my freedom. You’re talking nurseries—”
“You don’t want kids?”
“Not now. Maybe someday, but you’re already planning paint colours.”
Emily nodded. She was. At thirty-two, she wanted a family. Him? Thirty-five and still acting like a fresher.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “We’ll divorce.”
“Really?” He perked up. “Finally, a sensible decision!”
“On one condition. You tell everyone the truth. My parents, yours, our friends. I won’t be the villain.”
“What truth?”
“That *you* weren’t ready. That you married out of obligation, not love.”
Oliver frowned. “Why air dirty laundry? ‘Irreconcilable differences’ covers it.”
“No. Either you tell them, or I will. And trust me, my version won’t flatter you.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll tell them.”
Emily stood, walking to the window. The rain was heavier now. At least they weren’t stranded abroad—flights booked, hotel reserved. Thank God they hadn’t left yet.
“Who’s refunding the wedding?” Oliver asked suddenly.
“What money?”
“Your parents paid for the venue, mine for the band—”
“Are you *serious*?” Emily turned. “You’re *serious* about money right now?”
“Course! It’s thousands down the drain for nothing.”
“Not nothing. We lasted a week as husband and wife. Was that really so unbearable?”
“Honestly? Yeah. I’m used to living alone. Suddenly, someone’s there *all the time*. Can’t even watch telly in peace—you keep flipping channels.”
“Because you watch *football* from dawn till dusk!”
“So? My house, my telly.”
“*Our* house. *Our* telly.”
“Bollocks! The flat’s in my name, and *I* bought the telly.”
Anger surged in Emily again. Was he truly this selfish? Had seven years blinded her?
“You know what, Oliver?” She grabbed a bag, started packing. “I’m leaving tonight. We’ll file for divorce tomorrow.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“Mum’s. Temporarily.”
“What about your things?”
“I’ll fetch them when you’re out.”
“Good. Just leave the keys.”
Emily froze. *Leave the keys.* As if she were a stranger. A week ago, he’d vowed eternal love at the altar. Now, he wanted the keys.
“Oliver, be honest,” she whispered. “Did you ever love me?”
He hesitated. “I was used to you. Comfortable. But love? Dunno what that is.”
“I see.”
She zipped the bag, shrugged on her coat.
“Mum? It’s me,” she spoke into the phone. “Can I come over? Yes, it’s bad. Really bad. I’ll explain when I get there.”
Oliver followed her to the door.
“Em,” he called. “Don’t be angry. It’s not personal. I’m just… me.”
“I know. That’s why we’re divorcing.”
The lift arrived. As the doors closed, she glimpsed him watching her.
“Maybe we could… try again?” he blurted. “Maybe I’ll adjust?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want someone to *adjust* to me. I want to be *loved*.”
In the lift, she texted her best friend:
*Divorcing. Meet tomorrow—I’ll explain.*
The reply was instant: *WHAT?! After ONE WEEK? You’re joking!*
*Dead serious.*
*Come to mine. We’ll talk.*
*Thanks. Mum’s first, then you.*
Outside, the rain had become a downpour. Emily hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
She gave her mum’s address. What would Mum say? Probably scold her: *Be patient, give it time.* That’s what their generation always said. *Wait, endure, he’ll come round.*
Or maybe not. Maybe she’d understand. Mum had divorced Dad when Emily was ten. Back then, Emily hadn’t understood—had been furious with her. Now she did. Maybe Dad, like Oliver, had only known how to *exist* beside someone, not how to love.
The cab stopped. Emily paid, climbed the stairsAs she stepped into her mother’s warm embrace, Emily finally realised that some endings were just the start of something better.
