**Diary Entry – October 12th**
It’s over. Less than a week after the wedding.
“Are you out of your mind? A divorce?!” Emily hurled the wilted bouquet to the floor—the same one she’d thought was the most beautiful thing in the world just yesterday. “We’ve only been married a week! A *week*!”
James barely glanced up from his phone. “Mistakes happen. Might as well fix it now rather than drag it out for years.”
“A *mistake*?” Her voice cracked into something shrill. “I’m a mistake? Our wedding was a mistake?”
Finally, he looked at her—his wife. Or rather, his ex-wife. What even was the term now?
“Em, don’t make a scene. We’re just not right for each other, that’s all. Knew it on our wedding night when you blew up at me for not brushing my teeth.”
“So brush them! How hard is that?”
“Why should I? Never did it at home before bed, and I got on just fine.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, cradling her head. Had she really spent *seven years* with this man without seeing it? Or had she ignored the signs, hoping marriage would change him?
“James, love,” she tried to steady her voice. “We *love* each other. Remember when you proposed? On one knee, promising I’d be the happiest—”
“That was romance. Real life’s different. Look at us—fighting every day this week. Yesterday, you nagged about socks not being in the laundry. The day before, it was the soup bowl left out. And this morning? You were furious I made coffee just for myself.”
“I was *asleep*!”
“Exactly. Was I supposed to wake you up and ask? And if you’d said no, you’d have been cross I disturbed you.”
She stared at him, bewildered. Was he serious? Were these petty things worth ending a marriage?
“Jamie,” she reached for him, but he flinched away. “It’s *trivial*! We’ll adjust. 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. Seven years. A year of wedding planning. A fortune spent. Guests still asking about the honeymoon…
“You know what?” She straightened, wiping her cheeks. “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—both of them beaming, blissful. “Just answer me one thing. If you didn’t want this, why propose?”
He scratched his neck. “Well… you kept hinting. Your friend got married, then another. ‘It’s time,’ you’d say. I figured if it mattered that much, why not?”
“*Why not*?” she echoed. “You married me on a *why not*?”
“Not just that. We had a good thing. You cooked, cleaned… I thought marriage would be more of the same.”
“And what’s wrong now?”
“You’ve turned into a nag. Everything’s a problem now. You weren’t like this before.”
She sank back onto the sofa. True, she’d bitten her tongue when he left messes. Cleaned up after him. Why? Fear. Fear he’d leave if she asked for more.
“Maybe I was tense,” she said slowly. “But d’you know why? Because I wanted a *partner*, not a man-child I had to mother.”
“Exactly!” James brightened. “I don’t want policing. I want peace.”
“And I want a *husband*, not a flatmate.”
Silence. Rain pattered against the window. She remembered their first meeting—a café, her reading alone, him charming her with flowers, theatre dates, even reciting Byron.
“You remember reading me poetry?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Em,” he sat beside her. “Why torture ourselves? You want one life; I want another. You’re home-loving, I’m not. You want kids—”
“You don’t?”
“Not now. Maybe someday. But you’re already planning nurseries.”
She nodded. Thirty-two, craving a family. Him? Thirty-five and acting like a fresher.
“Fine,” she whispered. “We’ll divorce.”
“Really?” He perked up. “Brilliant!”
“On one condition. You tell everyone the truth—your parents, mine, our friends. I won’t take the blame.”
“What truth?”
“That you weren’t ready. That you married out of obligation, not love.”
He scowled. “Why not just say we clashed?”
“No. Either you tell them, or I will. And trust me, my version won’t flatter you.”
“…Fine.”
She stood by the window. The rain thickened. At least they weren’t stranded abroad—flights and hotels booked for a honeymoon they’d never take.
“Who’s refunding the wedding costs?” James asked suddenly.
“What?”
“Your parents paid for the venue, mine for the band…”
“*Seriously*? You’re quibbling over *money*?”
“Big sums, wasted.”
“Not wasted. We lasted a week. Meant something, didn’t it?”
“Honestly? No. I’m used to my own space. Can’t even watch telly in peace—you’re always changing the channel.”
“Because it’s non-stop football!”
“My house, my telly.”
“*Our* house. *Our* telly.”
“Like hell. The flat’s in my name, and *I* bought the telly.”
Rage surged. Had he always been this selfish? How had she missed it?
“Know what, James?” She grabbed a bag, stuffing in clothes. “I’m leaving tonight. We’ll file tomorrow.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“Mum’s. Temporarily.”
“What about your stuff?”
“I’ll collect it when you’re out.”
“Fine. Leave the keys.”
*Leave the keys*. As if she were a stranger. A week ago, he’d vowed love at the altar. Now? *Leave the keys*.
“James,” she turned. “Did you ever love me?”
He hesitated. “I… cared for you. But love? Dunno what that even is.”
“Right.”
She zipped the bag, shrugged on her coat.
“Mum? It’s me,” she murmured into the phone. “Can I come over? Yeah. It’s bad.”
James hovered by the door.
“Em,” he called. “Don’t hate me. It’s not you. It’s just… me.”
“I know. That’s why we’re divorcing.”
The lift doors closed, swallowing him from view.
Inside, she texted her best mate: *Divorcing. Meet tomorrow?*
A near-instant reply: *WHAT?! After a WEEK?!*
*Dead serious.*
*Come to mine. We’ll talk.*
Rain sheeted down as she slid into a taxi.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
She gave her mum’s address. What would Mum say? *”Tough it out, he’ll change”*? Older generations always said that.
Or maybe not. Mum had divorced Dad when Emily was ten. Back then, she’d blamed her. Now, she understood. Dad, too, had known how to share a home—not a heart.
The taxi stopped. Mum waited at the door, arms open.
“Sweetheart,” she pulled her close. “What happened?”
Over tea, Emily spilled it all—the socks, the teeth, the coffee, the nursery that’d never be.
“And he said he didn’t know what love was?” Mum stirred her cup slowly. “Then I’d divorce him too.”
“Really?”
“Really. Better alone than with someone who merely tolerates you.”
“What if I never find anyone else?”
“You will. Clever, kind girl like you?” Mum smoothed her hair. “Cry it out. Tomorrow’s fresh.”
And she did—from relief, exhaustion, being *understood*.
The next month, she heard James was seeing someone new. Young. Undemanding. *For now*.
Six months later, Emily met Daniel. Divorced, with a little girl. He knew how to love.
And he brushed his teeth without being told.
