Oh wow, let me tell you this wild storyso, the family got completely blindsided when the husband just up and left without warning. Decided to divorce his wife without even telling her first.
Greg walked out in the messiest wayno heads-up, no note, nothing. Emily came home from work like any other day and just found his side of the closet empty. His stuff gone. She wandered around the flat in total shock, no clue how to react. After pulling herself together, she reheated some soup, ate in silence, and caught herself smirking bitterly while washing up. “Well Greg, guess I never really knew you at all! Proper stand-up bloke, arent you?” she muttered to herself.
Theyd spent nearly thirty years together in their little town, Wexford. Their only son, Oliver, had grown up, married, and moved off to Italy. “Ollies gone, the house is emptynow all we need is for Greg to start midlife-crisising,” their nosy friend Rita had joked. Emily just laughed it off. “Oh, Rita, always the worrier! Whats next, you gonna start knitting me a panic blanket?”
“Laugh all you want,” Rita snapped. “Ive heard a million stories like this! Kids leave, men get restless, and suddenly the wifes left holding the bag.” Emily rolled her eyes. “Christ, Rita, you havent changed since primary school. If we hadnt sat next to each other in Year 4, I swear Id never put up with you.”
After Oliver left, though, things actually got better between Emily and Greg. They went to the cinema, walked in the park, had friends over for barbecues. It was cozy. Peaceful. Like a fresh start. Greg had just turned fifty-five, Emily was past fiftyfinally free to enjoy life, grow old together, visit their son, maybe even wait for grandkids.
“Your Olivers taking his sweet time with that, isnt he?” Rita remarked when they got back from visiting him in Italy. Emily had mentioned how happy the newlyweds were. “Oh, Rita, cant you just let people be happy? Always sticking your oar in!”
“What? Its been three years! Back in our day, youd already have a toddler by now,” Rita huffed. “Times change, Rita. They want to travel, figure each other out first,” Emily sighed.
A year and a half later, Olivers twins arrivedSophie and Arthur. Absolute cherubs, healthy as anything. Every night, FaceTime would light up with nappy ads (thanks, algorithm), but once the babies hit eight months, sturdy and chubby-cheeked, Emily and Greg flew out to meet them.
“Theyre perfect!” Emily gushed, shoving photos in Ritas face. “Look, Sophies got Olivers nose! And Arthurspitting image of his mum!”
“Pfft, look liketheyre still lumps! Wait till theyre running about, talking,” Rita scoffed. Emily snatched the pictures back. “Youre such a pill. Dont want to look? Fine.” She tucked them away to sort into actual photo albums laternone of this digital nonsense for her.
Rita, meanwhile, loved to brag about her “consciously single” life. Shed had her fair share of flings, mostly with married men. “Married blokes are low maintenancewife handles the chores, I get the fun,” shed say with a wink.
Shed inherited a cosy one-bed flat in Camden from her nan, bolted the second she turned eighteen. Dyed her hair fire-engine red, bought her first pair of stilettos. “Come over, Em! Ive got men coming round tonightproper lookers!”
And thats actually where Emily met Gregat one of Ritas parties. They married not long after. “Youre joking!” Rita had spat when she got the wedding invite. “First proper boyfriend and youre locking it down? No shopping around? God, youre dull.” But Emily was sureGreg was her forever.
And for decades, he was. Until suddenly he wasnt.
“Rita, hey,” Emily called her one evening, voice shaky. “Gregs gone. Packed up and left. No note, no call, nothing.”
“Were you on holiday recently?” Rita asked, weirdly calm.
“On holiday?! Are you even listening? Greg left me. Whats that got to do with holidays?”
“Pack a bag, Em. Were going to Cornwall. My aunts thereyoull love it.”
Emily paused. Then, quietly: “Yeah. Alright. Lets go.”
Cornwall, where the airs so sharp and the people so warm, you never forget it. Ritas aunt, the gorgeous Helen, had married a local fisherman, Jack, and never looked back. Four strapping sons, each more handsome than the last, all married with kids of their own nowa proper, loud, loving chaos. And into this madness walked Rita and Emily.
The trip worked better than therapy. By day two, Emily stopped picking at the “why” of Greg leaving.
“Its simple maths,” she thought, sipping cider in the garden, breathing in pasties baking in the oven. “He fell for someone else and didnt have the guts to say. Not about me. Just life.”
“Drink this,” Rita plonked a glass of fresh apple juice in front of her. “Whats with your face, Em?”
“What about it?”
“Its smoother. Younger.”
In St Ives, a town so charming its criminal, Emily met David. A friend of Ritas cousin. They all sat out under the stars, drinking local ale, eating fresh crab, singing sea shanties horribly off-key. And Davidsilver fox, tall, easy smilekept catching her eye. That night was so warm, so golden, she knew shed remember it forever.
“Thank you,” Emily whispered, leaning into Rita, who just squeezed her hand back, no questions asked.
