Oh man, I’ve got this wild story for you. So, Simon was on this old, creaky bus heading through the countryside to see his parents in this little town near Manchester. His stomach was in knots because he had to tell them this massive news—he was getting divorced from his wife, Emily. But when he walked into their house? Absolutely blindsided. His parents, the couple he’d always seen as the picture of a rock-solid marriage, dropped the bomb that *they* were splitting up. Talk about a plot twist.
Now, Simon’s stuck trying to process his own mess while his whole childhood image of family crumbles around him. Fear, guilt, confusion—it’s all swirling inside him like a proper storm.
He’d been dreading telling them about the divorce. Could’ve kept quiet, but in a small village like theirs? Gossip spreads faster than wildfire. Emily might’ve called his parents out of spite, or his brother could’ve let it slip over a pint. Better to rip the bandage off himself, he figured.
Simon climbed the familiar steps, rang the bell. His dad, Arthur, opened the door with this grim look—like he already knew why Simon was there.
“Hey,” Arthur grunted. “About time you showed up. Come in.”
“Hi, Dad,” Simon replied, but his mind was racing: *Does he already know?* “Mum home?”
“She’s here,” Arthur snapped. “Where else would she be? Sat in there like the Queen of Sheba.”
“What’s going on?” Simon frowned. “You alright?”
“I’ve had enough!” Arthur suddenly shouted, turning on his heel and storming into the living room, fuming.
Simon, baffled, followed. His dad flopped onto the sofa, arms crossed. No sign of his mum, Margaret—usually she’d be knitting in her chair. Then he spotted her in the bedroom, staring out the window, face like thunder.
“You’re here?” she said coldly. “So, have you left Emily, or are you just thinking about it?”
Simon’s heart dropped. “How d’you know? Why’re you asking?”
“Because I need to know if you’ve found a flat yet!” she fired back.
“What flat?!”
“The one you’ll need after the divorce!”
“I haven’t,” he stammered. “But how’d you even hear I’m splitting up?”
“We heard,” Margaret said flatly. “Right, son, start flat-hunting—I’m moving in with you!”
“*What?*” Simon froze.
“No!” Arthur bellowed from the living room, stomping in. “*I’m* living with Simon! You stay here—the house is in your name!”
“Over my dead body!” Margaret shrieked. “I’m not staying in this place another minute with your stubbornness everywhere!”
“Hold on!” Simon looked between them. “What’re you on about? Where are you planning to go?!”
“Wherever *you’re* going!” Arthur declared. “Good on you, son, thinking of divorce now. Bloody brilliant timing!”
“Why’s it brilliant?” Simon felt like the floor was vanishing under him.
“Because your mum and I are splitting too!” Arthur blurted.
Simon just—blanked. He’d braced for lectures, not *this*.
“Enough!” Arthur barrelled on. “You’re a grown man, I don’t owe anyone explanations. Your mum and I? We’re sick of each other, same as you and Emily. I’m coming with you—just us lads, proper bachelor life!”
“No, *I’m* living with Simon!” Margaret cut in. “He’ll need looking after without a wife. I can still cook. Right, love? You miss my roast dinners?”
“Oh, and I can’t cook?!” Arthur scoffed. “I make a mean shepherd’s pie! Sunday roast? Sorted!”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “When’s the last time you even boiled an egg? The 70s?”
“So what? Blokes can handle themselves! All we need’s a washing machine, a microwave, and a fridge big enough for a month’s takeaways!”
“You *cannot* be serious!” Margaret gasped.
“STOP!” Simon shouted. “Have you both lost it?! You’re nearly *eighty* and acting like kids! Look at yourselves!”
“*You* look at *yourself*!” they yelled in unison. “You’re pushing fifty and still can’t sort your life out! Don’t you dare judge us! Just pick who’s moving in with you!”
“Who said I’m moving *anywhere*?!” Simon exploded. “Emily and I own our place!”
Margaret blinked. “But… you’re divorcing?”
“Who *told* you that?!”
“Emily did,” Margaret said. “Your sister said you called her and spilled the beans.”
Simon groaned. “I’m *not* divorcing her. It was a joke!”
Arthur’s face fell. “A joke?! Your mum and I were *planning* our new lives! And you—what, just winding us up?!”
“Yeah, Simon,” Margaret muttered. “Not funny. Got us all excited for change, and now… ‘just kidding.’ Fine. We’ll stay put. For now.”
She shot him a look. “But mark my words—if you *do* divorce, your dad and I are first in line to live with you. Got it?”
“Got it,” Simon muttered, realising divorce might just be off the table now. “Right. I’m off.”
“Where?” Margaret frowned. “You didn’t come just for this, did you? Want some dinner?”
“Nah,” he waved her off. “Just came to check on you. And, well… mission accomplished, I guess. Stop arguing, yeah? You’re supposed to be *our* role models.”
The second Simon left, his parents exchanged glances and sagged with relief.
“Think it worked?” Arthur whispered.
“Hope so,” Margaret sighed. “Just pray Emily doesn’t drag her feet making up.”
“She won’t,” Arthur said. “Your sister said the divorce was *Simon’s* idea. Reckon he’ll be the one grovelling.”
“God, I hope so,” Margaret murmured, picking up her knitting. “Now, go on.”
“What?”
“You bragged about your cooking. Prove it. Fry me some potatoes—haven’t had proper chips in ages.”
Arthur grinned. “Right. You’re about to taste the best chips of your life.”
Simon walked home, mind spinning. *Did they fake all that just to stop me leaving Emily?* Their love, their little scheme—it gave him a chance to rethink everything. But one worry gnawed at him: what if he *did* lose his family in the end?
