James trudged along in the creaking bus, the dusty roads of the outskirts of Manchester stretching before him, his chest tight with dread. He had come to break the news that would shatter his parents’ world—his divorce from Emily. But what awaited him in their modest suburban home struck like a hammer blow. His elderly parents, whom he’d always seen as the bedrock of a lasting marriage, stunned him with their own announcement: they were divorcing. Their bombshell eclipsed his own confession, leaving him standing on the edge of a life-altering decision, his heart a storm of guilt, fear, and confusion.
The thought of telling them about Emily had gnawed at him for weeks. He could’ve stayed silent, but in their small village, whispers spread like wildfire. Emily might’ve called them in a fit of spite, or his brother or sister might’ve let it slip. Better to rip the bandage off himself, he’d decided. Life was unpredictable—no one was safe from mistakes.
James climbed the familiar steps, pressed the bell. His father, Robert Wilson, opened the door, his face grim, as if he already knew.
“You’re here,” he muttered. “Good. Come in.”
“Hi, Dad,” James replied, but unease prickled at him. *Did someone already tell them?* “Is Mum home?”
“Where else would she be?” Robert snapped. “Sat there like some posh lady waiting for tea.”
James frowned. “What’s got into you?”
“I’ve had enough, that’s what!” Robert barked, turning sharply and stomping into the living room.
Baffled, James followed. His father slumped onto the sofa, arms crossed. His mother, Margaret—usually knitting by the telly—wasn’t there. Peering into the bedroom, he spotted her by the window, her face stormy.
“So you came,” she said coldly. “Have you left Emily, or are you just thinking about it?”
His pulse spiked. “How d’you know? Why are you asking?”
“Because I need to know if you’ve got a flat yet!” she snapped.
“What flat?”
“The one you’ll live in after your divorce!” she bit out.
“Haven’t got one,” James admitted. “But how d’you know I’m divorcing?”
“We know,” she said darkly. “Well, son, find a place quick—I’m moving in with you.”
“What?!” He froze, stunned.
“No!” Robert’s voice boomed from the hallway as he stormed in, face flushed. “*I’m* moving in with James! You’re staying in this house—it’s in your name, isn’t it?”
“Over my dead body!” Margaret shrieked. “I won’t stay under this roof another minute, not with your stubbornness hanging in the air!”
“Wait!” James’s gaze darted between them. “What the hell are you on about? Where are you both going?”
“Wherever *you* do!” Robert declared. “Good on you, son—perfect timing, this divorce!”
“Why perfect?” James felt the ground tilt beneath him.
“Because we’re divorcing too!” Robert blurted, chest heaving.
James reeled. He’d braced for lectures, shame—not *this*.
“Enough!” Robert barrelled on. “You’re a grown man. I don’t owe anyone explanations. Your mum and I are sick of each other—just like you and Emily! I’m coming with you. Lads’ life, just us two!”
“No, *I’m* living with James!” Margaret cut in. “You’re useless, but I’ll look after him. A man can’t manage alone—he needs proper meals. You love my roast, don’t you, love?”
“And I can’t cook?!” Robert exploded. “I make a mean full English! Steak and ale pie—proper man’s food!”
Margaret snorted. “When did you last lift a ladle? Before the Queen’s Jubilee?”
“So what?” Robert shot back. “Men manage fine! All we need’s a fridge, a washing machine, and a microwave—stock up once a month, job done!”
“You’re teaching him *rubbish*!” Margaret hissed.
“Stop it!” James roared. “Have you both lost it? You’re nearly eighty, squabbling like kids! Look at yourselves!”
“And *you*!” they shouted in unison. “Pushing fifty, acting like a teenager! Don’t you dare scold us—just pick who you’re taking with you!”
“Who said I’m going *anywhere*?” James exploded. “Emily and I have our own house!”
Margaret blinked. “But… you’re divorcing?”
“Who told you that?”
“Emily did,” she said. “Your sister, Claire—she said you’d called and told her everything.”
“I’m *not* getting divorced,” James ground out. “It was a joke.”
Robert gaped. “A *joke*? We were ready—packed our plans, rallied our spirits… and you’re *kidding*?”
“Honestly, James,” Margaret sighed. “Not funny. Got our hopes up for change… Fine. We’ll carry on—for now.”
She jabbed a finger at him. “But mark my words—if you *do* divorce, your dad and I are first in line to move in. Understood?”
James exhaled sharply. “Got it.” Suddenly, the divorce he’d agonised over felt impossible. “Right. I’m off.”
“Where?” Margaret fretted. “You didn’t come just to chat. Fancy a bite?”
“No,” he waved her off. “Just wanted to see you. And… Christ, I’m glad I did. Stop this nonsense. You’re meant to set an example. Instead…” He shook his head. “See you.”
The moment the door clicked shut, Margaret and Robert exchanged glances—then sagged in relief.
“D’you think it worked?” Robert whispered.
“Hope so,” Margaret murmured. “Long as Emily doesn’t drag her heels making up.”
“She won’t,” Robert sighed. “Claire said the divorce was James’s idea. Means he’ll crawl back.”
“God willing.” Margaret picked up her knitting, settling into her armchair. “Go on, then.”
“What?”
“You bragged about your cooking—prove it. Fry me some chips. Haven’t had proper ones in years.”
Robert grinned. “Right. I’ll cook you chips so good, you’ll lick the plate.”
As James trudged home, a thought nagged: *Was this all a ruse to save my marriage?* Their love, their scheming care—it had given him a chance to rethink. But fear lingered: *What if I lose my family anyway?*
