**Diary Entry, 12th October 2023**
I arrived with heavy news, but my parents shocked me even more.
James sat on a rickety bus trundling down dusty backroads toward his parents’ cottage on the outskirts of York, his chest tight with dread. He had come to tell them something that would turn their world upside down—his divorce from Emily. But what he heard in their home hit him like a sledgehammer. His elderly parents, whom he’d always seen as the picture of a steadfast marriage, announced their own divorce. Their drama overshadowed everything he’d planned to say. Now James stood at a crossroads, his mind a storm of fear, guilt, and confusion.
The thought of breaking the news about Emily hadn’t been easy. He could’ve stayed silent, but gossip spread fast in their little village. Emily might call his parents in anger, or his brother might let it slip over Sunday roast. Better to tell them himself, James reasoned, than to scramble for excuses later. Life was unpredictable—no one was immune to mistakes.
James climbed the familiar steps, pressed the doorbell. His father, Harold Wilson, answered, his face grim, as if he already knew why his son was there.
“Hello,” he grunted. “Glad you’re here. Come in.”
“Hi, Dad,” James replied, but his stomach twisted—had someone already told them? “Is Mum home?”
“She’s here,” his father snapped. “Where else would she be? Sat there like Lady Muck.”
James frowned. “What’s got into you?”
“I’ve had enough!” his father suddenly shouted, turning on his heel and stomping into the sitting room.
Stunned, James followed. His father slumped onto the sofa, arms crossed. His mother—Margaret Wilson—wasn’t in her usual knitting chair. James peered into the bedroom and found her standing by the window, her face like thunder.
“You’re here,” she said icily. “Have you left Emily, or are you just thinking about it?”
James’s breath caught. “How do you know about that?”
“Because I need to know if you’ve rented a flat yet!” she snapped.
“What flat?”
“The one you’ll live in after the divorce!”
“I haven’t,” James admitted. “But how did you find out?”
“We did,” she muttered. “And listen, love—hurry up and find a place, because I’m moving in with you!”
James stared. *What?*
“No!” His father’s voice boomed from the sitting room. He stormed in, red-faced. *“I’m* living with James! You stay here—the house is in your name!”
“Over my dead body!” Margaret shrieked. “I won’t stay another day in this place, reeking of your stubbornness!”
“Hold on!” James looked between them. “What are you even on about? Where are you going?”
“Wherever *you* go!” Harold declared. “Good on you, son, thinking of divorce—just the right time!”
“Why ‘good on me’?” The world tilted under James’s feet.
“Because we’re divorcing too!” his father blurted.
James gaped. He’d braced for lectures—not this.
“That’s it!” Harold barrelled on. “You’re a grown man, I owe nobody explanations. Your mum and I are sick of each other, just like you and Emily. I’ll move in with you—just us lads!”
“No, *I’m* living with James!” Margaret cut in. “You’re useless, but I can still cook. Isn’t that right, love? You’ve always loved my roast?”
“I can cook too!” Harold barked. “Shepherd’s pie, full English—name it!”
Margaret sneered. “When was the last time *you* cooked? The Blitz?”
“Doesn’t matter! Real men don’t need women—just a washing machine, microwave, and a big enough fridge for takeaways!”
“Is this what you’re teaching him?!”
“Enough!” James roared. “Have you lost the plot? You’re nearly eighty, squabbling like toddlers! Look at yourselves!”
“Look at *you*!” they yelled in unison. “Pushing fifty, acting like a schoolboy! Don’t you dare scold us! Just pick who you’re taking!”
“Who said I’m moving out?” James snapped. “Emily and I own our house!”
Margaret blinked. “But… you’re *divorcing*.”
“Says who?”
“Emily told your sister you rang her about it.”
James exhaled hard. “I’m *not* divorcing. It was a joke.”
Silence. Then—
“A *joke*?” Harold spluttered. “We were planning our new lives! And you’ve gone and ruined it?”
“Honestly, love,” Margaret sighed. “Not funny. You got our hopes up. Ah well… suppose we’ll carry on as we are.”
She fixed him with a look. “But mark my words—if you *do* divorce, your father and I are *first* in line to move in. Understood?”
James nodded grimly. He understood. The divorce he’d been considering? Unlikely now. “I’m off, then.”
“Wait!” Margaret called. “You didn’t come just to chat. Fancy some supper?”
“No. Just wanted to see you. And now I have.” He jabbed a finger at them. “Stop this nonsense. You’re supposed to set an example. Instead, you’re… Christ. Right. Bye.”
The moment the door shut, Harold and Margaret exchanged glances, shoulders sagging in relief.
“Did it work?” he whispered.
“Think so,” she murmured. “Let’s pray Emily doesn’t drag her feet making up.”
“She won’t. Your sister said the divorce was *his* idea. That means he’ll crawl back.”
“God willing.” Margaret picked up her knitting, settling into her chair. “Off you pop, then.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen. You bragged about your cooking—prove it. Fry me some chips. Haven’t had proper ones in years.”
Harold grinned. “You’re in for a treat, love.”
Walking home, James replayed their words. *Was it all a stunt to keep me with Emily?* Their love, their scheming care, had handed him a chance to rethink. But a fear lingered: what if he lost his family anyway?
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes the biggest truths come wrapped in the daftest lies. And parents—no matter how old—are still the ones holding the strings.
