I wasnt asking you to wreck your life, love.
Emily, are you really okay? Sophie asked, eyebrows knitted. You dont make decisions like that in a week.
Ive thought it through. Emily pushed her coffee mug away. Seriously, Soph. For the first time in years I finally know what I want.
Sooner or later youll realise its just hormones, not love.
Thank you for the pep talk, Emily replied dryly.
Im backing you up, honestly. By telling the truth. She sighed. Hes twentyfour, Em. Twentyfour. He was still in Year1 when you finished university.
Emily rolled her eyes. Numbers stopped meaning anything when real feelings were involved.
Ive already decided, she said, steadier now. Im talking to Victor today.
Sophie gave a quiet shake of her head and finished her latte. Meanwhile Emilys mind drifted to a place that smelled of fresh coffee and ink, where a man waited whose glance made her knees wobble.
That evening Victor was perched on the edge of the bed theyd shared for twelve years the bedroom theyd picked out together, debating whether a canopy was necessary. They never bought one. So much had gone unsaid over those years: conversations, touches, glances. Their marriage had become a polite cohabitation, a split of square footage and the monthly budget.
Ive met someone else.
Four words. Emily had rehearsed a speech for days, whispered it in the shower, scribbled notes on her phone, but only those four escaped her mouth. Silence followed.
Victor didnt shout. He didnt fling anything. He simply nodded, slow as if confirming a longheld suspicion, then began packing his things. Methodically. Neatly. Folding shirts exactly the way he always did collar to collar. There was something unsettlingly precise about his neatness.
Victor
No need. I get it, he said without turning. Im going to my parents place.
The door closed softly, almost soundless, and it felt worse than any argument. Emilys chest tightened with a mix of guilt and relief she couldnt size up. The flat suddenly seemed cavernous, echoing like an empty concert hall.
She was free
The talk with her parents happened three days later. As expected, they didnt back her.
What are you thinking youre doing? her mother hovered like a hawk. Twelve years together, all for a kid? For a lad?
Mom, hes twentyfour, a grownup
A grownup! her father grunted, settling heavily into a squeaky chair. Victor is the grownup here. He put up with you for years, and you give him this?
He never supported me financially. I run my own business, Dad.
Youre bringing shame on us, he added gruffly.
Emily rose from the table. Her legs felt like jelly, but she forced a calm tone.
I thought youd stand by me.
We thought wed raised a clever daughter, her mother said, turning to the window. Looks like we were wrong.
She left without a backward glance. In the lift she pinged James: Pick me up. He arrived twenty minutes later, wrapped her in his arms, pressing his nose to her crown, and for a moment all the mess faded.
Friends shed hung out with as couples barbecue crews, New Years parties started disappearing one by one. Katie texted, Sorry, Em, cant. Victors like a brother to me, you know. Olivia simply stopped replying. Megan sent a long rant about betrayal and selfishness; Emily stared at the screen for five minutes, then deleted the whole fiveyear chat history, refusing to let herself cry.
For three weeks a hollow settled around her. James took her to meet his mates a bunch of lads glued to streams, TikToks, and the latest music video. Emily smiled, nodded, but an acute, almost physical loneliness gnawed at her. She missed half the jokes, didnt know the names tossed around, and realised the only person she could actually talk to was James. Yet James was always with his friends, leaving her alone in a noisy room.
This will pass, she kept telling herself. Well build something new.
One fancy a getaway? James whispered that night, fingers through her hair. Another town. Fresh start, no exhusbands, no meddling parents. Blank slate.
Emily lifted her head, eyes scanning his face in the dim light.
Are you serious?
Absolutely. Ive got contacts in Manchester, the photography markets buzzing there. You could open a new studio, bigger, better.
The word studio struck a chord deep down. Her studio eight years of building, a client list, a team shed trained from scratch. Drop it all?
But his eyes shone with such certainty, such excitement, that she nodded. Yes. Start over. Prove it wasnt a midlife crisis or a whim, but a real feeling worth the risk.
She sold her salon in three weeks, for far less than it was worth a buyer sensed urgency and squeezed every penny out. Emily signed the papers with trembling hands, saw the transfer hit her bank account, and felt a strange sensation: as if shed cut a piece of herself off and handed it to some beigesuited stranger.
Done, she told James that evening. Were free.
He lifted her, spun her around the room, and Emily laughed a genuine, ringing laugh she hadnt heard from herself in years. The money from the sale felt like a fortune, enough for any plan. First they rented a flat nearer the city centre, high ceilings, huge windows their nest, their home.
The first weeks in the new town felt like a honeymoon. Breakfast in bed, endless chats about everything and nothing. James photographed her on the balcony, in the kitchen, in the bathroom with damp hair every shot a love note.
Then things started to shift.
At first it was subtle. James stayed longer on shoots, came home exhausted, ate in silence, glued to his phone. Lots of work, hed say. Gotta hustle while the gigs last. Emily nodded, understanding, refusing to be the nagging type.
But when she tried to hug him at night, he pulled away. When she brought up the studio, the plans, he replied curtly: Later, Well sort it, Not now. Each not now dug deeper into her chest.
She started looking for a job, more to fill her head than out of necessity. At thirtyfour, finding something decent wasnt easy. Money thinned. The rent ate a big chunk each month. Jamess income was erratic, and when Emily gently suggested splitting the bills, he shrugged, Im already pitching in. Cant you see?
She saw it the way he avoided eye contact, checked his phone before leaving the room, disappeared for fresh air and returned at midnight smelling of someone elses cologne. Or maybe she was just imagining it.
We need to talk, Emily said one night when James staggered in at three a.m.
About what? he grunted, tossing his jacket onto a chair.
Us. I dont get whats happening. Youre a different person. I barely see you, you dont talk to me. We
Youre suffocating me, he snapped, throwing his coat down. I told you I need space. Things are moving too fast. I never asked you to tear your life apart.
She froze.
You didnt ask? he repeated. You chose this. I didnt force you to divorce, didnt make you sell anything. It was your call. And we moved here after you were already free!
He was right. Technically, it was her decision. Her choice. Her blaze that consumed everything she owned.
From that night Emily spiralled. She checked his phone while he slept, scrolling through messages, dissecting every like on his Instagram, spotting followings of female models and rookie photographers. Each name burned. She pinged him twenty times a day, asking where he was, who he was with, when hed be home. She staged jealousy scenes, then hated herself for it, because she saw a version of herself she never wanted to become.
Youre ill, James said after another blowup. You need a therapist, not a relationship.
He might have been right.
James started disappearing more often. Shooting out of town, Staying at a mates, Dont wait up. Emily sat in the dark, eyes glued to the door, feeling something inside her dry out like old wood.
One Tuesday evening, after her fifth cup of coffee, her phone dinged.
Em, I cant do this anymore. Sorry. Its gone too far. I never wanted to ruin your life. Im not ready to take responsibility. Dont look for me. Please leave me alone.
She read it three times, then again. The phone slipped from her hand, and she slid off the stool onto the cold floor.
She spent the day in that empty flat, lying on the floor, then the couch, then back on the floor the chill somehow a distraction from the storm inside. She cried, ugly and raw, sniffling, wiping her nose. When the tears ran out, only a dry, burning emptiness remained.
No husband. No business. No friends. No parents. No lover. No money the bank balance showed barely enough for two months. At thirtyfour, the only thing she could still afford was the highceiling flat she could no longer pay for.
Three days later she forced herself to call Victor. Not to get back together, just to apologise, to own her part. Subscriber unavailable. Hed blocked her.
She wrote a long, messy, honest message to her mother, admitting shed messed up, that she was hurting, that she needed help, even if just a word. Two hours later a reply came:
We warned you. Sort out the consequences yourself. Dad asked me to tell you he isnt ready to talk.
Emily set the phone down and laughed a quiet, cracked laugh. That was it. The full package.
A week later she moved into a twelvesquaremetre room in a shared house on the outskirts, a communal kitchen and perpetually occupied bathroom. The landlady, a portly woman in her sixties, gave her a onceover and said, Youre still young. Youll get over it.
She found work fast a nail technician in a basement salon down the road. The pay was peanuts, but pride mattered more now.
That night Emily stared at her hands the hands that once built a business, signed contracts, flipped through Italian cosmetics catalogues now spent the whole day filing other peoples nails for a few quid.
Months of madness passed, and everything shed built over a decade vanished. And she was the one to blame.
