Emma thought her husband was just in a bad mood until she found the divorce papers in his desk drawer.
“Where’s my blue striped shirt?” James stood in the middle of the bedroom in just his trousers, irritably rummaging through the wardrobe.
“In the wash,” Emma replied from the bathroom, rolling her hair in curlers. “Take the navy oneit looks just as nice.”
“I dont *want* the navy one, I want the blue one! How many times do I have to remind you to do the laundry on time?”
“James, you only wore it the day before yesterday. I just washed it yesterday.”
“So? If you knew I had a meeting, you shouldve made sure it was dry!”
Emma stepped out, studying him. Lately, he snapped at everythingunderseasoned soup, dust on the telly, the wrong shirt.
“Would you like the white one pressed? It suits you.”
“Dont bother! Ill sort it myself!”
He yanked the first shirt he saw from the wardrobe, tugging it on with trembling hands.
“James, whats *wrong* with you? You havent been yourself for weeks.”
“Nothings wrong. Just tired. Works a nightmare.”
“Maybe see a doctor? Get your blood pressure checked?”
“Emma, drop it! Stop treating me like Im ill!”
He snatched his blazer and briefcase, slamming the door behind him. Emma stood frozen, a dull ache in her chest. In twenty years of marriage, James had rarely raised his voice. Now, every morning began with an argument.
Breakfast cooled on the kitchen tablescrambled eggs, toast, coffee, just how he liked it. But lately, he left without eating. *Not hungry*, hed say.
She sipped her tea. They needed to talk tonightcalmly, no accusations. Maybe it *was* work? Or his health?
Her phone rang. Her best friend, Sophie.
“Hey! Still on for yoga tonight?”
“Not sure. Im not in the mood.”
“Whats happened?”
“James has been so *angry* lately. Picking fights over nothing.”
“Midlife crisis? My Mark went through itbought a motorbike, got it out of his system.”
“James isnt like that. He hates change.”
“Then its work. Dont overthink it. Itll pass.”
Emma hung up. Sophie was rightno point spiralling. Every marriage had rough patches.
She tidied the flat, made lunch. Shepherds piehis favourite. Maybe a good meal would lift his mood.
At the shops, she bumped into Mrs. Thompson from next door.
“Emma! How are you? Havent seen James in ages.”
“Working late most nights.”
“Such a hard worker. Unlike my layaboutwears the sofa out, that one.”
Emma forced a smile. James *had* been coming home later. No calls, no warningsjust silent dinners and early nights.
At home, she decided to tidy his study. He hated her touching his things, but he wouldnt be back till evening.
The study was cosybookshelves, a worn leather chair, their wedding photo on the wall. Young, smiling, *in love*.
She dusted, swept, avoiding his desk. But the top drawer was slightly open, a folder sticking out.
She meant to push it back, but the folder wouldnt fit. She pulled it out to rearrange it.
*Personal*, the label read. Emma froze. *Personal?* What secrets did he have from her?
Curiosity won. She opened it.
A business card on top: *Daniel Carter, Family Law Solicitor*. Below, printouts*How to File for Divorce*. Then a completed application, signed by James.
Emma sank into the chair, vision blurring. *Divorce?*
Her hands shook as she flipped throughasset lists, mortgage splits, bank accounts. Meticulously planned.
At the bottom, a handwritten note in James scrawl: *Tell her after New Years. Flat50/50. Carmine. Cottagehers.*
New Years. Two weeks away. Hed *planned* this. And shed been making shepherds pie, ironing shirts.
The front door slammed. James was homeearly.
“Emma? You here?”
She shoved the folder back, forced her voice steady. “In here. Youre back early.”
“Meeting got cancelled.” He wandered into the kitchen, lifted the lid on the pot. “Shepherds pie? Nice.”
He served himself, eating mechanically. Emma watched. Same hands, same face. A stranger.
“James, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He didnt look up.
“Us. Whats happening? Youve changed.”
“Not now, Emma. Im tired.”
“But we never *talk*. Youre angry all the time.”
“Im not angry. Works just”
“Its *not* work.”
He set his fork down, met her eyes. Guilt flickered, then vanished.
“Emma, not tonight. Im not in the mood for a row.”
“I dont *want* a row. I want to understand.”
“Understand *what*? Everythings fine.”
She wanted to scream about the folder. *Why pretend?* But the words died in her throat.
“Fine. Whatever you say.”
She left, collapsing onto their bed. No tearsjust hollow numbness.
James came to bed later, facing the wall. No goodnight kiss. No touch.
“Em? You awake?”
“No.”
“Ill be late tomorrow. Office party.”
“Okay.”
“Dont be mad. Just tired, thats all.”
“I get it.”
But she didnt. How could he lie beside her, planning divorce?
The next morning, he left without breakfast. Emma called Sophie.
“Can I come over?”
“Of course! Whats wrong?”
“Ill explain when Im there.”
Over tea at Sophies, Emma confessed.
“The *bastard*,” Sophie hissed. “Twenty years, and he pulls this?”
“Maybe theres someone else?”
“Who *cares*? If he wants out, he should say so!”
Emma twisted her wedding ring. “What do I *do*?”
“File first! Blindside him!”
“I cant. What if he changes his mind?”
“Love, he went to a *solicitor*. Hes done.”
Emma returned home, made dinner, waited.
James stumbled in at eleven, reeking of whisky.
“Youre still up?”
“Waiting for you. Dinners ready.”
“Not hungry. We ate at the party.”
“Good time?”
“Same as always.”
He headed to bed. Emma followed.
“Who was there? Your assistantLucy, was it?”
He tensed. “Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
His phone lay charging. He snored softly as Emma picked it up. His birthday unlocked it.
No texts from Lucy. Just work emails, his mum asking when theyd visit. Thenan unknown number:
*All set. Papers ready. Well file after the holidays.*
*Good. Transferring the fee tomorrow.*
*No rush. Just prepare your wife. Its always rough.*
*Ill talk to her. After New Years.*
Emma set the phone down, stepped onto the balcony. The icy air sharpened her thoughts.
Two weeks. Two weeks of pretending. Buying gifts, trimming the tree. Then*We need to talk.*
Last New Years flashed in her mindchampagne, fireworks, his gift of pearl earrings. *I love you.* Had he lied even then?
By morning, her decision was clear. No waiting. No begging. If he wanted out*fine*. But no more charade.
James sipped coffee at the table.
“Morning,” she said.
“Hi. Bit hungover.”
“From the party?”
“Guess so. Listen, Im popping to Mums today. Help with her shopping.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah. You hate crowds.”
He *always* invited hereven knowing shed refuse.
“Okay. Go ahead.”
He blinked. “Youre not upset?”
“Why would I be? Ive got gifts to buy too.”
“For who?”
“You.”
He looked away. “Dont bother. I said no presents.”
“Right.”
He left. Emma dug out the solicitors card from his drawer, dialled.
“Daniel Carter? Its Emma Whitmore. James Whitmores wife. Yes*that* James. I need advice.”
They met at a café. The solicitorpolite, mid-fiftiesnodded sympathetically.
“Hes done nothing illegal, Im afraid. Preparing for divorce is his right.”
“But why wait? Why not *tell* me?”
“Cold feet, perhaps
