“I want a divorce,” she whispered, turning her face away.
It was a chilly evening in London when Emily quietly said, “I want a divorce,” her gaze drifting from her husband, Jamess eyes.
Jamess face drained of colour. A silent question hung between them.
“Im leaving you to the woman you truly love,” Emily said, realising the most important woman in his life had always been his mother. “I wont play second fiddle any longer.”
Emily felt her throat tighten, her eyes betraying her with unshed tears. Years of pain and disappointment surged up, stealing her breath.
“What are you talking about? What other woman?” James asked, stunned, staring at his wife in disbelief.
“Weve talked about this so many times. Since our wedding, your mother has drained usfinancially, emotionally, every way possible. And you let her, because her soups richer and her pancakes fluffier. I cant do this anymore.”
Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks. She mourned the dreams shed once held so clearlya promising fiancé, a respectable career, life in central Londonyet it had all become a battle for her own happiness.
Five years earlier, Emily had hesitantly stepped into the spacious living room of Jamess flat. The furniture, the china, the decorfor a girl whod spent most of her life in shared houses and student halls, it all looked expensive and fragile.
“Lucky me, finding a man with his own place,” shed joked, resting her hands on Jamess shoulders.
“Just wait till I leave socks everywhere. Then youll really be impressed.”
Shed moved in quickly after they met. Their romance had bloomed fast, demanding continuation.
Back then, she was in her final year studying journalism at Kings College, while James, five years older, worked as a sales manager with a solid income.
A year after moving in, they married.
“Soon, well turn the guest room into a nursery,” Emily had once remarked, hugging him, hinting she was ready for children.
But a month later, unexpected company arrivedJamess mother, Mrs. Whitmore, stood at their door with two suitcases. She had an excellent relationship with her sonat least, in her own eyes.
Her parenting, built on guilt and the demands of a single mother, had shaped a man who felt indebted to her. She took pride in his success, believing it was entirely her doing.
Every payday, James repaid “debts”for the flat, the car, his childhood. Emily watched from the sidelines, careful not to disrupt their bond, only occasionally voicing her concerns.
“Where did you invest the money from selling the house?” Emily asked, pouring tea, steering cautiously into the topic. Mrs. Whitmore had come from a small village near Oxford, where shed inherited a modest house with a garden.
Every year, James offered to help her find a place in town, but she refused. Then, suddenly, she sold her homefast, and for a low price.
“Some for a holiday, some for my new business.”
Mrs. Whitmore, despite her struggles, was ambitiousand domineering.
People like her would take a mile if you gave an inch.
Lately, shed discovered an online cosmetics company. To “partner” with them required monthly bulk purchasesexactly where her house sale money had gone.
“Ive decided staying here wont be a problem,” she declared, stirring honey into her tea.
“Of course, we love having guests!” Emily pressed, ensuring it was temporary. “Ill ask my friendshes an estate agent. Shell find you a lovely flat.”
“No need. Two homes are wasteful. Well save by staying together,” Mrs. Whitmore countered, painting herself as a victim.
Emily looked to James. She didnt dislike his mother, but sharing their home indefinitely was untenable. Yet James only shrugged. “Whatever you think is best.”
He backed his mothers every whim, no matter how dubious, believing he owed her unquestioning loyalty.
And there were many whims: candle-making, soap-making, scrapbooking.
She chased get-rich-quick schemes, funded by Jamesequipment, materials, her entire lifestyle.
Since his promotion, Mrs. Whitmore hadnt worked a day.
Jamess childish belief that he owed his mother everything crushed his independencefinancially, emotionally.
It was astounding how a grown man could be so easily manipulated.
The guest room never became a nursery. Three years passed. Emily now worked at a publishing house, writing relationship advice columns.
Ironically, she could analyse others problems but not fix her own.
Her opinion meant nothing. Mrs. Whitmore ruled their home.
Emily understood whyan only child of a single mother marries, and his wife becomes the threat, battled by total self-absorption.
With Mrs. Whitmore, it was mixed with superiority and entitlement.
Only she could fix her own issues. Only James could wake upbut he was blind.
Their flat was now full of her MLM cosmetics. Her “business” brought no profit, just empty promises.
Emily had tried discussing it, but James always said, “Mum knows what shes doing,” while Mrs. Whitmore preached patience.
But three years had passed. The “tree” never grew.
When Mrs. Whitmore suggested Emily “invest” in the “family business,” Emily knew drastic action was needed.
The final straw was a conversation that never shouldve happened.
On New Years Eve, the couple finally went on a datejust the two of them. After ice-skating, they sat in a cosy café.
Rosy-cheeked and glowing, Emily radiated love.
“James, are you happy?”
“Of course,” he took her hand. “How could I not be, with you?”
“I want a baby,” she whispered, leaning closer.
“Right now?” He kissed her hand, smiling.
That night, they decided it was time. But 24 hours later, Mrs. Whitmore burst into their bedroom.
“You cant have a child now!”
Stunned, Emily froze.
“James hasnt paid off the mortgage. The car loans”
“Youre just afraid hell stop funding your schemes,” Emily snappedthe first time shed ever stood up to her.
“Ive only ever wanted the best for my son, even if Ive asked for a little help. Hes all I haveI raised him, clothed him, made him the man he is.”
“You dont owe him for that. You chose to have him. You can hope for his love, not demand it.”
Mrs. Whitmore understoodbut refused to give up her comfort. “James will see Im right.”
And Emily feared she was correct.
No obstacle would stop her wanting a childbut for James, his mother was obstacle enough.
Yet after a late-night talk, hope faded.
Just yesterday, hed loved the idea. Now? “Maybe its not the right time. Were not ready.”
Emily knew it was over.
“I want a divorce.”
James paled.
“Im leaving you to the one you truly love. I wont be second best.”
The injustice burned. How many times had she tried to talk? He never listened.
Tears spilled.
“What other woman?” James asked, bewildered.
“Since we married, its always Mum, Mum Her soup, her pancakes. She controls our money. I cant”
James barely heard the rest, stunned. When had he lost control? Or had he ever had it?
As she fell silent, he sat beside her, studying her tear-streaked face.
“Is this really just about Mum living here?”
“How cant you see? Shes consumed you. Youre not your own person. Without my salary, wed struggle. She forbade a baby to keep her cash flow.
“Your mothers a good womanbut she needs boundaries. And you erase them. You suffer. So do I. So will our child. Your debts are paid, James. Live for yourself.”
The talk was painful, but James begged for a chance, promising to prioritise their future.
The first steps were hard: cutting his mothers allowance, then asking her to move out.
A month later, Emily picked nursery wallpaper.
Mrs. Whitmore took it hard, but eventually accepted she couldnt control James. Without his money, her “business” collapsed. She found a real job, learned self-reliance.
A year later, they had a baby. Now, Mrs. Whitmore helped joyfully. The family spent time togetherhappily.
Sometimes, love means letting gobefore you can hold on to what truly matters.
