Life After Divorce
Emily, why do you have to be so stubborn? Margarets voice had that familiar blend of schoolteacherly patience and barely-concealed exasperation, the kind that always made Emilys stomach knot. James is a lovely man handsome, clever, good job at the bank, two-bedroom flat in Clapham, for goodness sake! What more could you possibly want?
Emily paused, spoon hovering over the saucepan as she stirred the soup. Her fingers trembled slightly she hid her hands beneath the worktop to avoid her mum noticing.
Mum, he cheated on me, she said softly, looking her mother dead-on, refusing to blink. Not once. Not twice. Habitually. Wed only been married six months and the evidence was well, lets just say the judge didnt waste much time. Even he thought we shouldnt bother trying to patch things up!
Margaret shrugged, flapping at her apron like a wasp had got caught up in its strings. Men do that, love. Everyone knows it. Didnt I tell you, a good wife keeps her husband from straying. You should have worked at it! Signed up for a Pilates class, tried a new haircut done something interesting with your eyebrows. Instead, you just divorce!
Emily sighed. The conversation had been on repeat ten times, maybe more, over the last fortnight. Ever since shed moved back in with her mother while waiting for her own little flat, her late grandmas, to be vacated. Once she finally had a space of her own, a properly solitary nest, she planned to breathe out, and maybe even smile again.
*****
The doorbell chimed through the house sharp, insistent. Emily knew immediately who it was. James. Again. Instinctively, her heart did a panicked drop, palms suddenly clammy. Margaret, who seemingly doubled as James number one fan, always invited him round, regardless of her daughters protestations, pretending not to notice her daughters agony.
Emily, darling, its James! Margaret called, peeking out into the hall like shed just won the lottery. Come on through, love! James, do take your shoes off, won’t you? Her voice carried a sickening cheer. Emily gripped the spoon so tightly her knuckles whitened and the metal dug in.
Mum, I dont want to talk to him, she said in a whisper, fighting to keep her voice level.
Who asked you? snapped Margaret, voice sharp as lemons. Its my house, and Ill invite whomever I please. While youre under my roof, youll mind my rules.
Emily felt the tears prick but clamped her jaw shut and swallowed them down hard. She got up, nearly knocking her tea all over the lucky cat on the table, and stalked past her mother and James currently unlacing his sensible office shoes in the hall straight to the balcony door. His cologne woody, sharp, hideously familiar hit her like a punch.
Emily, wait! he called, oozing faux concern that only fuelled the prickly hive of her annoyance.
She pressed on, flung the door open, and strode onto the chilly balcony, slamming it so firmly she nearly cracked the glass. Cold air whipped in through her cardigan, chilling her faster than a March wind off the Thames, but Emily barely noticed. She gripped the railing, staring out across the estates blocks, lit windows, and the lonely figure of a commuter hurrying under an umbrella.
Let him be gone soon, she prayed, wrapping herself tighter in her useless cardigan. From the kitchen, she could hear her mother carrying on with James, the cheerful clatter of cutlery, the kettle boiling, Margarets easy, almost giggly chat, as if her own daughter wasnt shivering on a windswept balcony trying not to cry.
Time stretched out, tarry and slow. Emilys fingers were numb, her ears burned, shoulders trembling. But anything was better than going back inside. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus on the city sounds: car horns far off, distant shouts, a scrap of a radio anything to drown out the kitchen.
Suddenly, the door creaked behind her. Emily spun around, heart hammering. James stepped onto the balcony, hands thrust in his jeans pockets, head tilted like he was auditioning for Mr. Sincere 2024.
Emily, he said, edging closer. Can we talk? Properly, this time?
Theres nothing to say, she snapped, fixing her gaze firmly out at the drizzle glistening on a neighbours window ledge.
Look He took a step closer, and she could feel him, as if the autumn air had grown heavier. I really am sorry. Ive changed. Lets give it another go. I promise, things will be different.
You havent even said sorry properly, she countered, anger shorter-fused than she expected. You just want everything to go back to how it was because it suits you. You havent changed, James. You just want back what you lost.
But I really
Enough, she cut in, raising her voice, surprising even herself. I dont want your promises. I dont want a husband who cant stay loyal, who puts himself before respect for me.
She yanked on the balcony door. Nothing. Brilliant. Thanks, Mum.
Mum! Emily cried, and heard the desperation in her own voice. Open up!
A minute later, the lock clicked and Margaret appeared, positively beaming, as though bearing cupcakes to a garden fête. Same cherry-printed apron, now armed with a cup of tea.
Children, what are you doing loitering out here? she called, plonking the cup on a little table shed dragged out earlier. Come in, lets have supper. Mint tea, as you like.
Emily breezed past without looking at her, fury simmering not just at James, but at her mothers perpetual, oblivious meddling.
Mum, she said in the hallway, turning to meet Margarets eyes. Please, enough. I dont want to see him. Dont invite him here. Its my life. Ill decide whats best for me.
Oh really, darling? Margaret patted her on the shoulder with all the warmth of a meat tenderiser. Hes sorry, your James. Men make mistakes, but if a womans wise shell give a second chance. Honestly, Emily youre just too proud. You need to be softer, more accommodating
Emily shut her eyes, breathing to ten, fighting the tears. Arguing was pointless; she knew it. Still, the pain flared wicked sharp in her chest. She turned and walked towards her room, closing the door with finality. It was stuffy shed forgotten to crack a window, and the air felt thick. Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands trembling, she clamped her fists and pressed them to her knees, willing the anger to subside.
Voices carried through from the kitchen. Margarets rang out, bizarrely jovial, as though she hadnt just scolded Emily like an unruly child half an hour ago. Her tone was almost triumphant, as if shed won some kind of battle. Jamess replies were lower, but Emily recognised his old wheedling, the one he used when caught harmlessly flirting at office parties. It was enough to make anyone swear off men for life.
How did he even dare to turn up? Emily thought, digging her nails into her palms. After everything after he swore it was just a colleague, but there were three colleagues in half a year. Three that I know about!
Half an hour later, the voices died off and the front door gave a solid, cathartic slam. Emily finally emerged. The kitchen smelt of mint and vanilla Margaret had baked a sponge cake, the kind Emily had begged for as a child. For a fleeting second, she wanted to forget, sit down, and eat her troubles away. She resisted.
Why are you sulking, darling? Margaret offered her a smile so stretched it looked like it hurt. James really is a good lad. Hes sorry I told him, he needs to prove hes changed.
Mum, Emily leaned against the doorframe, fingers grazing the textured paint, I dont want him to prove anything. I just want to live in peace. Ill be out of your hair soon enough. Is that so much?
Margaret sank onto a chair, shoulders drooping under the imagined weight of all her daughters disastrous life-choices. You’re too black-and-white, Emily. He made a mistake. But havent we all? Maybe you drove him away? Maybe you needed to put in a bit more effort?
Emily winced at the burn behind her eyelids the hurt so raw it almost strangled her breath.
So its my fault? she asked quietly, voice wobbling. My fault he strayed?
Well, not exactly Margaret hedged, finding the view out the kitchen window suddenly fascinating. There’s always two in a relationship. Maybe if youd been softer
Or maybe he couldve just been faithful? Emily replied, the steel in her words surprising them both. Is that really so hard?
*****
James started popping up like a persistent cold sore. By the bins as she put out the recycling; with a box of Milk Tray at the door (I was just passing, hed say, standing there as if the local shops werent five miles away). One day, he turned up with a bouquet of red roses, heavy with water droplets, and a box of the cherry cordial chocolates shed loved as a girl.
These are for you, he said, that old dimple flashing just so. Once upon a time it had been charming. Now, all she could see were the bags under his eyes and a watery, insincere smile.
Thank you, but you shouldnt have, she replied, not touching the flowers. And I did ask you not to come.
I know, James stared at the floor, momentarily looking as if he might actually feel. But I can’t just walk away. You mean so much
Meant, Emily corrected, each syllable a small battle.
James hesitated, then nodded, internal struggle written all over him.
Alright. I get it. Sorry for imposing.
He turned to go, but, as ever, Margaret arrived at precisely the wrong moment.
James, love, come in! she trilled, and Emily could practically see her rubbing her hands with satisfaction. What are you doing on the doorstep? Emily, invite your ex-husband in dont be rude! And take this beautiful bouquet. Makes me jealous, it does.
Mum, he was just leaving, Emily retorted as calmly as possible. And I really dont want flowers from strangers.
Dont be silly! Margaret took James by the elbow Emily noticed him stiffen, but he didnt shake her off. Come and try my cake.
Giving up the argument for a lost cause, Emily retreated to her room, leaving Margaret and James tucking into Victoria sponge in their own world.
Through the door, she could hear her mother: Dont worry shes just hurt. Shell come round. Perseverance, James! Be persistent. Shell see what a catch shes losing.
Emily clapped her hands over her ears, wishing words could be as easy to block out as wind. She wanted to shout, to rage, to let loose all that pain and indignation, but she just took out her sketch pad and began to draw. The lines came out jagged, a bit wild, but after a while the mess calmed and formed a pattern, her thinking clearing with each sketch. Waves, peaks, odd little shapes anything to make sense of her insides.
*****
Months passed. Emily finally moved back into her own place, wonderfully close to the office. She made a couple of new friends, began meeting at the local for a glass of white on Fridays, even took up yoga. The classes werent just good for her posture they reminded her she was strong, in mind as well as awkward limbs. Some mornings, standing in tree pose, she felt like she might actually plant roots in a new, fresh life.
One Saturday, she struck up a conversation with the yoga instructor, Tom. He was older, a steady sort, gentle humour and kind eyes, not a whiff of let me fix your life about him. They exchanged numbers, met for coffee, met again.
Tom was nothing like James. No grand gestures, no stars-offered-on-sticks, but he was reliable, always there when it honestly mattered. He listened when she wanted to talk and stayed quietly when she didn’t. For the first time in yonks, Emily felt safe not perfect, not on show, just real.
The first time Emily mentioned Tom to Margaret, the grilling was immediate and withering.
Whos this, then? What does he do? Does he own or rent? Has he got ambitions? came the questions, shooting out like bullets.
Hes a yoga instructor, Emily replied, trying to keep her cool. Works locally, rents a flat, few roads away.
And thats it? Margaret made a face like shed sucked a lemon. No house? No proper job? Are you planning to support him, then?
Mum, I dont care about all that, Emily said steadily, holding her mothers gaze. He respects me. Thats plenty.
Respects you?! James respected you. You never recognise a good thing, thats your problem
Emily counted to ten again. Margarets world was built on the firm conviction that happiness meant a reliable man, semi-detached house and a company BMW; a good wife, meanwhile, meant being endlessly forgiving and, ideally, invisible.
Tom and Emilys relationship unfolded slowly, but surely a bit like the English spring, at first barely noticeable, and then quietly unstoppable. They talked, walked, cooked together, shared Netflix passwords and dreams. With Tom, simply being together was enough for happiness to sneak in through the cracks.
Six months later, Tom gently asked her, on a park bench under the spring leaves, Emily, will you marry me?
She looked into his kind, steady eyes and felt warmth unfold in her chest like crocuses after frost. Yes, she whispered, her grin taking her by surprise. Yes, I will.
She knew it would spark another argument with her mum. Of course it did.
You cant marry him! Margaret declared in the hallway, folded arms an unwelcoming gate. Its a mistake and youll regret it! Youre throwing your life away.
Mum, its my decision. And Im happy. Isnt that enough?
No, Margaret snapped, coldly. Youre always so headstrong never listen, never learn. One day youll see!
*****
The wedding was small and exactly what they wanted: a handful of friends, Toms mum and dad, nobody else. Emily wore a plain white dress, Tom a blue suit, tie striped like a seaside deckchair. As they swapped rings and kissed, Emily felt, at last, she was doing something truly her own.
Margaret didnt show. Instead, she sent a bouquet of white lilies with a black sash and a note: Hope you come to your senses. Emily stared at the flowers for a long time, then moved them aside. Her chest ached, but she pressed on.
Her mother had one last surprise. Shed convinced James to come to the registry office. Emily spotted him as she and Tom walked out: hands jammed in coat pockets, watching with a look that was half regret, half confusion.
What are you doing here? Emily asked, tensing inside, but the hurt was duller than before.
Your mum asked me, he said, bone-weary. Said youd made a grave mistake and were too proud to admit it.
Her mum says lots, but shes not always right, Tom replied, squeezing Emilys hand. His was warm and steady. Time to let the past be past.
James gave a lopsided grin. Well, ring me when youre tired of poverty. Ill take you back, no strings.
And with that, off he marched, like a pantomime villain after the final curtain.
Afterwards, Emily and Tom began making plans for a fresh start. A new job beckoned in Manchester, busy, bustling, full of possibility. Emily said yes at once. She wanted a place with no history, all potential.
Before leaving, she called at her mothers to say goodbye. Margaret stood by the window, arms folded, firmly ignoring her daughters presence.
Were moving, Emily announced. Up north.
So? Margaret didnt turn. Running away from your problems?
No, mum. Im running towards happiness. And Id like you there, if you can accept my choices.
Margaret spun round, frustration in every muscle. That infamous vein in her temple throbbed like a passing fire engine.
Accept? Why should I? Youre packing up and swanning off with a yoga teacher! Whats he got? Can he give you security? A future? James couldve given you everything new car, new kitchen, weekends in the Cotswolds. He tried! This isnt finished!
******
Emily had no idea that evening Margaret phoned Tom. While Emily was boxing up odds and ends, his phone buzzed with an unknown number.
Tom, dear, Margarets voice was uncharacteristically soft, almost tender. I worry about Emily. Shes spirited, bless her, never quite knows what shes doing. This whole move is madness. Shell regret it
Tom listened without interrupting, jaw tensing.
You see, Margaret confided, she’s not over James. Its pride. Youre just a stopgap. Dont let her wreck your life.
Mrs. Browning, Tom gently interrupted, I appreciate youre concerned, but I know Emily I know how she is with me. Shes different: calmer, surer. And Im certain about us.
Oh, youre naïve, son. You really think shell be happy in some backwater? No friends, nothing familiar? One day shell miss home, and shell realise. James will be there for her. Always.
Tom took a long breath, picturing Emily stubborn, bright, beautifully flawed. The urge to protect her set like concrete in his chest.
Its probably best if we finish this conversation, Mrs. Browning. Emilys a grown woman. She gets to choose. And shes chosen me.
He hung up, a storm of irritation and sympathy mixing inside him. Poor Emily, he thought no wonder shed fought to breathe.
*****
The next day, Emily came by again wanting her farewell, some kindness, not just wounds. She brought shortbread, Margarets childhood favourite, and daisies in a jam jar.
Margaret met her with a barrage.
Cant you just pause and think? Stay a month. Give it some real thought! Perhaps youre just frazzled
Mum, its done, Emily said, voice tired but firm. Were moving. Weve got a flat near a park, Ive met my new colleagues on a Teams chat, Toms lined up work Its all coming together.
All his doing, I suppose! Now hes got you away from me and James, itll be easier to keep you under his thumb, wont it?
Emily froze. Her mums accusation hit with such force it rattled her, but she managed not to shout.
Do you actually believe that? she said, voice barely above a whisper. You think Tom manipulates me? That hes like that?
Margaret crossed her arms, defiant as ever. Men want control. At least James was honest. This one hides behind his niceness.
Enough, Mum. Emily fought tears, her composure threatening to crumble. I cant keep living life under your microscope, feeling guilty because I want happiness on my terms.
She turned to go, but Margaret grabbed her hand, tight as a vice.
Wait, Margarets voice, finally, was almost pleading. Im your mother. I just want the best for you.
The best is what I choose for myself, Emily gently freed her hand, careful not to hurt her mum. I choose Tom. I choose our life. And yes, Im going, somewhere I can finally breathe without waiting for you to say I told you so.
Margaret backed away, pain and anger warring on her face.
So thats it? she whispered, small and lost. Giving up your mother for some man?
Im not giving up on you, Emily managed, tears threatening. Im giving up on how you treat me. I want you to love me as I am, not who you think I should be. But if you cant Well, maybe we just need some space.
Fine, Margaret muttered, turning back to the window, shoulders shaking. You know where I am if you come to your senses.
Emily lingered a second, watching her mother clutch the windowsill, grey hair tight at the temples. Part of her wanted to rush over, to hug and promise itd all work out. But right now, that would be a lie. She slipped outside, careful not to let the door slam. In her coat pocket, her new phone buzzed with a text from Tom he was waiting downstairs. Maybe, one day, shed call her mum again. But for now, she needed space clear air, sky, a little gentle breathing room of her own.
