Deciding to Divorce…
With a tray in hand, Emily stood through the endless queue in the cafeteria before finally reaching the counter, where she hurriedly addressed the young lad behind it:
“Three soups, three roast dinners, and three lemonades, please.”
There wasn’t enough space on the tray. Several times, Emily glanced expectantly at the table where her husband and son waited. Her son, only ten, naturally didn’t think to help. But her husband sat glued to his phone, refusing to look up. So Emily had to make two trips, rushing back and forth under the disapproving stares of those still waiting.
Without lifting his eyes from his screen, her husband nudged the bowl of soup towards himself, took a sip, and scoffed.
“Pea soup? You know I don’t like pea soup. You could’ve asked.”
“You could’ve come and picked it yourself,” Emily sighed. “I’m not a mind-reader.”
“Oh, come off it! It’s not like we’d have to queue together! Just ask next time.”
Emily bowed her head over her soup, choosing not to reply. She was tired of arguing. James had always been like this—never satisfied with anything. And now their son was copying him.
“Ew, Mum, roast beef? You know I don’t like it,” the boy whined.
“Our mum only thinks about herself,” James muttered, eyes still fixed on his phone as he shoveled down the soup he’d just criticized.
“Eat what you’re given,” Emily hissed, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard.
The cafeteria was packed—”you couldn’t swing a cat in here.” Holidaymakers bolted down breakfast before heading to the beach. Emily had hoped for a family day out, but she wasn’t sure if James would bother coming or just laze in their room. Yesterday, he’d moaned about the long walk—yet again, her fault. She’d chosen this resort. Though she’d begged him a hundred times to help decide where to go, James had waved her off irritably.
“Can’t you sort it yourself? I need a break after work. It’s not hard.”
So she had. And, as usual, it was all wrong—too far from town, no attractions, a ten-minute walk to the beach.
Of course, James hated it.
After breakfast, Emily stacked the empty plates on her tray and noticed the couple from the next room enter—a polished woman in her fifties and her cheerful, well-groomed husband. The woman glided in like royalty and took a seat while her husband rushed to queue—but not before asking, “Darling, which dessert would you like today?”
Emily heard it as she carried the tray alone, her husband and son having already wandered off. She envied the other woman. Where did men like that even come from?
Once, she’d thought James was like that. He’d been charming, attentive. After their wedding, he’d meet her from work, cook dinner together, plan evenings out—**together**.
When had things changed? Probably after Oliver was born.
Emily took maternity leave, and suddenly, it became her job to have dinner ready, the flat spotless. Oliver was easy—she managed everything effortlessly. She’d been the perfect wife.
Even when she returned to work, she carried it all—cooking, cleaning, raising their son. That’s just what women did, wasn’t it? If only James appreciated it. Or even noticed.
Instead, he took it for granted—and then found faults. A wrinkled shirt. Leftover pasta. Criticism cut deep, and she’d rush to fix things. After all, he wasn’t a bad man. Earned well. Didn’t cheat. Came straight home. If he was grumpy, well, it was just his nature.
Emily hurried out to catch up with James and Oliver, who had already walked off without her. Breathless, she asked, “Back to the room? Then the beach?”
“Dragging us all the way there in this heat?” James rolled his eyes. “This is what happens when I leave the planning to you. Fine, let’s go.”
By the time they’d changed and reached the beach, the sun was scorching. James, who’d complained the entire way, stripped off his shorts and T-shirt onto the pebbles and dashed into the sea, taking Oliver with him. He barked at Emily to pay for the deckchairs and umbrella.
Fuming, she wiped sweat from her brow. Why was it **her** job to set things up? Was that written in some unwritten rule? But she trudged to the kiosk anyway—what was the point of arguing?
Emily wasn’t a strong swimmer, so she stayed shallow. The moment she waded in, James left Oliver with her and swam off—**alone**, as always. He never stuck around. Worse was when he left before them.
“Right, I’m heading back,” he announced after an hour. “The air-con’s calling.”
“Stay a bit longer? We could all go back together?”
“Nah. Too hot.”
He pulled on his clothes and left, taking nothing—no water, no inflatables, though Oliver was still splashing about.
That’s how the holiday went. Some people relaxed; others, like Emily, worked harder than at home. She even booked excursions, which James then grumbled about—”too long on a stuffy bus,” “not what **he’d** have chosen.”
The week flew by, and Emily hadn’t relaxed once. Was this why they’d come?
On their last night, she packed frantically while James and Oliver slept.
“The coach is at five,” James had declared. “You sort the bags. And **don’t** forget anything, like last time.”
Last summer, she’d left his razor behind—something he still held over her.
Done packing, Emily stepped onto the balcony, the cicadas loud in the thick night air. She didn’t hear the neighbour step out until a lighter clicked.
“Can’t sleep?” the older woman asked, cigarette glowing between her fingers.
“Leaving early. Just finished packing,” Emily said.
“Alone? Where’s your husband?”
“Fast asleep,” she replied bitterly.
The woman exhaled smoke.
“You’re Emily, right? You’re young, lovely—and forgive my bluntness—but your husband doesn’t appreciate you.”
“You noticed?”
Standing in the dark, Emily suddenly wanted to confide in this stranger she’d never see again.
“James wasn’t always like this. When we married, he was so caring—like your husband. What’s your secret?”
The woman chuckled.
“Believe it or not, we divorced. For two years, he chased me. I re-evaluated everything. When we reunited, I set new rules. Love yourself first, and he’ll either follow or go. For example—tomorrow, sit down and let **him** queue.”
Emily inhaled sharply.
“That easy?”
“No. There’ll be fights. But you must risk it—especially for your son. He’s learning to disrespect you. That can’t continue.”
The woman stubbed out her cigarette and left. Emily stayed, her thoughts racing.
At five a.m., she woke James and Oliver, took her handbag and Oliver’s hand, and walked out. James had no choice but to haul the suitcases, catching up to snap, “Did you forget anything?”
Emily wrinkled her nose. “No, James. You’re the man—you manage them.”
Her tone said it all. She’d made up her mind—change or leave.
On the flight home, James barely spoke. He didn’t like this new Emily. And things only got worse.
Back in London, she unpacked only her and Oliver’s things before collapsing into bed. James’s suitcase sat untouched.
Later, she took Oliver out for dinner.
“We’re eating out,” she said breezily.
“What about me?” James gaped.
“Find something in the fridge. Or figure it out. I’m not cooking.”
That mood never returned. She stopped cooking, stopped caring. His suitcase stayed unpacked for days until he cracked and did it himself.
On his first workday back, James roared when he found no ironed shirts.
“Have you lost your mind? What am I supposed to wear?”
“Why should I care? Iron them yourself.”
That evening, Emily slipped out, perfumed and polished. “Oliver’s at my parents’. I’m going out.”
James sat by the window, fuming. No dinner. No laundry done. And his wife—looking **stunning**—vanished into the night.
When she returned, he erupted.
“No food, the place is a tip, and you’re out gallivanting! What kind of wife are you?”
“What kind of husband are **you**?” Emily shot back. “You never lift a finger. When was the last time you did anything for me? I won’t live like this anymore. Either we share the load, or we divorce.”
James froze. She’d said it so calmly—like she’d planned it.
Emily had a flat. A job. And now, confidence.
The next year,The following summer, as James carried the tray in the resort cafeteria without complaint, Emily smiled to herself—she’d learned that love shouldn’t mean losing yourself, and sometimes, the bravest choice was to demand better.
