**Mash, Roast Chicken, and the Divorce That Didn’t Happen**
London. A damp autumn evening. The wind bit through my coat, my eyes ached from exhaustion, and my heart felt even heavier. Emma trudged home after ten gruelling hours at the supermarket till. Only one thought looped in her mind:
*Maybe Danny at least fried some potatoes…*
The flat greeted her with the rich scent of something delicious. Emma shrugged off her jacket, kicked off her boots, and stepped into the kitchen—plates of steaming mash and golden roast chicken waited on the table. Forks, salt, bread, the kettle. Danny nodded silently toward her chair.
“Sit down.”
“Blimey, is it a special occasion?” Emma forced a smile. “This is new.”
“Just an ordinary meal,” he shrugged. “But we need to talk.”
They ate in silence. The chicken was tender, the mash perfectly seasoned. Emma filled the kettle, brewed chamomile tea, and sat across from him.
“Go on, then. I can tell something’s bothering you.”
Danny stared out the window a long while before meeting her eyes.
“Gran and Grandad’s golden anniversary is Saturday. They’ve invited us.”
“Ah, the ones who gave us five hundred quid for our wedding? How’s that going to work? We were planning to split up.”
“Let’s just go. For their sake. They’re getting on, and it’d mean a lot. We’re still married, technically.”
Emma studied him doubtfully. She hadn’t the energy—to argue or to reconcile.
“Fine. Maybe it’ll be our last visit together.”
Danny’s father drove them. He and his dad sat up front; Emma and her mother-in-law in the back. Silence.
“Had a row, have you?” her mother-in-law whispered.
“No,” Emma lied, lips tight.
“Look at the rings we bought them. Lovely, aren’t they? Solid gold.”
“Lovely,” Emma murmured.
“Stick together. In fifty years, your kids’ll gift you the same.”
Emma dropped her gaze. *Fifty years? That’s a lifetime…*
The party buzzed—young ones, old ones, laughter and heaps of food. But Emma kept her distance from Danny. His aunts and cousins swept her into planning games. Women her age, mid-thirties, teasing their husbands yet clearly adoring them.
Emma caught herself wondering:
*Do I love him? Does he love me?*
Maybe once. But now? The flat felt bleak. Money vanished before it arrived. She’d needed a new coat for three winters. Kids? He never brought it up. Couldn’t hold a steady job. Yet he’d once been her dream.
The celebration wound down late. Gran Lily pulled them aside.
“Stay the night. Help us tidy up.”
Wordlessly, Emma and Danny cleared tables. Two hours later, the house was spotless.
Gran set the kettle on.
“Well, Albert, fifty years we’ve scraped through,” she smiled.
“Nearly divorced half a dozen times,” Grandpa grumbled. “Got as far as the registry office once.”
“Yet here we are.”
“I was out of work then, skint,” he recalled.
“Remember how all the lads fancied me? Called me their princess. And you—grinning like a Cheshire cat.”
“Princess, my foot,” he huffed, but his eyes glowed.
Watching them, something twisted in Emma’s chest. They bickered, talked over each other—yet loved fiercely. *Truly.*
*We were like that once. Young, fiery, convinced we were right. Now they laugh over what nearly broke them.*
Gran Lily pressed an envelope into her hand.
“Treat yourselves. Autumn’s coming. No arguments—we’ve plenty.”
Emma hesitated, but Danny took it.
“Ta, Gran.”
“Off to bed, then. Room’s ready.”
His childhood room. Now shared. They lay in silence.
“Emma…” he whispered.
She curled against him. His shoulder—warm, familiar. Not riches. Not designer coats. Just *him.*
Danny drifted off. Emma stared at the ceiling.
*Glad we didn’t divorce. Tomorrow, a new coat. Then maybe… a baby. Grandkids, one day. And in forty-nine years? Gold rings. Just like theirs.*
She smiled—first time in ages—and slept. Peacefully. Beside him.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t the absence of storms, but learning to dance in the rain together. Even when the umbrella’s broken.
