The Move That Became a Divorce
“What on earth are you on about, Tamsin?” Oliver shouted, his arms flailing. “Where am I supposed to put my garage? My tools? Half my life is in there!”
“And where am I supposed to put my job?” Tamsin shot back, standing amid a room cluttered with boxes. “Twenty years at the same firm! They know me there, they value me!”
“You’ll find another job! Brighton’s got better weather, kinder people, cheaper everything!”
“Oh sure, at fifty-two!” Tamsin let out a bitter laugh. “You’ve lost your mind, Oliver Whitmore!”
Their son, Oliver Junior—just Ollie to most—sat silent on the sofa, watching his parents argue. At thirty-one, he felt like a child again, torn between Mum and Dad.
“Ollie,” Tamsin turned to him, “tell your father normal people our age don’t just up and move across the country!”
“Mum, don’t drag me into this,” Ollie sighed. “This is between you two.”
“Between us?” Oliver erupted. “A family makes decisions together! But you, Tamsin—you’re like a brick wall! Unwilling to bend on anything!”
Tamsin sank onto the edge of the sofa, covering her face. At fifty-four, the last month had aged her five years. It had all started when Oliver came home bright-eyed, announcing his cousin’s offer: a fresh start in Brighton.
“Imagine it, love,” he’d said, pacing the kitchen, “Vincent bought a massive house there. Says we can stay with them while we find our own place. And the climate! The sea right there! Fresh produce!”
Tamsin had nodded then, assuming it was another of Oliver’s passing whims. He’d dabbled in beekeeping, toyed with buying a countryside cottage—always losing steam after a week. But this time, he didn’t let go.
“Tamsin, I’ve booked the tickets,” Oliver announced one evening. “We leave Thursday to go see it.”
“What tickets? See what?” she asked, stirring soup on the stove.
“Brighton! Vincent’s found us a house near his. Says the owners are selling cheap.”
Tamsin turned off the hob and faced him.
“Oliver, what are you on about? What house? What Brighton?”
“How d’you mean, what Brighton?” He looked baffled. “We’ve talked about this! You said yourself a change might do us good!”
“When did I say that?”
“Last month—you were complaining about the new management at work, how they don’t respect senior staff. This is our chance!”
Tamsin sat down. Her head spun.
“Oliver, be serious! We’re in our fifties! Our whole life is here—the flat, our jobs, our friends! You want to throw it all away for some… some adventure?”
“It’s not an adventure,” Oliver insisted. “It’s opportunity. Vincent says we can make a proper go of it. He’s better off already.”
“And what does his wife say?”
“Claudia? She’s thrilled. Calls it the best decision they ever made.”
Tamsin shook her head. Claudia was a decade younger and didn’t work. Easy for her.
“Oliver, I’m not going. Not even to look.”
“Why are you so stubborn?” he exploded. “At least see it first, then decide!”
“I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to move. Full stop.”
But Oliver wouldn’t relent. Daily, he brought new arguments—the milder climate, lower grocery bills, how retirees thrived there.
“Tamsin, love, think about it,” he’d say over tea. “We’d be living like kings! Vincent’s got a big plot—might sell us a bit. We could grow our own veg, keep chickens, maybe even a goat…”
“A goat, Oliver?” Tamsin would sigh. “You know how to milk a cow? Me, feeding chickens?”
“We’d learn! People manage!”
“Let them. I’m not learning to tend chickens at fifty-four.”
Still, Oliver pressed on. He went to Brighton alone, returned with photos, videos of charming cottages, the sea, bustling markets brimming with cheap fruit.
“Look how lovely!” he beamed. “The air! The people—so friendly!”
Tamsin stared at the images, thinking of her job, colleagues she’d worked with for decades, friends she met every weekend, the rhythm of her life.
“I’m happy here,” she said. “Why change it?”
“Because it could be better there!”
“And if it’s not? If we hate it? What then?”
“We won’t! We’ll make it work!”
The discussions soured into rows. Oliver grew more insistent, Tamsin more rigid.
“You don’t listen!” she’d shout. “You don’t care what I think!”
“I do! But you’re thinking all wrong!”
“Wrong? And what’s right, then?”
“Thinking about our future! What’s best for us! Not clinging to the past!”
“It’s not the past—it’s our life!”
In the end, Oliver acted without her. He listed the flat, began gathering paperwork.
“What are you doing?” Tamsin gaped at the online listing.
“What should’ve been done ages ago,” he said calmly. “If you won’t make sensible choices, I will.”
“Without me? The flat’s in both our names!”
“You’ll agree. Eventually.”
“Never!” Tamsin spat. “I won’t sign a thing!”
“We’ll see.”
She held firm—refusing to sign, barring viewings.
“It’s my home too!” she said. “No one sells it while I’m alive!”
Oliver finally snapped.
“You’re laughing at me!” he roared. “Ruining my life!”
“And you’re not? Deciding where I live, what I do!”
“I’m thinking of us!”
“You’re thinking of you!”
Ollie got dragged in—his father complaining of Tamsin’s stubbornness, his mother begging him to talk sense into Oliver.
“Dad, maybe ease off?” Ollie tried. “Let Mum get used to the idea.”
“How much longer? It’s been six months!”
“Mum, what if we just visit? Not commit, just look.”
“I don’t want to look at what I don’t want!”
The air at home grew toxic. Conversations—when they happened—only circled back to the move, always ending in shouting.
“You know what?” Oliver said one night. “I’m done with this war. I’m going alone.”
“Go, then,” Tamsin said coldly. “No one’s stopping you.”
“I will. You stay with your job and your mates.”
“I will.”
They stared, each waiting for the other to yield. Neither did.
“Fine,” Oliver said. “If that’s how it is, we’ve nothing left to say.”
“Suppose not.”
The next day, Oliver packed a suitcase and left for his cousin’s. Tamsin saw him off in silence, certain he’d be back in a week.
But a month passed. Oliver called sometimes, updating her—had found a cottage, might buy—never inviting her.
“How’s it going?” she’d ask flatly.
“Alright. Vincent found us a place. Thinking of buying.”
“Buy it, then.”
“And you?”
“Same as ever.”
The calls grew shorter, rarer. Tamsin realized he wasn’t coming back.
Ollie visited weekends.
“Mum, maybe talk to Dad properly?” he’d urge.
“About what? He’s chosen.”
“He’s waiting for you to come.”
“And I’m waiting for him to return.”
“So you’ll just wait forever?”
Tamsin shrugged. It hurt—their marriage crumbling over something as small as a move.
After three months, Oliver called.
“Tamsin, I bought theOliver’s voice crackled through the phone, distant but final: “I’ve bought the house, signed the papers—guess this is it, then,” and Tamsin stared at the rain-streaked window, realising the seaside air he’d raved about would never fill their shared home again.
