No Divorce
By the time he turned fifty, Peter Williams had barely any grey in his hair, but a restless devil had settled firmly in his ribs—all because of her, Emily. He’d met her by chance while visiting the university department where an old friend lectured. The reason for his visit had been trivial, the consequences anything but.
She stood by the window, sunlight catching the gold in her hair. Bright green eyes, a slender frame, radiating youth and defiance—he, a man long past boyhood, suddenly felt young again. To him, Emily was the embodiment of every dream—a fairy, a siren, a nymph. In reality, she was just a pretty student, but that realisation came much later. In that moment, he was spellbound.
He’d never felt such passion, not even for his wife, Margaret, in their earliest years. Behind them lay thirty years of marriage, two children, a shared past, a home, mutual understanding, and rare quarrels. Yet all of it vanished from his mind the moment he laid eyes on Emily.
She didn’t resist the advances of her distinguished admirer—if anything, she encouraged them. To her, he was an opportunity. Raised in a modest family, barely scraping into university, she dreamed of staying in the city. Peter was her ticket in.
“He’s ancient!” her flatmate, Sophie, groaned. “Are you mad? Could you really live with him?”
“Hardly ancient,” Emily scoffed. “Energetic, well-off, head over heels. Give it time—he’ll propose.”
Peter fell deeply in love. He was affectionate, generous, attentive. Yet not once—not a single word—did he mention divorce. Emily waited, hoped. Her plan was simple: Peter’s children were grown, his wife healthy, their life quiet. And he had money. Marriage seemed inevitable. But Peter began to tire. The pace of a young mistress, it turned out, didn’t suit a man his age. A weekly meet in a hotel would’ve sufficed; the rest of the time, he longed for home—comfort, shepherd’s pie, and Margaret.
Emily grew insistent.
“Why can’t we move in together? You’ve got that other flat!”
“It’s tenanted,” he lied. In truth, it stood empty—he and Margaret had planned renovations. Turning it into a love nest was out of the question.
“Then rent a new one! Be a man!”
Their fights grew frequent. Then came the blow.
“I’m pregnant, Pete,” Emily said (yes, that’s what she called him). “Aren’t you happy?”
Peter froze. He’d planned to end things—even cut his business trip short to do it. Now this—a child.
“But you said you were on the pill…”
“Nothing’s foolproof! I thought you’d be thrilled…”
He wasn’t thrilled. He was lost. But he stayed. The baby arrived—a boy, Oliver. Peter helped: money, visits, attention. Emily wanted more.
“I’m sick of being hidden! Either you tell your wife, or I will!”
Before he could decide, Emily took charge. Days later, Margaret confronted him.
“So you have a child and plans to remarry? Is it true?”
“Maggie, it’s not like that… Let me explain…”
“Let me be clear: there’ll be no divorce,” she said calmly but firmly. “I didn’t build this family for thirty years to lose it to some student.”
Relief washed over Peter. Not because he’d avoided separation—but because she still wanted to stay.
“I love you, Maggie. Forgive me. It was madness, I don’t know what came over me…”
“But the child—he’s innocent,” she added. “We’ll take him. Cut ties with her for good, and I’ll forgive you. Properly.”
Peter couldn’t believe his ears. But Margaret, ever the strategist, had calculated everything. Exhausted, unsupported, Emily gladly handed Oliver over when he proposed:
“I want him with us. You can go back to your studies, your life. We’ll manage.”
“Fine,” she said flatly. “Just don’t come crying later.”
Custody was swift—father acknowledged, mother compliant. Oliver moved in. Margaret cared for him, though coolly. Peter hoped time would mend things. A year passed.
Then—a bolt from the blue.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Margaret announced after a business trip. “I’ve met someone else. And I’ve realised—I’m only happy with him.”
“Who the hell is he?”
“James. He lives out of town but is moving here. You keep the flat. Fair’s fair.”
“But you said…”
“Back then, I meant it. But love isn’t commanded. I’m sorry.”
She left. Leaving him with Oliver and the past. He tried to win Emily back, but she only laughed.
“You got what you wanted, Pete. And I—my freedom. Live with it. I’ve a wedding soon.”
Alone now. With a son he’d grown to love. No wife, no mistress—just the quiet certainty that perhaps this was justice after all.
