Emily walked into her London flat, arms straining under the weight of two heavy shopping bags. The moment she stepped inside, her husband’s voice called out from the living room.
“Back already? Is it six o’clock?”
“It’s seven,” she replied wearily, making her way to the kitchen.
Three teacups sat on the table—a sign her mother-in-law had visited, likely with her sister, Beatrice. Emily wasn’t surprised. Unannounced visits had become routine, along with critiques of her “unladylike” habits and the lingering traces of judgment left behind.
“Where were you so long? I’m starving,” James said, barely glancing up from his laptop.
“At the supermarket. Feeding His Majesty,” she snapped. “But we need to talk.”
Silence. She stepped forward, turning his chair to face her, and spoke calmly.
“We need a divorce.”
James blinked in disbelief. “What? Why?”
“Because I can’t do this anymore.”
“Emily, can’t this wait until after dinner? I’m starving.”
“No. We’re talking now.”
“Look, I don’t drink, I don’t cheat, I don’t leave the house. I work from home, pay my way. What more do you want?”
Emily scoffed. “You live in my flat, don’t pay rent or bills—I cover everything. Cooking, cleaning, groceries—all me. So tell me, what exactly are you paying for?”
“Well… I bought a new jumper. Downloaded a game update. Sent my mum and Auntie Bea some money now and then. That’s normal.”
“Right. Normal. Except this morning I asked you to hang the laundry—it’s still in the machine.”
“I was on a break—”
“Switching tasks *is* a break.”
“But I don’t know how to do those things. Mum and Beatrice never let me near the cooker or hoover.”
“Convenient, isn’t it? Well, from today, if you’re hungry—cook. I’m going out. The girls invited me for drinks, and I’ve changed my mind. Good luck.”
She hung the laundry, gestured to the kitchen, and left. At the wine bar, her phone buzzed—her mother-in-law’s number. She silenced it and flipped the screen down.
When Emily returned, Margaret was waiting.
“Emily! Have you lost your mind? Divorce? Do you realise what a catch James is? He doesn’t drink, doesn’t cheat, doesn’t leave socks lying about! Women envy you!”
Emily folded her arms. “You sound like you’re praising a well-trained dog. He doesn’t do anything *wrong*—but what does he do *right*? For me?”
“He works!”
“So do I. But I also clean, cook, shop, and pay the bills—for both of us. What does he do?”
“He buys you gifts! I help him pick them!”
“Ah. That explains the foot spa for Christmas and the woolly scarf for my birthday.”
“Expecting diamonds, were you?” Margaret sneered.
“I’d settle for a spa voucher or a weekend away. But no. I get a scarf. And disrespect. And endless ‘I don’t know how.’ I won’t be his mother anymore.”
“He wasn’t raised to do those things!”
“Exactly. You raised him to expect everything done for him. And he’s happy with that. I’m not.”
“Can’t you just teach him—?”
“No. I won’t teach a grown man to be an adult. I’ve tried for a year and a half. I’m done.” She took a breath. “Let’s pack his things. You can both go where you’re comfortable. I’m not cruel—just tired.”
Thirty minutes later, a taxi idled outside. Two suitcases, a duffel bag. James trailed behind, laptop tucked under his arm.
Emily shut the door. Sat on the sofa. Breathed deeply. Scribbled in her planner: *Divorce. Free at last.*
And for the first time in years, she slept soundly.
Sometimes walking away isn’t defeat—it’s the braest choice you’ll ever make.
