One Step from Divorce
Emily stood by the window, watching as James circled the driveway in his shiny new car. Mrs. Higgins from next door had peered out her front door three times already—the engine noise must have been drowning out her telly. Yet there James was, driving round and round like a schoolboy with his first bike.
“Dad, can I have a go?” asked fourteen-year-old Sophie, peering over her mother’s shoulder.
“Ask him yourself,” Emily replied flatly, stepping away from the glass.
Sophie frowned. “Mum, what’s wrong now? He bought the car for all of us!”
“For all of us…” Emily scoffed bitterly. “Do you know how much this thing costs? And yet we’re scraping pennies for the summer house repairs, for your trip to camp—”
“But we *need* a car!” Sophie flopped onto the sofa, tucking her legs under her. “Remember that time we took three buses to Grandma’s? The heat, the crowds…”
Emily leaned against the wall and shut her eyes. Oh, she remembered. She also remembered the six-month row with James. She’d wanted something modest, second-hand. He’d dug his heels in—”Either a proper car or nothing.” And here they were: a five-year loan, every penny accounted for.
The front door slammed. Cheerful footsteps followed.
“My girls!” James bounded in, beaming. “Soph, fancy a spin? Em?”
“I’m not *Em*,” she snapped.
James faltered, his grin flickering. “What’s the matter now?”
“Everything!” Emily turned on him. “You bought a car without asking me! Took out a loan we’ll be paying off till retirement!”
“We *discussed* it—”
“We discussed *a* car, not this clunker for eighty grand!”
Sophie flinched and slipped out quietly. She was used to their fights, but still hoped, each time, that it wouldn’t blow up.
“Clunker?” James reddened. “It’s a *German* car—safe, reliable! I want the best for my family!”
“Ever think to *ask* your family?” Emily sank into an armchair, exhaustion washing over her. “James, we agreed on a budget—”
“Agreed, agreed!” He paced, waving his arms. “And then what? Drag potatoes home on the bus? Or have you forgotten how your back ached last time?”
She *hadn’t* forgotten. They’d loaded up at her parents’ allotment, and she’d lugged heavy bags from the bus stop. Three days of pain. But now? That was nothing next to the weight of this debt.
“Know what?” She stood. “We’ll talk tomorrow. When you’ve cooled off.”
“I *won’t* cool off!” James shouted after her. “Because I’m *right*! And you—you’re never happy!”
The bedroom door slammed. Alone in the lounge, James stared at the keys in his hand.
—
Morning came too soon. James still sprawled on the sofa—he’d slept there. Emily shuffled to the kitchen, kettle humming. Rain tapped the window, the sky sagging like her mood.
“Mum?” Sophie hovered in the doorway. “Can I skip school?”
“Why?”
“Headache.”
Emily studied her. Pale, shadows under her eyes. “Because of us?”
Sophie nodded, staring at her socks.
“Sweetheart,” Emily pulled her close, “we’re just… adults being daft. Doesn’t mean we don’t love you.”
“Are you getting divorced?”
The question was so plain, so *childish*, it stole Emily’s breath.
“Where’d that come from?”
“Lucy Carter’s parents split. They fought about money first.”
Emily let go and turned to the window. Divorce. She *had* thought it, especially lately. James making decisions without her. Two lives, one house.
“Mum?”
“Go get ready. Your head’ll clear.”
Sophie sighed and left. Emily stayed, cold tea in hand.
“Morning,” James mumbled from the doorway, rumpled and wretched.
“Morning,” she clipped.
“Look, can we talk? Properly?” He slumped at the table, rubbing his face. “I was out of line yesterday—”
“You bought a car without me.”
“Em, we *need* it! And I’m the one earning—”
“And I do *what*, sit about? Or does my salary not count?”
“It *counts*, just…”
“Just you think *you* decide where *our* money goes.”
James stayed quiet. That silence said everything.
“Right.” Emily clanked her cup into the sink. “Then *you* pay the loan.”
“How’s that fair? We’re a *family*!”
“Families *talk*. You decided, you bought—now *I* clean up.”
James stood, reaching for her. “Em, since when are we strangers? Twenty years—”
“*Exactly*! Twenty years, and you still don’t *listen*!”
She left him there, stewing.
—
Work was a haze. Colleen noticed.
“Rough night?”
“James. Bought a car. Huge loan.”
“Ah.” Colleen winced. “My Dave did that—bought a posh hoover. ‘Makes your life easier!’ he said. Like I cared.”
“Colleen…” Emily set down her papers. “Ever think about… leaving?”
Colleen blinked. “Who hasn’t? But at our age? It’s like… starting over. Scary.”
“It’s not age.” Emily sighed. “It’s living with someone who doesn’t *hear* you.”
“Or maybe *you’re* not hearing *him*?”
The question stuck. When *had* she last listened—really listened—to James?
—
Dinner smelled rich—James had cooked. A rarity.
“Mum, Dad made stew!” Sophie chirped. “Proper, with beef!”
“Simmered for hours,” James added, almost shy. “How you like it.”
Emily washed up silently. The mirror showed a tired face, wrinkles, greys she coloured monthly. Forty-three. Half a life gone. Nearly half of that with James.
At the table, James was quiet. Sophie chattered about school; her parents ate without looking up.
“Sophie, homework,” Emily finally said.
“But I’m not—”
“Go on, love,” James murmured.
Alone, the silence thickened. Emily stacked plates; James fiddled with a spoon.
“Em,” he started, hesitant, “I’ve been thinking… about us.”
She paused but didn’t turn.
“And?”
“We’ve gone strangers. And… it’s my fault.”
Now she faced him. He stared at the table.
“I never meant the car to hurt you. Thought it’d… be a nice surprise.”
“James,” she sat opposite him, “it’s *not* the car. It’s you deciding *for* us. Like my voice doesn’t matter.”
“It *does*!”
“Then why not *ask*?”
He looked up, lost.
“Dunno. Scared you’d say no? I just wanted…” He trailed off.
“Wanted what?”
“For us to have… nice things. Trips to your mum’s. Not buses, not—”
Emily saw it then—not stubbornness, but a man fumbling for words.
“Know what *I* want?” she whispered.
“What?”
“You *asking* me. Deciding *together*—loans, holidays, *everything*. Being partners.”
James nodded. “I get it. Really. So… what now? Sell the car?”
“*Would* you?”
“Course. Get something sensible, like you said.”
She blinked. She’d expected fights, not this.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Em, I don’t want us to end. Don’t want to lose you. Or Sophie.”
“Who said *divorce*?”
“Sophie did. Said you’d thought about it.”
Emily walked to the window. There it was—gleaming, costly, their battleground.
“I *have* thought,” she admitted. “But… maybe we try again?”
James reached for her. “I *do* love you. Always have.”
She let him hold her. His cologne—the same for years—smelt like home. Like *them*.
“Keep the car,” she murmured into his shoulder. “But no holiday this year. We’ll pay the loan.”
“Deal. And we’ll drive to your mum’s in style.”
“Deal.”
Sophie appeared in the doorway. “Making up?”
“Never fell out,” James said. “Just talking.”
“Like grown-ups,” Emily added, still in his arms.
Sophie grinned and vanished. The couple stayed by the window, watching the rain, knowing love wasn’t just sharing a roof—it was listening, bending, *choosing* each other. Every day.
