**One Step from Divorce**
Emily stood by the window, watching as Richard did laps around the driveway in his shiny new car. Next-door neighbour Margaret had already peered out from her porch three times—probably because the engine noise was drowning out her afternoon telly. And still Richard kept driving in circles, as giddy as a schoolboy with his first bicycle.
“Dad, can I have a ride?” asked fourteen-year-old Sophie, peeking over her mum’s shoulder.
“Ask him yourself,” Emily replied curtly, stepping away from the window.
Sophie frowned. “Mum, what’s wrong *now*? He bought it for the *family*!”
“For the family,” Emily muttered bitterly. “Do you have any idea what this ‘beauty’ cost? And yet there’s no money for the summer house repairs, or even your school trip—we’re scraping pennies together for that!”
“But we *need* a car!” Sophie flopped onto the sofa, tucking her legs under her. “Remember when we took the bus to Grandma’s? Three changes, packed like sardines…”
Emily leaned against the wall and shut her eyes. Oh, she remembered. But she also remembered the six months of arguments with Richard. She’d pushed for something sensible, second-hand. He’d dug his heels in: “Either a proper car or nothing.” And now? A five-year loan, and every pound suddenly mattered.
The front door slammed, followed by cheerful footsteps.
“My girls!” Richard burst in, beaming. “Soph, fancy a spin? Em?”
“I’m not ‘Em’,” his wife snapped.
Richard slowed, his smile faltering. “What’s wrong *now*?”
“Everything! You bought that car without so much as a discussion! We’re stuck with a mortgage-sized loan!”
“We *talked* about it—”
“We talked about *a* car, not this flashy hunk of metal for thirty grand!”
Sophie winced and slipped out of the room. She was used to her parents’ rows, but she still hoped, every time, that this one might fizzle out.
“A *hunk of metal*?” Richard’s face reddened. “It’s a *reliable* car! Safe, efficient! I only want the best for my family!”
“Did you think to *ask* your family?” Emily dropped into the armchair, exhaustion creeping in. “Richard, we *agreed* on a budget—”
“Right, right,” he huffed, pacing. “And what then? Hauling groceries on the bus like students? Or have you forgotten how your back ached last time?”
Emily *hadn’t* forgotten. They’d loaded up at her parents’ garden, and she’d lugged heavy bags from the bus stop. Her back *had* throbbed for days. But now that seemed trivial compared to the strain ahead.
“Know what?” She stood. “We’ll talk tomorrow. When you’ve cooled off.”
“I *won’t* cool off!” Richard shot back. “Because I’m *right*! And you—you’re never happy!”
The bedroom door slammed. Left alone, Richard stared at the car keys in his palm.
—
Next morning, Emily woke early as usual. Richard was still asleep on the sofa—evidently, he’d camped there overnight. She put the kettle on. Rain drizzled outside, the grey sky hanging as low as her mood.
“Mum?” Sophie hovered in the doorway. “Can I skip school today?”
“Why?”
“Headache.”
Emily studied her daughter. Sophie *did* look pale, shadows under her eyes.
“Because of Dad and me?”
Sophie nodded, staring at her feet.
“Soph,” Emily pulled her close, “grown-ups argue sometimes. It doesn’t mean we love you any less.”
“Are you getting divorced?”
The question was so casual, so *childish*, it stole Emily’s breath.
“Where’s *that* come from?”
“Lucy Carter’s parents split up. They fought about money first.”
Emily turned to the window. Divorce. She *had* thought about it, especially lately—when Richard bulldozed decisions, when they felt like flatmates, not spouses.
“Mum?”
“Get ready for school. Your head’ll clear.”
Sophie sighed and left. Emily stayed by the window, clutching a cooling mug.
“‘Morning,” Richard mumbled, shuffling in. He looked rumpled, miserable.
“Morning,” Emily said flatly.
“Listen, can we talk? Properly?” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I know I messed up—”
“Messed up? You bought a car without *asking* me.”
“Em, we *needed* one! And *I’m* the one paying—”
“Oh, so my salary doesn’t count?” She whipped around.
“It does! Just—”
“Just *what*? You think because you earn more, you call the shots?”
Richard said nothing. His silence spoke louder than words.
“Right,” Emily dumped her mug in the sink. “Then *you* pay the loan.”
“How’s that fair? We’re *married*!”
“Married people *talk*. You decided, you bought, and now *I* clean up.”
Richard stepped closer. “Em, since when are we strangers? Twenty *years* together—”
“*Exactly*. Twenty years, and you still don’t *listen*!”
She left him standing there.
—
At work, Emily couldn’t focus. Her colleague Fiona noticed.
“You look wrecked. Trouble at home?”
“Just… marriage stuff.”
“Richard being Richard?” Fiona grinned. “Mine once bought a *robot vacuum* for £500. Said it’d ‘free up my time.’ Like I *wanted* a machine judging my crumbs.”
Emily set down her files. “Fiona… did you ever think about divorce?”
Fiona blinked. “Who hasn’t? But at our age, it’s like… starting from scratch. Terrifying.”
“It’s not about age,” Emily sighed. “It’s about feeling *unheard*.”
“Or maybe *you’re* not hearing *him*?”
The question hit like a bucket of cold water. When *had* she last truly listened to Richard? Not just argued, but *listened*?
—
That evening, the house smelled of roasting chicken—Richard was cooking. A rarity.
“Mum, Dad’s making roast!” Sophie chirped. “With *proper* gravy!”
“From scratch,” Richard added proudly. “The way your mum likes.”
Emily washed her hands in silence. The mirror showed tired eyes, the first grey strands she religiously dyed. Forty-three. More than half her life gone. Nearly half of it with Richard.
Dinner was awkward. Sophie chattered; her parents ate quietly.
“Soph, homework,” Emily finally said.
“But I’m not—”
“Now, love,” Richard said softly.
Alone, silence settled. Emily stacked plates; Richard twisted a teaspoon in his fingers.
“Em,” he began haltingly, “I’ve been thinking… about us.”
She paused but didn’t turn.
“And?”
“We’ve gone distant. And… it’s my fault.”
Now she faced him. Richard was staring at the table.
“I never meant to upset you. I just thought… it’d be a nice surprise.”
“Richard,” she sat opposite him, “it’s not about the car. It’s about you deciding *for* me. Like my opinion doesn’t matter.”
“It *does*!”
“Then why not *ask*?”
He met her eyes, looking lost.
“I… don’t know. Scared you’d say no, maybe. I just wanted…” He trailed off.
“Wanted *what*?”
“For us to have *nice things*. Trips, visits to your parents… The buses are *awful*.”
Suddenly, Emily saw it—not a stubborn man, but a clueless one, fumbling for how to say what he felt.
“Know what *I* want?” she asked quietly.
“What?”
“To be *asked*. To decide *together*—loans, holidays, *everything*. To be your partner, not just your wife.”
Richard nodded.
“I get it. I do. So… what now? Sell the car?”
“Would you?”
“Yeah. Get something smaller. Like you said.”
Emily stared. She’d expected a fight, not surrender.
“Really?”
“Really. Em, I don’t want a divorce. I don’t want to lose you. Or Soph.”
“Who said *divorce*?”
“Soph did. Said you’d thought about it.”
Emily moved to the window. There it was—the car, sleek and expensive, the root of it all.
“I *have* thought about it,” she admitted. “And you know what? It’d be easier.”
“And love?” Richard’s voice cracked.
“What love? We’re just… used to each other.”
“*I* love you. Still do.”
She turned. Richard held out his hands.
“Let’s keep the car,” she said at last, stepping into his arms, “but next time—just *ask*.”
