**Divorced in Secret**
*From the diary of Evelyn Carter*
“Evelyn, have you lost your mind?” screeched Natalie through the phone. “How could you divorce him without telling anyone? Why the silence?”
“Keep your voice down,” Evelyn muttered, pulling the receiver away from her ear and glancing toward the kitchen door. “The children are home.”
“What children? They’re in their thirties! Evie, do you realise what you’ve done? Twenty-eight years of marriage, and suddenly—divorce?”
“Nat, please, don’t shout. It’s hard enough as it is.”
“But why keep it to yourself? We’ve been friends since uni! I could’ve helped, been there for you—”
Evelyn pressed the phone to her chest and closed her eyes. God, she was exhausted by these calls. First Margaret from work, then Aunt Claire, and now Natalie. As if they’d all been waiting for an excuse to gossip.
“Evie? You still there?” came Natalie’s voice.
“I’m here,” she sighed, raising the phone again. “I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“How can you not? It’s huge! You’re the first in our group to divorce! At least give me something. Did he cheat?”
“No.”
“Was he drinking?”
“No.”
“Then what? Evie, just tell me!”
Evelyn exhaled deeply. How could she explain to Natalie that she was simply tired? Tired of grey routine, the same conversations, the suffocating sense of living someone else’s life?
“I was exhausted, Nat. Understand?”
“From what? John’s a decent man—doesn’t drink, doesn’t hit you, earns well.”
“Exactly. A decent man. Just not mine.”
“What are you on about? ‘Not yours’? You spent twenty-eight years together!”
Sounds in the hallway made Evelyn hastily say goodbye and hang up. Her daughter, Emma, walked in with a bag of groceries.
“Mum? You okay?” She set the bag on the table and studied her mother. “You look pale.”
“Just a headache.”
“Was that Natalie? I heard you making excuses into the phone.”
Evelyn nodded. Emma began unpacking, her back still turned.
“Mum… do you regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“The divorce. Dad.”
Evelyn looked at her daughter—dark hair, grey eyes, so much like her younger self—but with a resolve she’d never possessed.
“I don’t know yet, love.”
“Does Dad?”
“We haven’t spoken about it.”
Emma turned then.
“Mum, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Did you ever really love him?”
Evelyn froze, the cup trembling in her hands. Where had that come from?
“Why would you ask that?”
“I’ve watched you two my whole life. No hugs, no kisses—not even holding hands. Like flatmates, not spouses.”
“Emma, don’t say that. Your father’s a good man.”
“He is. But you didn’t love him. And I don’t think he loved you.”
Evelyn set the cup down. Emma was right. She’d married John because she was expected to—because her friends were all wed, because her parents insisted.
“Mum… who *did* you love?” Emma asked softly.
“Why do you need to know?”
“Because everyone deserves love in their life.”
Evelyn turned to the window. Of course, there had been love. Edward, the medic from the next building. Handsome, clever, full of dreams. They’d met in secret—her parents deemed him unsuitable.
*“A doctor’s not just a job, it’s a calling,” he’d said. “I’ll save lives.”*
*“And I’ll stand beside you,” she’d replied.*
But her parents pushed her toward John. Stability. A house. A family. Edward left for a small northern town, sent letters, called, even visited. But by then Evelyn was married. Pregnant.
“Mum—are you crying?” Emma’s voice was alarmed.
“No, just tired.”
Her daughter hugged her.
“I understand, Mum. Better alone than trapped.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. Look at you now—lighter, happier. Like you’ve woken up.”
Evelyn caught her reflection in the glass. It was true. Gone were the shapeless jumpers, the dull bun. She’d bought colour, cut her hair.
“What did James say?” Emma asked.
“Not much. Called me selfish.”
“Typical. Always Dad’s boy. But he’ll come around.”
Evelyn nodded. James had indeed been closer to his father—fishing trips, fixing the car, football matches. Emma had always been hers.
“Mum… would you ever marry again?”
“Emma, I’m fifty-three.”
“So? Aunt Linda married at fifty-five.”
“Linda’s an exception.”
“Why? You’re beautiful. And free now.”
*Free.* The word still felt foreign. Free from making breakfast at dawn, from scattered socks, from endless talk of work and football and the neighbours’ new car.
But freedom had brought loneliness too. Evenings alone, no one to share the little joys or gripes.
“Emma… do you think I made the wrong choice?”
“No. You did right. Finally.”
She poured tea, sat beside her mother.
“Mum, I used to wish you’d divorce.”
“What?”
“You were both so unhappy. It was obvious.”
Evelyn went quiet. All those years acting the part—and the children had seen through it.
“Now look at you,” Emma continued. “Italian classes, the drama group—*living*.”
“But people talk.”
“Since when do you care?”
The doorbell rang. Emma answered.
“Mum, it’s Margaret.”
Evelyn winced. Margaret from work—a woman who thrived on others’ secrets.
“Evie, darling!” she breezed in. “Tell me everything! I’ve been beside myself!”
“Tea?”
“Please. How could you *do* it? Leave a stable marriage?”
“It wasn’t stable. Just… habitual.”
“But at fifty-three? Alone?”
“The children are grown. I’ve work, health.”
“But who’ll want you now?”
Evelyn stirred her tea.
“Margaret… do you love your husband?”
“Well—it’s companionship. Shared interests.”
“Is that enough?”
Margaret faltered.
Emma cut in. “Mum’s happier now.”
“Children shouldn’t encourage divorce.”
“We encourage her *happiness*.”
James arrived then—tall, broad, his father’s shadow.
“Mum, Dad wants to reconcile.”
Evelyn sighed. The third message this week.
“It’s done, James.”
“But the papers can be withdrawn. He’s hurting.”
“And I wasn’t, for twenty-eight years?”
James frowned.
“Mum, if he changed—became more attentive—”
“People don’t change at fifty-five. Nor should they. Not for something that was wrong from the start.”
“What was wrong?”
“We married out of duty, not love.”
Emma touched his arm.
“James, look at her. She’s *alive* now.”
“But the family—”
“Still exists. Just differently.”
James stood abruptly.
“I don’t get you women. Dad’s a good man—provides, doesn’t drink. What more do you want?”
Evelyn met his eyes.
“Love, James. Just love.”
Later, alone at the window, Evelyn watched children playing below. The phone rang again.
“Evelyn… can we talk?” John’s voice was strained.
“About what?”
“I’ll change. We can start over.”
“John… we were never right for each other.”
“But the years we shared—”
“Were built on obligation.”
A pause.
“What if I said I love you?”
Evelyn smiled sadly.
“You don’t. You’re comfortable with me. Like a favourite chair. That isn’t love.”
After hanging up, she sat in the darkening room, watching streetlamps flicker on. Fear gnawed at her—fear of loneliness—but stronger was the dread of more years playing a role.
She studied her reflection. The spark in her eyes—gone for decades—was back. Happiness, perhaps, wasn’t about a husband or a ring. Just the courage to choose herself.
She picked up the phone. Dialled.
“Edward? It’s Evelyn Carter. From university… Yes, that’s right. Listen, I’m planning a trip to the coast. Fancy joining me?”
Rain tapped the window, but to Evelyn, it felt like sunshine.
