**Fractured Happiness: A Tale of Broken Bonds**
I woke at dawn, the first pale rays of sunlight barely creeping through the curtains of our flat in the quiet town of Ashford. While my husband lingered in bed, I prepared breakfast—thin, almost weightless pancakes. Half with bacon, half with cheese. The aroma spread through the house, filling it with warmth. Oliver stirred only when the scent reached the bedroom. Washed and dressed, he sat at the table, devouring the pancakes with strong black tea. Finishing the last bite, he looked at me and said:
“Emily, we need to talk.”
I turned, drying my hands on a tea towel, an unease settling in my chest.
“Go on,” I replied.
“I’m leaving you. I’ll file for divorce myself,” he stated calmly but firmly.
“Leaving? Why? Where?” My hands stilled, my eyes wide with shock.
The Saturday morning had begun like any other. I’d risen at nine, careful not to wake Oliver, and set to making pancakes. I loved those quiet moments—the hush of morning, the scent of food, the comfort of home.
Oliver appeared as the aroma filled the flat. He ate in silence, sipping his tea, then dropped the bombshell:
“Emily, I’m leaving you.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard. Turning, I searched his face.
“I know this is wretched,” he continued, not meeting my eye. “Twenty-five years together, and I’m throwing it all away. But I can’t help myself. She’s… incredible. With her, I feel alive again, younger. I love her, Emily. It’s madness, but it’s happiness!”
“How old is this happiness of yours?” I asked coldly, gripping the counter.
“Twenty-eight.”
“So only five years older than our Olivia. And twenty years younger than you. Charming. Have you met her parents? Are they thrilled their daughter’s marrying a man your age? If Olivia brought home a man twice her years, I wouldn’t be pleased.”
“What does age matter when love’s involved?” Oliver exclaimed, his voice trembling. “You don’t have that fire anymore, Emily. You’re stuck in old ways.”
“Fine,” I cut in. “We’ll divorce and split everything.”
“There’s nothing to split,” he countered. “You keep the flat—Sophie has her own, a two-bed. I’ll take the car; you barely need it.”
“No, that won’t do,” I shook my head. “Right now, you’re saying I keep the flat, but in two years, you’ll be back demanding half the cutlery. I’m a solicitor—I’ve seen these ‘generous’ offers before. We split it all now: the flat, the car. The money’s gone anyway—we gave it to Olivia for her mortgage.”
He was stunned by my composure. He’d expected tears, shouting, accusations. Instead, I helped him pack. As he left, I wished him luck, but once the door closed, the tears came. Twenty-five years—through joy and hardship. I’d always believed I had a steadfast man beside me. Now, just emptiness.
“Lonely?” I scoffed to myself, drying my eyes. “I’ve got Olivia, her husband, and little Charlie.”
I sat among the scattered belongings Oliver had hastily gathered. Memories flooded in—our wedding, me in my second year at uni, him in his fourth. Olivia arrived soon after. We’d lived in student digs, passing her between lectures. Eventually, with the dean’s help, we got her into nursery.
Our first flat was a cramped bedsit—a bedroom, a corner for Olivia, and a tiny kitchenette, all on eighteen square metres. Shared bathroom down the hall, shower in the basement. Back then, Oliver never complained about a lack of ‘fire.’
The divorce was swift. The property settlement followed without delay. We sold the car at once, but the three-bed flat took three months to shift—buyers were scarce.
I bought a cosy two-bed in the same Ashford neighbourhood. A small loan was needed, but I managed. With more time on my hands, I returned to old hobbies—knitting, reading.
Then an old friend, Sarah, rang after years apart, suggesting we swim together. The water soothed me. Months later, I felt steadier, more myself. Work became a solace. Life slowly mended.
Thoughts of Oliver faded. He tried calling, but I asked him not to.
Three years passed. On my birthday, I met two friends at a café.
“Any regrets about the divorce?” asked Margaret.
“Do I have a choice?” I smirked.
“I meant—are you happier now? Or worse off?”
“Haven’t thought about it,” I admitted. “In some ways better—I’ve time for myself. But loneliness isn’t always kind. Thank God for Charlie.”
I wasn’t lying. Sometimes, walking through Ashford or the high street, I’d see elderly couples holding hands. Once, I’d imagined Oliver and I like that. Fate had other plans.
“Any news of Oliver?” Margaret pressed.
“None. Haven’t seen him in three years,” I said. “Olivia mentioned spotting him with that woman in Tesco.”
“Funny thing,” chimed in the other friend, Claire, “she’s had his son.”
“Oliver always wanted a boy. So he’s happy,” I said flatly.
A week later, after Olivia’s visit, I was clearing plates when the doorbell rang. Assuming she’d forgotten something, I answered—and froze. Oliver stood there.
“What are you doing here?” I frowned. “How’d you get the address?”
“Olivia gave it. I came to talk. May I come in?”
I stepped aside. He glanced around.
“Cosy place. Smells like pancakes. Care to share?”
“I’ve swimming soon. Say what you came to say.”
“Swimming? You look well. New hairstyle suits you.”
“Spare the flattery. What do you want?”
“Just to see how you’re getting on. You’re thriving. The divorce did you good,” he said, oddly wistful.
“Had your fill of ‘youthful fire’?” I smirked. “Heard you’ve a son. Congratulations.”
“It’s quiet here,” he sighed. “Did you know it’d be like this?”
“Like what?”
“That you’d buy a flat, live peacefully, swim, holiday with Olivia and Charlie.”
“What’s stopping you?” I countered. “Buy a place, take your young wife abroad. Why resent me? We split everything fairly.”
“The money didn’t last,” he confessed. “The wedding Sophie wanted, Maldives trip, new car… Now I live in her flat like a lodger. Can’t even ask for a clean house or pancakes.”
“That’s enough, Oliver. I’m late. Goodbye—don’t come back.”
He left. I grabbed my bag and headed out. *Perhaps I am better off now*, I thought, walking briskly.
As for Oliver, he sat in his car, in no hurry to return home. His eyes were hollow with regret.
*Lesson learned: Some fires burn bright but leave only ashes in the end.*
