Oliver rode the creaking bus along the dusty roads toward his parents’ cottage in the outskirts of Canterbury, his heart heavy with dread. He carried news that would shatter their world—his divorce from his wife. But when he stepped into their home, they dealt him a far greater blow. His elderly parents, whom he had always seen as pillars of a steadfast marriage, announced they too were divorcing, eclipsing everything he had come to say. Now Oliver stood at a crossroads, his mind a storm of fear, guilt, and confusion.
The thought of breaking the news about Emily hadn’t come easily. He could’ve stayed silent, but word travelled fast in their little village. Emily might call them in a fit of spite, or his sister or brother might let it slip by accident. Oliver decided honesty was best—better to confess than to explain later. Life was unpredictable, and no one was safe from mistakes.
Oliver climbed the familiar steps, rang the bell. The door swung open to reveal his father, Charles Whitmore, his face grim, as though he already knew why his son had come.
“Hello,” he muttered. “Glad you’ve shown up. Come in.”
“Hi, Dad,” Oliver replied, but unease prickled at him—had someone already spilled the news? “Is Mum here?”
“She’s here, she’s here,” his father snapped. “Where else would she be? Sitting in there like a duchess waiting to be served.”
“What’s going on?” Oliver frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve had enough!” his father suddenly barked, turned on his heel, and stormed off, fuming.
Baffled, Oliver followed. In the living room, his father flung himself onto the sofa, arms crossed. His mother wasn’t in her usual spot with her knitting. Oliver peeked into the bedroom—Agatha Whitmore stood by the window, her face like thunder.
“You’re here,” she said coldly. “Have you left Emily, or are you just thinking about it?”
“How do you know?” Oliver’s stomach twisted. “Why are you asking?”
“Because I need to know if you’ve rented a flat yet!” she shot back.
“What flat?” he stammered.
“The one you’ll live in after the divorce!” she snapped.
“Haven’t found one yet,” Oliver admitted. “But how did you know I was getting divorced?”
“We know,” she said darkly. “So, listen—find a flat fast, because I’m moving in with you!”
“What?” Oliver froze, ears ringing.
“No!” boomed his father’s voice from the living room. He appeared in the doorway, bristling with fury. “I’m the one moving in with Oliver! You stay here—the cottage is in your name!”
“Over my dead body!” his mother shrieked. “I won’t stay in this house another minute, not with your stubbornness in every brick!”
“Stop!” Oliver’s head spun. “What are you two on about? Where do you think you’re going?”
“Wherever you go!” his father declared. “Good on you, son, thinking of divorce now—couldn’t have timed it better!”
“Why ‘good on me’?” Oliver felt the floor tilt beneath him.
“Because your mother and I are splitting too!” his father blurted.
“What?!” Oliver gaped. He’d expected lectures, not this.
“That’s it!” his father ranted. “You’re grown—I don’t owe anyone anything. Your mother and I are sick of each other, just like you and Emily. I’m coming with you, just us blokes!”
“No, I’m living with Oliver!” his mother cut in. “You’re useless, but I can still cook. You love my roast, don’t you, Olly?”
“And I can’t cook?” his father sneered. “I’ll outdo any chef! Stew, shepherd’s pie—name it!”
“Ha! When was the last time you cooked?” she scoffed. “Back when the Queen still wore a crown?”
“So what? We men don’t need women—just a washing machine, a microwave, and a big fridge to stock for the month!” his father retorted.
“Stop filling his head with nonsense!” his mother snapped.
“Enough!” Oliver roared. “Have you lost your minds? You’re pushing eighty, squabbling like kids! Look at yourselves!”
“And look at you!” they shouted in unison. “Fifty next year, acting like a schoolboy! Don’t scold us—just pick who you’re taking with you!”
“Who said I’m moving out?” Oliver exploded. “Emily and I have our own place!”
“What?” his mother blinked. “But you’re divorcing!”
“Says who?” he demanded.
“Emily. Your sister said you called and told her,” his mother replied.
“I’m not getting divorced,” Oliver said firmly. “It was a joke!”
“A joke?” His father faltered. “We were already planning our new lives, and now—it’s all off?”
“Honestly, Olly,” his mother grumbled. “Horrible joke. Got us all stirred up for nothing. Fine, we’ll stick it out a bit longer.”
“But remember, son,” she added, “if you change your mind and really do divorce, your father and I are first in line to move in. Understood?”
“Understood,” Oliver muttered. He realised now—any thoughts of leaving Emily might as well be dust. “I’m off.”
“Where?” his mother fretted. “You didn’t come just to chat. Fancy some tea?”
“No thanks,” he waved her off. “Just wanted to see you. Seems I was right to. Stop the bickering—you’re supposed to set an example. And you two… Christ. Right, I’m going.”
The moment the door shut, his parents exchanged glances and sighed in relief.
“Did it work?” his father whispered.
“Think so,” his mother said. “Pray Emily doesn’t drag her heels making up.”
“She won’t,” his father sighed. “Your sister said the divorce was Oliver’s idea. So he’ll be the one crawling back.”
“God willing,” his mother murmured, picking up her knitting and settling into her chair. “Off you pop, then.”
“Where?”
“You bragged about your cooking. Prove it. Fry some potatoes—haven’t had them in ages.”
“Right,” his father grinned. “I’ll make ’em so crispy, you’ll lick the plate clean.”
Oliver walked home, a thought gnawing at him: *Did they stage all this to keep me with Emily?* Their love, their cleverness, had given him a chance to rethink. Yet fear lingered—what if he lost his family after all?
