No Divorce for You
By the time Simon Whitworth hit fifty, he barely had any grey hair, but he did have a devil firmly lodged in his ribs. And she was the reason—Amber. He’d met her entirely by chance while popping into the university to visit an old friend who lectured there. The question he’d gone to ask was trivial; the consequences, life-changing.
She stood by the window, sunlight dancing in her golden hair. Emerald-green eyes, a figure like a willow branch, radiating life and mischief… Simon, a man long past his boyish days, suddenly felt like a teenager again. Amber seemed to him the embodiment of every fantasy—a fairy, a siren, a nymph. In reality, she was just a pretty undergrad, but that realisation came much later. In that moment, he was spellbound.
He hadn’t felt this kind of passion, not even for his wife, Margaret, in their earliest years. Thirty years of marriage, two grown children, a shared history, a home, mutual respect, and barely a cross word between them—yet all of it seemed to vanish the moment he laid eyes on Amber.
She, for her part, didn’t resist the attentions of her distinguished suitor. Quite the opposite—she encouraged them. For her, Simon was an opportunity. Raised in a modest household, scraping into university by sheer luck, she dreamed of staying in London. And Simon? He was her ticket.
“He’s ancient!” her flatmate, Gemma, groaned. “Are you mad? Could you actually live with him?”
“Hardly ancient,” Amber scoffed. “Fit, loaded, head over heels. Mark my words—he’ll propose soon.”
Simon fell for her completely. He was affectionate, generous, attentive. But never—not once—did he mention divorce. Amber waited, hoping. Her plan was simple: Simon’s kids were long gone, his wife was healthy, their life uncomplicated. And he was well-off. Marriage seemed inevitable. But then, Simon started flagging. Turns out, keeping up with a fiery twenty-something was harder than he’d thought. He’d have been happy with weekly trysts—hotel rooms only, mind you—before slinking back home to Margaret’s shepherd’s pie and the telly.
Amber began pressing him.
“Why can’t we move in together? You’ve got that flat!”
“Tenants,” he lied. In truth, the place was empty—he and Margaret had planned to renovate. But turning it into a love nest? Not happening.
“Then rent somewhere new! Be a man!”
The rows multiplied. And then—boom.
“I’m pregnant, Tom,” she announced (yes, that’s what she called him). “Aren’t you happy?”
Simon froze. He’d been planning to end things—even cut his business trip short to do it properly. And now—a baby.
“But you said you were on the pill…”
“Nothing’s foolproof! I thought you’d be thrilled…”
He wasn’t thrilled. He was panicking. But he stayed. The baby arrived—a boy, Oliver. Simon helped: money, visits, attention. But Amber wanted more.
“I’m done being your dirty secret! Either you tell your wife, or I will!”
Before he could decide, Amber took charge. Days later, Margaret cornered him:
“So. You have a child. And you’re planning to marry her? Is that right?”
“Maggie, it’s not like that… I can explain—”
“Here’s the thing: I won’t be divorcing you,” she said calmly, firmly. “I’m not throwing away thirty years of marriage for some student.”
Simon felt relief. Not because he’d avoided divorce—but because she still wanted their family.
“I love you, Maggie. Forgive me. It was madness, I don’t know what came over me…”
“The baby isn’t to blame,” she added. “We’ll take him. And you cut ties with her—for good. Then I’ll forgive you. Properly.”
Simon couldn’t believe his ears. But Margaret, ever the strategist, had it all figured out. Amber, exhausted, without help or support, gladly handed Oliver over when Simon made his offer:
“I want him with us. You can go back to uni, live your life. We’ll manage.”
“Brilliant,” she said flatly. “Just don’t come crying later.”
The paperwork was quick—father recognised, mother compliant. Oliver moved in. Margaret cared for him, though distantly. Simon hoped time would soften things. A year passed.
Then—thunder out of nowhere.
“I’m filing for divorce,” Margaret announced after a work trip. “I’ve met someone. And I’m happy—properly happy—with him.”
“Someone? Who?”
“James. He lives in Manchester, but he’s moving here. You keep the flat. Fair’s fair.”
“But you said—”
“I meant it then. But love doesn’t take orders. I’m sorry.”
She left. Leaving him with Oliver and the past. He tried going back to Amber. She just laughed.
“You got what you wanted, Tommy. And I got my freedom. Enjoy the mess.”
Now he was alone. With a son he’d grown to love. No wife, no mistress, but a quiet certainty that, perhaps, this was justice.
