They divorced a week after the wedding.
“You’ve lost the plot! What do you mean, divorce?” Emily hurled the wilted bouquet onto the floor—the same bouquet she’d swooned over just yesterday. “We’ve only been married a week!”
“So?” James didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Mistakes happen. Better fix it now than suffer for years.”
“A mistake?!” Her voice hit a shriek. “I’m a mistake? Our wedding was a mistake?!”
James finally looked up, blinking at his wife—or rather, his soon-to-be ex-wife. Or whatever you called it at this stage.
“Listen, Em, why the drama? I’m just being honest. We’re not right for each other, full stop. Figured it out on the wedding night when you had a meltdown over me not brushing my teeth.”
“Then just brush them! How hard is that?”
“Why should I? Never did at home, lived just fine.”
Emily slumped onto the sofa, clutching her head. Had she really spent seven years with this man and missed all the signs? Or had she noticed but hoped marriage would magically fix everything?
“James, love,” she tried to sound calm. “We’re in love. Remember the proposal? On your knees, swearing I’d be the happiest woman alive—”
“That was romance. Life’s different. Think about it—one week in, and we argue daily. Yesterday it was socks not in the hamper. The day before, leaving a bowl after bangers and mash. And this morning, why didn’t I make you coffee?”
“I was asleep!”
“Exactly. Should I wake you up to ask? And if you said no, you’d be furious I disturbed you.”
Emily stared, baffled. Was he serious? Were these trivialities worth ending a marriage over?
“Jamie,” she moved to hug him, but he sidestepped. “This is nonsense! We’ll adjust. All couples go through this!”
“I don’t want to adjust. I was fine before. Why did I even get married?”
The question hung in the air. Something inside Emily snapped. Seven years together, a year of wedding prep, a fortune spent, guests still asking about the honeymoon…
“You know what?” She straightened, wiping tears. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we rushed.”
James blinked. “So… you’re agreeing to divorce?”
“What choice do I have? Force you to love me?” She grabbed a wedding photo—both of them grinning, smitten. “Just answer me this. If you didn’t want to marry, why propose?”
James scratched his head. “Well… you kept hinting. Your mates getting married, dropping ‘when’s it our turn?’ I figured if it’s expected, might as well.”
“Expected?” Emily echoed. “You married me out of obligation?”
“Not just that. We were good together. You cooked, cleaned… I thought marriage would be more of the same.”
“And what’s changed now?”
“You’ve turned into a nag. Everything’s a problem. You never complained before.”
Emily sank back onto the sofa. True, she’d once bitten her tongue over scattered socks, tidied up after him, cooked, laundered. Why? Fear. Fear he’d leave if she asked for more.
“Maybe I was nagging,” she admitted slowly. “But why? Because I wanted partnership, not a man-child I had to mother.”
“Exactly!” James brightened. “I don’t want parenting. I want peace.”
“And I want a husband, not a housemate.”
Silence fell. Rain tapped the window. Emily remembered their first meeting—her reading in a café, him sauntering over, all charm and cheeky grins. Flowers, dinners, even quoting Shakespeare.
“Remember reciting Byron to me?” she asked.
“Vaguely. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Em,” James sat beside her. “Why torture ourselves? We want different things. You’re nesting; I like my freedom. You want kids—”
“You don’t?”
“Not yet. Maybe someday. But you’re already planning nurseries.”
Emily nodded. Fair. She was 32, craving family. He? 35 and still acting like a uni lad.
“Fine,” she whispered. “We’ll divorce.”
“Really?” James perked up. “Finally, sense prevails!”
“One condition. You tell everyone the truth—your folks, mine, friends. I won’t take the blame.”
“What truth?”
“That you married out of inertia, not love.”
James frowned. “Why air dirty laundry? ‘Irreconcilable differences’ covers it.”
“No. Truth, or I’ll tell my version—and you won’t like it.”
“Fine,” he sighed. “I’ll tell them.”
Emily stood, watching the rain intensify. Good thing they weren’t honeymooning abroad now. Flights booked, hotel reserved—thankfully unused.
“Who’s refunding the wedding costs?” James piped up.
“Excuse me?”
“Your parents paid for the venue, mine the band…”
“Are you serious?” Emily spun around. “You’re seriously bringing up money?”
“They’re not peanuts! All that cash for nothing.”
“Not nothing. We lasted a week as husband and wife. That cost you something, didn’t it?”
“Honestly? Yeah. I’m used to living alone. Now someone’s always there. Can’t even watch telly—you’re always changing channels.”
“Because you watch football 24/7!”
“My house, my telly.”
“Our house. Our telly.”
“Bollocks! Flat’s in my name, telly’s mine.”
Rage flared. Was he always this selfish? How had she missed it for seven years?
“Know what, James?” She grabbed a bag, shoving in essentials. “I’m leaving tonight. We’ll file tomorrow.”
“Where’re you going?”
“Mum’s. Temporarily.”
“What about your stuff?”
“I’ll collect it when you’re out.”
“Fine. Just leave the keys.”
Emily froze. Leave the keys. Like she was some ex-flatmate. A week ago, he’d vowed forever; now, he wanted his keys back.
“James, be honest. Did you ever love me?”
He pondered. The pause stretched.
“Got used to you. Liked having you around. But love? Dunno what that is.”
“Right.”
She zipped her bag, shrugged on her jacket.
“Mum, it’s me,” she said into her phone. “Can I come over? Yeah. Really bad. I’ll explain later.”
James walked her to the door.
“Em,” he called. “Don’t hate me. It’s not personal. Just how I am.”
“I know. Hence the divorce.”
The lift arrived. As the doors closed, James vanished from view.
Inside, Emily texted her best mate: “Divorcing. Meet tomorrow, I’ll explain.”
Reply instantly: “WHAT?! After a WEEK? You’re joking.”
“Dead serious.”
“Come to mine. We’ll talk.”
“Thanks. Hitting Mum’s first.”
Outside, drizzle became downpour. Emily hailed a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
She gave her mum’s address. What would Mum say? Probably scold her for not “trying harder.” Older generations loved that line. Stick it out, adjust, endure.
Then again, maybe not. Mum had divorced Dad when Emily was ten. Back then, Emily hadn’t understood. Now she did. Dad, too, had known coexistence but not love.
The cab stopped. Emily paid, trudged upstairs. Mum waited in the doorway.
“Darling,” she pulled Emily close. “What happened?”
“Everything, Mum. It’s all gone wrong.”
“Come on, I’ll put the kettle on. Spill.”
Over tea, Emily unloaded: socks, teeth, coffee, the nursery that’d never be.
“And he said he doesn’t know what love is?” Mum clarified.
“Yeah.”
Mum stirred her tea, silent for once.
“Love,” she finally said, “on your place, I’d divorce too.”
“Really?”
“Really. Better alone than with someone who merely tolerates you.”
“What will people say?”
“People always talk. When I left your dad, half the town gossiped. Then they moved on. Everyone’s got their own mess.”
“What if I never meet anyone else?”
“You will. You’re lovely, clever, kind. You’ll find someone who loves you—not just puts up with you.”
Emily cried then—relief, exhaustion, gratitude for being understood.
“Cry it out,” Mum soothed. “Tomorrow’s a fresh start. Your real life.”
Next day, they filed. James arrived chipper, signed the papers without fuss.
“Well,” he said on the steps, “free agents, eh?”
“Yep,” Emily nodded. “Free.”
A month later, she heard James was dating someone new—young, unfA year later, Emily sat in her garden watching her stepdaughter play, while Andrew—who always remembered to make her coffee—kissed her forehead and whispered, “Love you,” without her having to ask.
