**Friday, 8th May**
Stood at the kitchen window this morning, cradling a lukewarm cuppa, watching the neighbour’s children playing kickabout in the garden. Signed the final divorce papers yesterday, yet today… I feel lighter than I have in years. Odd, isn’t it? Feels like it should be the opposite.
“Mum, where’s Dad?” Sophie appeared, already in her school uniform, looking impossibly young.
“He’s living separately now, sweetheart, remember we talked about it?” I smoothed her hair, voice gentle. “He’s fetching you tomorrow for the weekend.”
“Why can’t you just make up?” she asked, stirring her porridge absently. “Ava Thompson says her parents rowed loads but then they bought a new car and stopped.”
A sad smile touched my lips. If only it were that simple. If only rows were the whole story.
“Eat up now, you’ll be late for school.”
Sophie sat down obediently but clearly had more on her mind. “Mum… are you sad?”
“A little bit, love. But you know something? Sometimes people part ways not because they stop loving each other, but because being together hurts. Apart, they can be alright.” She nodded, though at ten, the depth of it likely escaped her. Took me long enough to grasp it myself.
It didn’t start yesterday nor even a year ago. It crept in gradually, when Edward began coming home later and later, and I’d find receipts in his coat pockets from cafés I’d never set foot in. I told myself they were work meetings. He *was* a manager at a building firm, meetings did happen.
“Late again tonight?” I’d ask over hurried breakfasts, him glued to his mobile.
“Yeah. Big project deadline, chaos. Don’t wait up.”
“And this weekend? Sophie’s asking about going to your mum’s place in Derbyshire?”
“Working weekends too. Sorry, Chris, it’s just mad at the moment. We’ll have a break later.”
That ‘later’ never came. I got used to eating dinner alone, putting Sophie to bed alone, watching telly alone. Most evenings, it felt more like widowhood than marriage.
My mates, bless them, sympathised over lukewarm lattes one afternoon.
“Men are hopeless these days, eh?” Lena sighed. “Work, work, work. At least he brings the money home.”
“He brings the money,” I agreed, stirring my coffee. “But what good is it? We live like strangers sharing a flat.”
“Ever thought he might… have someone else?” Olivia ventured cautiously.
“Thought it. But how would I know? Can’t exactly ask, and I refuse to snoop. Where would he find the time for an affair, honestly? He’s always at work.”
Olivia just gave me that meaningful silence.
At home, I kept waiting. Waiting for Edward to come back to *us*, to talk properly like before, to ask about my day, Sophie’s schoolwork, *our* plans. But Edward seemed to inhabit another world entirely.
“How was work?” I’d ask when he finally stumbled in.
“Alright,” he’d grunt, eyes still on his screen.
“Sophie had her school play today. Recited her poem beautifully.”
“Mmm.”
“Edward? Are you listening?”
“Yeah, yeah. Good girl, our Soph.”
But his expression said he heard nothing beyond the chime of notifications. Gradually, I stopped sharing. What was the point? I shifted to full-time hours instead of part-time, signed up for an evening French class, made proper time for my friends. Life began knitting itself back together, yet something vital felt missing, like a hole I couldn’t fill.
“Mum, why won’t Dad go ice skating with me?” Sophie asked one Saturday.
“He’s busy, darling.”
“But he used to.”
“Work wasn’t so mad before.”
“When will it stop being mad?”
I had no answer. When? *Ever*?
That evening, I resolved to talk. Waited till Sophie was asleep, cooked a proper meal, set the table. Edward came in half past ten.
“Sit, eat,” I said. “We need to talk.”
“What about?” He slumped into a chair, phone still in hand.
“Put the phone down. Please.” He reluctantly placed it face-down.
“Edward, what’s happened to us? We’re not living, we’re just existing. You come in, eat, sleep, leave. We don’t talk, we never go anywhere, you hardly see your own daughter.”
“Chris, I’m working! Got to provide, haven’t I?”
“Provide for *what* family?” My voice tightened. “There *is* no family! There’s me, you, Sophie, but we’re not *a family*. Just three separate people sharing a postcode.”
“Don’t be dramatic. It’s a tough time, massive workload. Bear with it a bit longer.”
“Edward, I’ve ‘borne with it’ three years. How much longer?”
He sighed, irritated. “Chris, I’m knackered. Can we do this later?”
“When’s ‘later’? You’ll be late tomorrow, late the next day… When do we talk?”
“Dunno. When things ease up.”
His phone buzzed. He automatically reached for it.
“*Edward!*”
“What? Sorry.” But he’d already glanced at the screen.
“Is there someone else?” The question blurted out.
“What?” His head snapped up, a flicker of alarm in his eyes.
“I’m asking – is there another woman?”
“Where’d you get that idea?”
“Don’t answer a question with a question. *Is* there?”
Silence hung thick. He stared at his plate. I stared at him. My heart pounded so loud the neighbours must have heard.
“…Yeah,” he whispered finally breathed the word.
Strangely, I didn’t feel pain. Relief washed over me, cold and clear. Truth, at last.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
“Do you… love her?”
He met my gaze. “Dunno. Suppose so.”
“And me?”
“You too. Different, but yeah.”
“How different?”
“Well… you’re Sophie’s mum. We’ve years behind us.”
“So I’m like old furniture? Familiar, comfortable, but no joy?”
“Chris, don’t say that.”
“What *should* I say? Edward, don’t you see? We haven’t been man and wife for ages. We’re flatmates. Nothing more.”
“Maybe we try to… fix things? I can end it.”
“And start again with someone new in a year’s time?”
He had nothing.
“Don’t end it on my account,” I said suddenly, surprising myself. “I don’t want you staying out of guilt. I can’t spend my life waiting for you to remember me.”
“So?”
“So let’s divorce. Cleanly, honestly, no screaming. For Sophie’s sake too.”
He exhaled, a visible release of tension. I knew then he’d wanted it too, just lacked the courage to say it.
The divorce was surprisingly civilised. Edward didn’t fight for the flat, which was in my name, pays his child support on the dot, has Sophie every other weekend. We talk more easily now than in our final married years.
“You alright?” he asks, picking Soph up.
“Fine. You?”
She traced the familiar crease at the corner of Charles’s sleeping eye, the quiet rhythm of his breathing a soothing lullaby against the lingering echoes of the party, a profound peace settling within her as she realised that sometimes, the most loving act isn’t holding on, but bravely letting go to discover how deeply and differently happiness can bloom.
