They divorced just a week after the wedding.
“You’ve lost your mind! What do you mean, divorce?” Emily hurled the wilted bouquet to the floor—the same one she’d thought was the most beautiful thing just yesterday. “We only got married a week ago!”
“And what of it?” Oliver didn’t even glance up from his phone. “Mistakes happen. Better to fix it now than suffer for years.”
“A mistake?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Am I a mistake to you? Was our wedding a mistake?”
Oliver finally looked up, meeting his wife’s eyes—no, his ex-wife’s. Or whatever the correct term was now.
“Listen, Em, why are you making such a scene? I’m being reasonable. We’re not right for each other. I knew it the first night when you had a go at me for not brushing my teeth.”
“Then just brush them! How hard is that?”
“Why should I? I never did at home, and I was fine.”
Emily sank onto the sofa, cradling her head. Had she really spent six years with this man and never noticed? Or had she noticed but hoped marriage would change him?
“Oliver, love,” she forced calm into her voice. “We love each other. Remember when you proposed? On your knees, promising I’d be the happiest…”
“That was romance. Life’s different. Think about it—we’ve fought every single day since the wedding. Yesterday you had a fit because I left my socks out. The day before, because I didn’t wash my plate right away. And this morning, it was about me making coffee just for myself.”
“I was asleep!”
“Exactly. Should I have woken you to ask? And if you didn’t want any, you’d just have kicked off again.”
Emily stared, bewildered. Could he really be serious? Were these trivial things enough to break a marriage?
“Ollie,” she reached for him, but he stepped back. “This is nonsense! We’ll adjust. Every couple goes through this!”
“I don’t want to adjust. I was fine before. Why did I even get married?”
The question hung in the air. Emily felt something inside her snap. Six years together, months of wedding planning, thousands of pounds spent, guests still asking about the honeymoon…
“You know what?” She straightened, wiping her tears. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we rushed into this.”
Oliver blinked in surprise.
“So… you agree to divorce?”
“What choice do I have? Force you to love me?” She picked up a wedding photo—both of them smiling, happy, in love. “Just answer me one thing. If you didn’t want to marry me, why propose?”
He scratched his head.
“Well… you kept dropping hints. Your friend got married, then another. ‘It’s about time,’ you said. I thought, if it’s expected, fine.”
“Expected?” she echoed. “You married me because it was expected?”
“Not just that. We were good together. You cooked, cleaned… I assumed marriage would be the same.”
“And what’s different now?”
“You’ve turned naggy. Nothing’s ever right. Before, you never complained.”
Emily sat back down. True, she’d once let his mess slide, cleaned up after him, cooked in silence. Why? Because she’d feared he’d leave if she asked for more.
“Maybe I was naggy,” she admitted quietly. “But do you know why? Because I wanted a partner, not a man-child. A husband, not a flatmate.”
“Exactly!” Oliver brightened. “I don’t want to be managed. I just want peace.”
“And I want a marriage, not a tenancy agreement.”
Silence fell. Rain tapped the window. Emily remembered their first meeting—a café, her reading, him approaching with a smile. Charming, attentive, reciting poetry.
“Remember when you read me Keats?” she asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“No reason.”
“Em,” he sat beside her. “Why torture ourselves? We want different things. You’re home-loving. I like my freedom. You want kids—”
“And you don’t?”
“Not now. Maybe later. But you’re already planning nurseries.”
She nodded. At 31, she wanted family. Him? 34 and still acting like a fresher.
“Fine,” she whispered. “Let’s divorce.”
“Really?” He perked up. “Finally, some sense!”
“On one condition. You tell everyone the truth—my parents, yours, our friends. I won’t take the blame.”
“What truth?”
“That you weren’t ready. That you married out of obligation, not love.”
Oliver frowned.
“Why make it messy? We’ll say we grew apart.”
“No. The truth, or I’ll tell my version—and trust me, you won’t like it.”
“Fine,” he sighed.
Emily stood by the window. Rain fell harder. At least they hadn’t flown off to Spain—booked tickets, reserved hotels. Small mercies.
“Who’s returning the wedding money?” Oliver asked suddenly.
“What money?”
“Your parents paid for the venue, mine for the band…”
“Are you serious?” She turned. “You’re seriously talking money?”
“It’s a lot of cash for nothing.”
“For nothing? We lasted a week. Was that worth nothing to you?”
“Honestly? No. I’m used to living alone, and suddenly there’s constant noise. Can’t even watch telly—you keep changing the channel.”
“Because you watch football all day!”
“My house, my telly.”
“Our house. Our telly.”
“Bollocks. The flat’s in my name, and I bought the telly.”
Rage flared. Had he always been this selfish? Had six years blinded her?
“Oliver,” she grabbed her bag, stuffing clothes inside. “I’m leaving tonight. Tomorrow, we file for divorce.”
“Where will you go?”
“Mum’s. Temporarily.”
“Your stuff?”
“I’ll collect it when you’re out.”
“Fine. Just leave the keys.”
Emily froze. Leave the keys. Like she was a stranger. A week ago, he’d sworn love at the altar. Now, he wanted the keys back.
“Tell me honestly. Did you ever love me?”
He hesitated.
“I was used to you. Comfortable. But love? I don’t know what that is.”
“I see.”
She zipped the bag, pulled on her coat.
“Mum? It’s me. Can I come over? Yes, it’s bad. Really bad.”
Oliver saw her to the door.
“Em,” he called. “Don’t hate me. It’s just who I am.”
“I know. That’s why we’re divorcing.”
The lift arrived. As the doors closed, he called out: “Maybe we could try again? I might adjust?”
She shook her head. “I don’t want someone who adjusts. I want someone who loves me.”
Outside, rain lashed down. She hailed a cab, gave her mum’s address. What would Mum say? Probably scold her—”Marriage takes work.” Or maybe she’d understand. Mum had divorced Dad when Emily was ten. Back then, she’d resented her. Now she got it. Maybe Dad, too, had only known how to coexist, not love.
At the flat, Mum hugged her at the door.
“Sweetheart, what happened?”
“Everything, Mum. Everything’s ruined.”
Over tea, she spilled it all—the socks, the teeth, the coffee, the nursery that’d never be.
“He said he didn’t know what love was?” Mum stirred her tea slowly.
“Yes.”
After a long pause, Mum spoke.
“I’d have divorced him too.”
“Really?”
“Really. Better alone than with someone who merely tolerates you.”
“What will people say?”
“They’ll talk. They did when I left your dad. Then they moved on. Everyone’s got their own troubles.”
“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. Yours. Properly yours.”
The next day, they filed for divorce. Oliver seemed cheerful, almost relieved.
“Well, that’s that,” he said afterward. “Free agents.”
“Yes,” Emily nodded. “Free.”
A month later, she heard he was dating someone new—younger, less demanding. For now.
Six months on, Emily met Daniel. He was divorced too, with a little girl. He knew how to love. And he brushed his teeth without being asked.
The lesson? Never settle for someone who merely tolerates you. Love shouldn’t be an obligation—it should be a choice, made freely, every day.
