She thought her husband was just in a bad mood until she found divorce papers in his drawer.
“Where’s my navy striped shirt?” Victor stood in the middle of their bedroom in just his trousers, irritably rifling through the wardrobe.
“Its in the wash,” Emily called from the bathroom, rolling her hair in curlers. “Wear the light blue oneits just as nice.”
“I dont want light blue, I want navy! How many times do I have to remind you to do the laundry on time?”
“Vic, you only wore it the day before yesterday. I washed it yesterday!”
“So? If you knew I had a meeting, you couldve dried it!”
Emily stepped out of the bathroom and studied her husband. Lately, he snapped at everythingthe soup being under-salted, dust on the TV, the wrong shirt.
“Shall I iron the white one? It suits you.”
“Dont bother ironing anything! Ill sort it myself!”
Victor yanked the first shirt he saw from the wardrobe, pulling it on with shaky hands, his anger making his fingers fumble with the buttons.
“Vic, whats going on with you? You havent been yourself for weeks.”
“Nothings going on. Just tired. Works mad right now.”
“Maybe see a doctor? Get your blood pressure checked?”
“Emily, drop it! Stop acting like Im some invalid!”
He grabbed his jacket and briefcase and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Emily stood frozen, a dull ache in her chest. Victor never used to raise his voice. In twenty years of marriage, theyd barely argued. Now, every morning began with complaints.
In the kitchen, his breakfastscrambled eggs, toast, coffeesat untouched. Lately, he left without eating, claiming he wasnt hungry.
She poured herself tea, stirring absently. Shed talk to him tonight, calmly. Maybe it *was* work stress. Or his health.
Her phone buzzed. Sarah, her best friend.
“Hey! Still coming to yoga?”
“Not sure. Not in the mood.”
“Whats wrong?”
“Victors been so odd lately. Picking fights over nothing.”
“Midlife crisis? Mine went through that. Bought a motorbike, got it out of his system.”
“Victors not like that. He hates change.”
“Then its work. Dont overthink it. Itll pass.”
Emily hung up. Sarah was rightno point worrying. Every marriage had rough patches.
She tidied the flat, made lunchbeef stew, his favourite. Maybe comfort food would help.
At the shop, she ran into their neighbour, Margaret.
“Emily! Long time no see. Wheres Victor hiding?”
“Working late a lot. Leaves early, comes home exhausted.”
“Good man, hard worker. Not like my layaboutwears out the sofa more than his shoes.”
Emily forced a smile, but unease settled in. Victor *had* been staying out later. No calls, no warnings. Just silent dinners and bed.
At home, she decided to tidy his study. He hated her touching his things, but he wouldnt be back for hours.
The study was cosybookshelves, a desk, their wedding photo on the wall. Young, smiling, in love.
She dusted, swept. The top desk drawer was ajar, a folder sticking out. She went to push it back, but the label”Personal”stopped her.
Curiosity won. She opened it.
A business card lay on top. *”James Carter, Family Law Solicitor.”* Beneath it, printouts: *”How to File for Divorce.”* Then a filled-in application, signed by Victor.
Emily sank into his chair, vision blurring. Divorce?
She flipped through inventories, listsflat split 50/50, his car, her share of savings. At the bottom, a handwritten note:
*”Tell her after New Years. Flatsplit. Carmine. Cottagehers.”*
Emily stared. Two weeks. Hed planned it all. While she cooked his meals, ironed his shirts.
The front door clicked. Victor was homeearly.
“Emily? You here?”
She shoved the folder back, forced calm into her voice. “In the study.”
He walked in, sniffed the air. “Beef stew? Smells good.”
Sitting at the table, he served himself. She watched him eatsame hands, same face. A stranger.
“Vic, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He didnt look up.
“Us. Whats happening? Youve changed.”
“Not now, Em. Im knackered.”
“But we never talk anymore. Youre always angry.”
“Im not angry. Just swamped at work.”
“Its not work.”
Victor set his spoon down. For a second, guilt flickered in his eyes. Then it vanished.
“Emily, lets not do this. Im not in the mood for a row.”
“I dont want to row. I want to understand.”
“Understand what? Everythings fine.”
She nearly mentioned the folder. Asked why he was pretending. But her throat closed.
“Fine. Whatever you say.”
She left, lay on the bed, face buried in the pillow. No tears camejust numbness.
Later, Victor watched the news, then came to bed. Turned his back. No goodnight kiss, no cuddle.
“Em, you awake?”
“No.”
“Working late tomorrow. Office party.”
“Okay.”
“Dont be mad. Just need a break.”
“I get it.”
But she didnt. How could you share a bed while secretly planning to leave?
The next morning, Victor left without breakfast. Emily called Sarah.
“Can I come over?”
“Of course! Whats happened?”
“Ill explain when I get there.”
At Sarahs, over tea, Emily showed her the folder. Sarah gasped.
“The absolute *git!* Twenty years, and he pulls this?”
“Maybe theres someone else?”
“Who cares? If he wants out, he should say so! Why the charade?”
Emily twisted her wedding ring. “Maybe hes trying to spare me.”
“*Spare you?* Hes got *divorce papers* ready!” Sarah squeezed her hand. “Whatll you do?”
“I dont know. Pretend I dont know? Hope he changes his mind?”
“Love, hes *hired a solicitor.* Its done.”
Emily returned home, made dinner. Victor came in at eleven, smelling of beer.
“Youre still up?”
“Waiting for you. Theres food.”
“Not hungry. We ate.”
“Good party?”
“Same as always.”
He undressed for bed. Emily followed.
“Who was there? Lucy from your office?”
Victor tensed. “Yeah, why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Whats that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Sleep well.”
She sat by the kitchen window. Lucyyoung, recently divorced. Was *she* the reason?
Victors phone lay charging. He snored softly. She picked it up, typed his birthdaythe lock screen opened.
No texts from Lucy. But an unknown number:
*”All set. Papers are ready. Start proceedings after the holidays.”*
*”Thanks. Transferring payment tomorrow.”*
*”No rush. Just prepare your wifeits always a shock.”*
*”I will. Talk after New Years.”*
Emily put the phone back, stepped onto the balcony. Cold air sharpened her thoughts.
Two weeks left. Two weeks of pretending. Buying gifts, decorating the tree. Then the talk.
Last New Years, hed toasted her, given her earrings, said *”I love you.”* Had he lied then too?
Morning brought clarity. No more waiting.
Victor sipped coffee at the table.
“Morning,” she said.
“Hi. Bit hungover.”
“Pub crawl catch up with you?”
“Suppose. Listen, Im popping to Mums today. Help with her shopping.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah. You hate crowds.”
He always asked before.
“Fine. Go ahead.”
Victor blinked. “Youre okay with that?”
“Yep. Ive got shopping too.”
“For who?”
“You.”
He looked away. “Dont bother. I said no gifts.”
“Right.”
After he left, Emily dialled the solicitor from the folder.
“Mr. Carter? Emily Harris. Victor Harriss wife. Yes*that* Victor. I need advice.”
At a café, the solicitora polite man in his fiftiesnodded sympathetically.
“Legally, hes done nothing wrong. Many file after the holidays.”
“But why wait? Why lie?”
“Cold feet, perhaps. Or avoiding holiday drama.”
“What do I do?”
“Wait for him to act.
