My husband gave me an ultimatum, and without hesitation, I chose divorce
Well, are you going to just sit there and say nothing? I think I made myself clear. Either we build this house, or were finished. Im a man, fifty-five, I want to live on the land, not in this concrete pigeon hole! Victor slammed his mug onto the saucer so hard that tea splashed onto the tablecloth. Do you hear me, Irene?
Irene slowly lifted her eyes from her plate. The kitchen smelled of fried sausages and, oddly, lavender, though she hadnt sprayed any. The scent had seeped into the walls after two weeks of endless arguments. Victor sat across from her, red-faced, with that stubborn crease in his forehead that once seemed masculine but now only stirred a dull annoyance.
I hear you, Vic, she replied calmly, dabbing the tea stain with a napkin. You want a house. Ive understood that for months. But I dont see why my flat has to pay for it.
Again with your flat! he threw up his hands. Why do you keep dividing everything? Are we a family or what? Five years together! Everything should be ours. But you cling to your little flat like a limpet. Its empty, gathering dustwe could have laid the foundation already!
Its not empty, Vic. Tenants live there, and that money is a good supplement to my salary. And yours too, since we buy groceries for everyone, Irene tried to keep her voice even, although inside, she trembled.
Pennies! he scoffed. What are those £600 a month? The house, nowthats an asset, a legacy! Our nest. Think about retirement. Would you rather sit on benches outside a block or wake up on a veranda, sipping coffee with birds singing and fresh air?
Irene looked out the window. The city bustled and glistened under evening lights. She liked that hum. She liked their comfortable two-bedroom flat, five minutes from the Underground, the medical centre just across, and her daughter and grandchild living nearby. She was fifty-two, chief accountant at a small firm, and had no desire to dig in gardens or shovel snow thirty miles out in the countryside.
But Victor dreamed. His dream had grown into an obsession over the past year.
Vic, you have your plot, inherited from your parents. Build if you wantbut with your own funds, she repeated, for the hundredth time, the argument that always made Victor furious.
What own funds? he spat. You know my business is slow, no clients this season! All my cash is tied up. If you sell your flat, we get the start we need. Well build fast, do the finishing, and, with any luck, the work will take off and well pay off debts.
Irene stood silently and began clearing the table. She knew this pitch. Work will pick up was something shed heard all five years of their marriage. Victor installed doors, always in the wrong seasonJanuary, everyone drinks; May, everyones in gardens; summer, everyones abroad. Most money came from her. That one-bedroom flat inherited from her grandmother before marriage was her safety net, her personal reserve for her daughter Emily or in case of illness.
Are you ignoring me? Victor jumped up and blocked her way to the sink. Im serious, Irene. Im tired. I feel like a lodger in your flats. I want to be a man in my own house. If you dont trust me, and are so stingy about your precious flat for our future, then our love is worth nothing.
What does love have to do with this? Irene met his eyes. This is about economics and common sense. Sell a liquid flat in the city centre to invest in a muddy construction in a field that could take years? What if something goes wrong? How will we finish?
Youre always so pessimistic! he snapped. Right, then. You have until Monday to decide. Its Friday now. Either you ring the estate agent and list your flat, or on Monday, we go to the registry office and file for divorce. I wont live with a woman who doesnt believe in me and sneaks behind my back.
He grabbed his coat in the hall and slammed the door, rattling the glasses in the cabinet.
Irene was left alone in the silent kitchen. Water dripped from the tap: drip, drip, drip. She twisted it shut with effort. Her hands shook. An ultimatum. Just like that: sell your asset, or Im gone.
She sat on a stool, head in her hands. Five years ago, when they met, Victor seemed a gift of fateimposing, cheerful, handy with tools. He wooed her with flowers and took her on picnics. After her first husband left her for drink, Victor seemed solid and reliable. He moved in with just one suitcase and his toolbox, fixed the pipes, replaced the floors, and they holidayed together.
But there had been signs. Now, as silence rang in her ears, she recalled each one.
When he first asked her for business investment, then bought a fishing rod instead, saying business can wait.
His grumbling whenever she supported Emily, Shes got a husband, let him provide. We need it more.
His refusal to add her to his countryside registry for tax reasons, Its my parents place, anything could happen.
And now, he demanded she sell her pre-marital property.
Irene poured herself tea and called her daughter.
Mum, hello! Why so late? Is everything alright? Emilys voice was chirpy, children laughing in the backgroundher grandson was bathing.
Em… Vic gave me an ultimatum. Either I sell Grandmas flat for his project, or divorce.
Emily paused, then spoke in a voice Irene rarely heard.
Mum, dont even consider it.
Em, he says I dont trust him. That I destroy our marriage.
Mum, switch on your accountants brain! Emily almost shouted. Whose name is the house on? The lands his! Anything built during marriage is supposedly joint, but land is his! Your flats money goes into the pot. If you divorce, can you prove you invested pre-marriage money? Itll take years in court! Youll be left homeless, and hell have the house!
I know, Emily. I do know. But… five years, Im used to it. Im scared to be alone.
Its scarier to be homeless and alone, Mum. And saddled with debts hell want you to take for the project. You know his son, Adam?
What has Adam got to do with it?
Plenty. Vic called my husband recently, asking for a loan. Said Adams car was wrecked and desperate. Vic always has problems. And your Vic wants to solve everything at your expense. Hell build, say Adam can stay upstairs for now, and youll be taking care of two grown men in the sticks.
Talking with Emily sobered Irene, but bitterness remained.
Saturday passed in heavy anticipation. Victor didnt sleep at home. He returned only for lunch, silent, into the bedroom to watch TV. Irene cooked soup. She wanted to speak, seek compromise, maybe say: Lets start small, build a shed, save up
But she overheard him on the phone, the bedroom door ajar.
Yeah, mate, hang tight. Ill sort it. Shes playing tough but she wont go anywhere. Shes too old, no one wants her but me. Ill crack her by Monday. Well sell the flat, Ill send you £4,000 straight, you can settle those collectors Yeah, and the rest goes to the build. My land, so house will be mine, really. She can look after the roses.
Irene froze, ladle in hand. Blood drained from her face.
Old, no one wants her.
Shell crack.
She clings.
Something snapped inside her. That thin thread of pity and fear broke with a resounding clang.
She set aside the ladle, turned off the hob. The soup was underdonenot that it mattered.
Irene went to the hall, fetched the big suitcase theyd used for Spain three years ago, brought it to the bedroom.
Victor lay on the sofa with his phone. Seeing her with the suitcase, he smirked.
Off to evict the tenants? Good. About time. No need to show attitude when the mans speaking sense.
Irene calmly opened his side of the wardrobe, pulled out shirts, jeans, jumpers.
Hey, what are you doing? Victor propped himself up, confused. Why are you packing my things?
Im helping, she said coolly, tossing underwear in. You wanted a decision by Monday? Why wait? Ive decided now.
You… are you throwing me out? he sat up, his face stretched in disbelief. Irene, dont be mad! I was only bluffingto push you!
Im not bluffing, Vic. Get up. Pack your socks, pants, tools from the cupboard. Ill call a taxi to your digs. Or to your mums in the country. Off you go.
You wouldnt dare! He jumped up, face red as a beetroot. This is my home too! I lived here five years! I wallpapered, I fitted the skirting boards!
Skirting boards? Irene smiled dryly. Fine, Ill pay you for skirting boards. And wallpaper glue. As for the utilities I paid alone all those years, and groceries you ate, and petrol from my cardconsider that compensation for male attention.
Irene, stop this hysterics! he tried to hug her, switch tactics, muster charm. Come on! Dont get carried away! Okay, I get it. If you dont want to sell, we wont. Lets take a loan? Ill handle it myself, you can just sign as guarantor
Irene recoiled. The thought of five years unseen, or perhaps ignored, sickened her.
I heard your conversation with Adam, Vic. About old, about clinging, and how youll force me to decide.
Victor paled, fear flickering in his eyes. He realised hed gone too far; there was no going back.
You were listening?!
I was in my home, my kitchen. Door was open. Get packing. You have an hour. Then Im changing the locks.
The next hour felt like fog. Victor alternated between shouting threats about property division and falling to his knees begging her to forgive an idiot who said too much. He was a bulldog one minute, a beaten stray the next. Irene sat in her armchair, dry-eyed. She felt no pity. Only shame for tolerating such disrespect.
She knew the law. The flat they lived in had been hers for ten years before marriage. The other flather inheritance. The car, bought on a loan in her name. Victor owned only his patch of land and an old Land Rover, which was worth less than her coat. Nothing more was up for grabsjust cutlery.
When Victors departure clicked shut, Irene didnt cry. She locked the door twice, put the chain on. She poured the unfinished souphis favouritedown the lavatory and flung open the window to air out the scent of his cologne and lavender.
On Monday, she filed for divorce. At the registry office, they allowed a months reconciliation, but she immediately wrote she saw no hope.
Victor didn’t give up easily. He waited outside her work with flowers, staged remorse. Then came angry texts demanding compensation for wasted years. Adam rang and threatened, Dad will get half!
Irene changed her number. She hired a decent solicitor to block any claim on her assets. As Emily predicted, there was nothing to dividethe refurbishments didnt entitle Victor to a share, and he had no receipts, since Irene bought everything.
Six months passed.
Irene stood on her balcony. A warm summer dusk. Children played in the courtyard below. She sipped tea from a new, pretty mug. The flat was peaceful. Nobody demanded supper, nobody switched her favourite drama to football, nobody criticised her spending.
She didnt sell her grandmothers flat. She made cosmetic upgrades (hired professionals, not handy men) and let it out for more. She now saved that money for travel. Shed always wanted to see Lake Windermere, but Victor used to say, Why bother? Better fix the country fence.
No fences now. Only Windermere.
The doorbell broke her reverie. Emily and grandson Michael had arrived.
Hi, Gran! three-year-old Michael hugged her legs. We got cake!
Mum, are you alright? Emily looked at her closely. You look wonderful. New dress?
New. And new hairstyle, Irene smiled. You know, Emily, Ive realised Im glad he pushed that ultimatum. If not, I’d have kept enduring, giving my life away bit by bit. But like lancing a boilit hurt, but healed fast.
They had tea in the kitchen, the very place the fateful sell it or divorce was uttered. Now the air was scented with vanilla and fresh baking.
By the way, Emily said, biting cake, Saw Vic recently. In the shopping centre. Not looking great. All rumpled. With a woman who was yelling at him about trolley directions.
Irene shrugged indifferently.
I hope she doesnt have a spare flat for him to sell.
Mum, you dont regret it? Being alone isnt it strange?
Alone? Irene looked around the kitchen, at Emily, at Michael smearing icing everywhere. Im not alone, darling. I have myself, and you. Being alone is better than living with someone who sees you as just a resource for his wishes. I may be old as he says, but Im not stupid.
That evening, after theyd left, Irene sat at her computer, ready to review work paperwork. But first, she opened the travel agency site. Tickets for Windermere were already booked. She gazed at photos of clear waters, cliffs, endless skies.
Life hadnt ended at fifty-two. It was only beginning. And in this new life, there were no ultimatums, manipulations, or greedy relativesonly freedom of choice and self-respect.
She recalled Victors face when she packed his suitcasethe genuine disbelief that she would ever assert herself. Many women endure, afraid to lose their status or face judgment or emptiness. Irene had feared as well. But losing herself was far more terrifying.
She shut the laptop and went to bed. Tomorrow would be a new dayand this day belonged to her.
