**Divorce for Love**
— *”Emma! Have you lost your bloody mind?!”* — Victor slammed the divorce papers onto the kitchen table, sending teaspoons skittering across the surface. *”Twenty-three years! Twenty-three years together, and now you shove these at me? What for?!”*
— *”Because I finally understood what love is,”* Emma replied quietly, her gaze fixed on the scattered spoons. *”And I realised we never had it.”*
Victor clutched his head. *”What rubbish are you on about?! We’ve got a home, a family, grandchildren! What more do you want at our age? Some kind of fairy-tale romance at fifty?”*
Emma finally looked up. There was no anger, no resentment in her eyes—just exhaustion and a quiet resolve he’d never seen before.
— *”Yes, at fifty, Victor. Now. Because tomorrow might be too late.”*
She gathered the spoons and put the kettle on—familiar motions, honed over decades, but lighter now, as if a weight had lifted.
— *”Who is he?”* Victor demanded, sinking into a chair. *”This… lover of yours?”*
— *”His name is Oliver. He teaches English at the university.”*
— *”English!”* Victor snorted. *”Let me guess—he reads you poetry? And you fell for pretty words?”*
Emma placed a cup of tea in front of him and sat down. Rain pattered against the window, streaking the glass like tears.
— *”Do you know what he said when we first met? ‘You have beautiful hands.’ Can you imagine, Victor? Twenty-three years, and you never once told me anything like that.”*
— *”Hands?”* Victor stared blankly at her palms resting on the table. *”What’s so special about them?”*
— *”Exactly,”* she said with a sad smile. *”What’s special about hands that cooked for you, washed your clothes, ironed your shirts every morning? What’s special about the woman who bore your son, raised him, built your home?”*
Victor took a sip of tea and grimaced.
— *”Bitter.”*
— *”Sugar’s on the table,”* Emma replied automatically, then caught herself. *”Though now you’ll have to put it in yourself.”*
The room fell silent, save for the ticking of the wall clock—his mother-in-law’s gift for their tenth anniversary.
— *”What will Jack say?”* Victor finally muttered. *”He’s got his own family now. What kind of example are you setting?”*
— *”He already knows. I told him yesterday.”*
— *”And?”*
— *”He hugged me and said, ‘Mum, I want you to be happy.’ That’s what he said.”*
Victor winced as if struck.
— *”So you’ve all turned against me. My own family.”*
— *”Not against you, Victor. For me. For once—for me.”*
Emma stood and walked to the window. The rain had thickened, streaming down the glass in rivulets.
— *”Remember how we met?”* she asked without turning. *”That dance hall in Soho. You walked up and said, ‘Fancy a dance?’ Then you walked me home and kissed me goodnight. I thought, ‘He’s the one.’”*
— *”And now? Now I’m not good enough?”*
— *”Not bad. Just… not the one. You married a convenient woman, Victor. One who’d cook, clean, bear children, and never ask for more. And I was her. For twenty-three years.”*
Victor stood, closing the distance between them.
— *”Emma, don’t say that. I loved you! I still do! Look at everything we built—Jack, the house, the cottage in Devon—”*
— *”Built, raised, bought,”* she echoed. *”But loved? Are you sure?”*
— *”Of course!”*
— *”When was the last time you said ‘I love you’? You don’t remember, do you? I do. Eight years ago, in hospital, when I had that surgery. You were scared I’d die.”*
Victor opened his mouth, but no words came.
— *”And the worst part?”* Emma continued. *”I forgot what love felt like too. I thought it was just comfort. Not being in each other’s way, not demanding attention. Turns out, I was wrong.”*
— *”With this… Oliver… it’s not comfortable?”*
Emma turned. Her face glowed—something Victor hadn’t seen in years.
— *”With Oliver, I’m terrified, Victor. Terrified and alive. When he looks at me, my hands shake. When we talk, I lose track of time. When he holds my hand, the world stops.”*
— *”That’s just… hormones. A midlife crisis. It’ll pass.”*
— *”Maybe. But I want to feel it. I want to be a woman, not a housekeeper. To be looked at like I matter, not like a checklist—clean shirts, hot dinner.”*
Victor sagged into the chair, as though crushed by an unseen weight.
— *”And if he leaves you? This poet of yours. Then what?”*
— *”Then I’ll be alone. But that’s better than being married to a man who doesn’t see me.”*
— *”I see you!”*
— *”Really?”* Emma sat across from him. *”Then tell me—what am I wearing?”*
Victor blinked.
— *”Uh… blue. A blue blouse.”*
— *”Green, Victor. It’s green. I bought it a month ago. Hoped you might notice. You always liked green.”*
— *”Green…”* he muttered. *”What does it matter?”*
— *”It matters to me. And to Oliver.”*
Keys jangled in the front door. Jack stepped in, shaking rain off his jacket.
— *”Hey—”* He froze, taking in their faces. *”What’s happened?”*
— *”Your mother’s lost it,”* Victor said darkly. *”Wants a divorce. At fifty.”*
Jack hung up his coat, moving as if treading on glass.
— *”Mum, you told him?”*
— *”Yes.”*
— *”Dad… how are you?”*
— *”How do you think?! She says we wasted twenty-three years! That some professor understands her better!”*
Jack poured himself tea.
— *”Dad… do you love Mum?”*
— *”What kind of question is that? Of course!”*
— *”When did you last say it?”*
Father and son locked eyes. Victor looked away first.
— *”That’s not how men show love. We do things.”*
— *”What things?”* Emma asked softly.
— *”I provide, don’t I? Don’t drink, don’t cheat—”*
— *”That’s not love, Dad,”* Jack sighed. *”That’s duty.”*
— *”So you’re against me too?”*
— *”I’m for Mum being happy. And you, actually. Are you happy?”*
Victor meant to say *yes*, but the word stuck in his throat. He glanced at Emma, at Jack, at the familiar kitchen with its cream walls and Wedgwood china.
— *”I don’t know,”* he admitted. *”Never thought about it.”*
— *”Mum did. And realised she wasn’t.”*
Emma took Victor’s hand.
— *”I’m not blaming you. You’re a good man. Dependable, honest. A good father. But we… we’re just furniture to each other. Comfortable, worn-in.”*
— *”And that’s bad?”*
— *”No. But not enough. Not anymore.”*
Victor pulled his hand free and stood.
— *”So this is final?”*
— *”Yes.”*
— *”And you’re moving in with… him?”*
— *”No. I’ll stay at Mum’s first. Need time to remember who I am.”*
— *”The house? The cottage?”*
— *”Keep them. I don’t want them.”*
Victor paced, then stopped at the window. The rain had eased, sunlight breaking through.
— *”What if we tried again?”* he said softly. *”I’ll do better. Be… more attentive.”*
Emma joined him.
— *”You can’t force love, Victor. You can’t suddenly see what you’ve missed for twenty-three years. It’s not your fault. It’s ours.”*
— *”Ours…”*
— *”We didn’t marry for love. Out of convenience, habit, necessity—it doesn’t matter. We lived someone else’s life. Now IThe car turned the corner and disappeared, leaving Victor standing in the drizzle, the weight of twenty-three years pressing down on him like the grey London sky.