**Divorce for Love**
«Emily! Have you completely lost your mind?!» Victor slammed the papers onto the table, sending teaspoons scattering across the kitchen. «Twenty-three years! Twenty-three years together, and you shove divorce papers at me? What for?»
«Because I finally understand what love is,» Emily replied softly, not lifting her eyes from the scattered spoons. «And I realise we never had it.»
«What nonsense are you spouting?!» Victor clutched his head. «We have a home, a family, grandchildren! What more love do you need at our age? Are you chasing romance at fifty?»
Emily slowly raised her eyes to him. There was no anger, no resentment—just exhaustion and a strange new resolve he didn’t recognise.
«Especially at fifty, Victor. Especially now. Because tomorrow might be too late.»
She gathered the spoons, filled the kettle. Familiar motions, perfected over the years. But something had changed—a lightness, as if a weight had been lifted from her.
«Who is he?» Victor asked hoarsely, sinking into a chair. «Who’s this… lover of yours?»
«His name is James. He teaches at the university. Literature.»
«Literature!» Victor scoffed. «Of course! Reciting poetry, no doubt? And you fell for pretty words?»
Emily placed a cup of tea in front of him, sat across the table. Rain tapped against the window, trails of droplets streaking the glass.
«You know what he told me when we first met?» she murmured. «He said, *‘You have beautiful hands.’* Imagine, Victor? In twenty-three years, you’ve never said anything like that. Not once.»
«Your hands?» Victor frowned, staring at her palms resting on the table. «What’s so special about them?»
«That’s the point,» she said with a sad smile. «What’s special about hands that cooked for you, washed your clothes, ironed your shirt every morning? What’s special about the woman who bore you a son? Raised him, built your home?»
Victor took a sip of tea, grimaced.
«It’s bitter.»
«The sugar’s on the table,» she replied automatically, then caught herself. «Then again, you’ll be adding your own sugar now.»
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock—an anniversary gift from her mother.
«What will our son say?» Victor finally spoke. «Thomas has a family, children… What kind of example are you setting?»
«Thomas already knows,» Emily said. «I told him yesterday.»
«And what did he say?»
«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 both decided. Against me. Family against the father.»
«Not against you, Victor. *For* me. For the first time—for me.»
Emily stood, walked to the window. The rain had thickened, streams racing down the glass.
«Remember how we met?» she asked, not turning. «At that club in Manchester. You walked up and said, *‘Shall we dance?’* Then kissed me goodbye. I thought: *There’s my prince.*»
«And now? I’m a bad prince?»
«Not bad. You were never a prince, Victor. Just a man who married a convenient woman. One who’d cook, clean, bear children, and never interfere. And I was her—for twenty-three years.»
Victor stood, stepped towards her.
«Emily, what are you saying? I *loved* you! I do! Haven’t we built a life? Raised Thomas, bought the house, the cottage—»
«Built, raised, bought,» she repeated. «But loved? Are you sure you did?»
«Of course! How can you even—»
«When was the last time you said *‘I love you’*? Don’t remember? I do. Eight years ago, in hospital, after my surgery. You were afraid I’d die.»
Victor opened his mouth, but no words came.
«And the worst part?» Emily continued. «I’d forgotten what love felt like too. I thought it was convenience—someone who didn’t make demands, didn’t need attention. Turns out, it’s not.»
«So with this… *James*… it’s *inconvenient*?»
She turned to him, glowing in a way Victor hadn’t seen in years.
«With James, I’m terrified, Victor. Terrified and exhilarated. When he looks at me, my hands shake. When we talk, I lose track of time. When he touches me, the world stops.»
«It’s—it’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. I want a man to look at me like he’s starving—not checking if his shirt’s pressed or his dinner’s warm.»
Victor sagged in his chair as if crushed by invisible weight.
«And if he leaves you? What then?»
«Then I’ll be alone. And that’s better than staying married to a man who doesn’t *see* me.»
«I *do* see you!»
«Really?» Emily sat facing him. «Then tell me—what am I wearing?»
Victor blinked, flustered.
«It’s… blue. A blue top.»
«It’s *green*, Victor. Bought it weeks ago, hoping you’d notice. You’ve always liked green.»
«Green…» he echoed. «What does it matter?»
«It matters to me. And to James.»
Keys jangled in the hallway. Their son, Thomas, stepped in, shaking rain from his coat.
«Hey! What’s—» He froze, seeing their faces. «What’s wrong?»
«Your mother’s lost her mind,» Victor muttered. «Wants a divorce. At fifty.»
Thomas hung his coat, movements cautious as if navigating a minefield.
«Mum… you told him?»
«I did,» Emily said.
«And… Dad, how are you?»
«How *should* I be?» Victor exploded. «My wife says twenty-three years meant *nothing*! That some lecturer understands her better!»
Thomas poured himself tea.
«Dad… do you love Mum?»
«What kind of question is that? *Of course!*»
«When was the last time you told her?»
Father and son locked eyes. Victor looked away first.
«Men don’t—we *show* it.»
«How?» Emily whispered.
«How? I provide, I don’t drink, I don’t cheat—»
«That’s not love, Dad,» Thomas sighed. «That’s obligation.»
«You’re against me too?»
«I’m for Mum’s happiness. And yours. *Are* you happy?»
Victor’s *‘yes’* caught in his throat. He studied his wife, his son, the familiar kitchen with its yellow walls and china.
«I don’t know,» he admitted. «Never thought about it.»
«Mum did. And realised she wasn’t.»
Emily took his hand.
«Victor, I don’t want to hurt you. You’re a good man. Dependable, honest. A good father. But we… we’re just habit. Like old furniture.»
«Is that so bad?» he pleaded. «Isn’t comfort enough?»
«Not anymore. Not for me.»
Victor pulled his hand free, stood.
«So it’s final?»
«Final.»
«You’ll move in with… James?»
«No. I’ll stay at Mum’s first. Need to remember who I am.»
«The house? The cottage?»
«Keep them. I don’t need them.»
Victor paced, stopped by the window. The rain had eased; sunlight pierced the clouds.
«Maybe… we could try again?» he whispered. «I’ll do better. Be… more attentive.»
Emily joined him, shoulder to shoulder.
«Victor, love can’t be forced. You can’t *make* yourself see what you’ve missed for twenty-three years. It’s not your fault. It’s ours.»
«Ours…»
«Yes. We married out of comfort, necessity—not love. And lived someone else’s life.»
«And now you want yours?»
«I want to try. While I still can.»
Victor turned, truly *seeing* her—the brightness in her eyes, the strength he’d overlooked.
«You *are* beautiful,» he blurted. «I never noticed before.»
Emily smiled sadly.
«Too late, Victor.»
«Too late…»
Thomas stood.
«I’ll be upstairs if you need me.»
Husband and wife stood in silence. Then Victor picked up the papers.
«Where do I sign?»
«Here. And here.»
The pen scratched. He set it down.
«That’s it?»
«That’s it.»
«When are you leaving?»
«Tomorrow morning.»
«So soon…»
«No point delaying.»
Victor nodded, turned to leave, then paused.
«Emily… I hope you’re happy. Truly.»
«Thank youAs Emily drove away, Victor stood at the gate, the weight of twenty-three years settling quietly upon his shoulders, and for the first time, he wondered if he had ever really known love at all.