Five Minutes of Anger – The Cost of a Lifetime
The Story of a Woman Who Divorced Her Husband After 15 Years of Marriage – And Still Can’t Forgive Herself for That Mistake
My name is Emily, and I’m forty-two. I live in Manchester, in a two-bedroom flat where the silence hums in my ears. Once, this place was filled with children’s laughter, the slam of doors, the smell of roast dinners and freshly baked scones. Now, there’s only the drip of the kitchen tap. And it’s all because of me.
I’ve always had a temper. Mum used to say, “Emily, with that fire in you, you’ll end up alone—no man could ever put up with it!” I’d just scoff. Back then, I thought the world should bend to me, not the other way around. I never held my tongue, always spoke my mind—bluntly, without a filter, even when it cut deep.
That’s exactly how James fell in love with me. He was my opposite—calm, steady, the kind who’d defuse arguments with a joke and a smile. Even my outbursts he’d take in stride, calling me his “fiery lass.” We spent fifteen years together. Raised a son and a daughter. Had our share of joy and hardship, like anyone else. But he was always there. Always.
Then, one perfectly ordinary evening, I snapped. The row started over something trivial—I can’t even remember if it was because he forgot the milk or left the bathroom light on. As usual, I shouted, stamped my foot, and in the heat of the moment, spat out:
“That’s it! I want a divorce!”
Normally, James would laugh it off, pull me into a hug, and murmur, “Alright, alright, my little storm, cool down.” But that night, he just looked me in the eye and said quietly:
“Do what you think is best.”
I thought it was a test, that he was daring me to go through with it. And in my stubbornness, I did. Filed the papers. It was over quickly—no fights, no custody battles. He didn’t even resist. Just walked away.
At the time, I told myself it was a break, that he’d come crawling back once he realised he couldn’t live without me. I waited. A day. A week. A month. Waited for him to call, to say, “Enough now, my wild one, come home.” But he stayed silent.
Four months passed.
I’m slowly losing my mind. Because I’ve realised I drove away the only person who ever took me as I was—sharp edges and all. The one who never tried to change me, just loved me. Truly, completely. And I traded it all for pride.
Our son says, “Mum, just call him. Tell him you made a mistake.” Our daughter hugs me wordlessly. They see it all, they understand. But me? I can’t swallow my pride. How much strength does it take to admit you’re wrong and beg forgiveness? Especially when you’ve spent your whole life convinced you’re right.
I don’t know if he still loves me. Maybe he’s already shut that door. Maybe he’s learned to live without me. But I still remember how he’d laugh when my baking went wrong, how he’d whisper in my ear when he thought the kids were asleep. How he’d tuck a blanket around me if I dozed off on the sofa.
Sometimes, I catch myself listening for his footsteps outside. I imagine the click of the latch, the door swinging open. Him saying, “Well then, how’ve you managed without me, my tempest?” But no one comes.
I tore down my own fortress. Because pride blinded me. And now, sitting in this empty flat, I choke back tears and wish for just one thing—for him to forgive me. To give me another chance.
But life doesn’t always hand you second chances.
If you’re reading this, James… know this: I’m not proud of my stubbornness anymore. I’m only proud that you stayed with me all those years. And if I could turn back time, I’d never raise my voice again. I’d just pull you close and say:
“I’m sorry. I love you. Please stay.”
For now, I wait. Maybe you’ll remember how happy we were. Maybe you’ll hear me whisper your name through tears in the dark. Maybe… you’ll come back.
And then, for the first time in my life, I’ll bite my tongue. And simply be by your side.