I gave you the best years of my life, and youve traded me for a younger girl I said to James as I slid the divorce papers across the kitchen table.
Do you even realise what youve done? Youve ripped everything apart! Emilys voice broke, tears threatening to spill over. Our family, our life, everything we built over twentyfive years!
James stood by the window, his back to her, silent. His broad shoulders, which had always felt like a safe harbour, now seemed stiff and foreign. He didnt even turn. The quiet hurt more than any shout could.
Say something! she pleaded, stepping closer. Look me in the eyes and tell me its not true. That the woman Andrew saw you with is just a colleague, a misunderstanding
He turned slowly. Fatigue lined his face, the corners of his eyes now deep with creases. There was no remorse, no regret, only a dull, distant weariness.
Emily, I wont lie, he said quietly. Its true.
The room seemed to thicken; breathing became harder. Emily recoiled as if struck. She clung to the faint hope that this must be a terrible mistake.
But why? she whispered, the whisper echoing like a scream in the silent living room. Why, James? What did I do wrong?
You didnt do anything wrong, he ran a hand through his hair. Youre a perfect wife, a perfect mother. Its not you, its me.
Its not you, Emily sneered, bitterly. Thats the most overused line ever. I gave you the best years, James! I gave up my career so you could chase yours. I made a home, raised our Lucy, waited for you after every business trip. And you you just swapped me for a younger woman.
Her names Sophie, he added for some reason.
I dont give a toss what shes called! Emily burst out. Shes twentyfive? Thirty? She could be my daughter! What can she give you that I never could?
Youth, James replied, softly but firmly. Lightness. The feeling that theres still a whole life ahead. With her I feel alive again. With us everything turned into a habit, a routine. Dinner at seven, a TV show at nine, a holiday once a year at the same boring hotel. Its safe, its predictable, but its also soulsucking.
Emily stared at him, not recognizing the man shed married. This wasnt the James whod been her partner in painting the walls of their first tiny flat, whod celebrated Lucys first steps. This was a cold stranger speaking cruel truths with eerie calm.
So for you our life is just a routine? she asked, feeling everything inside her crumble. My love, my care just drudgery?
He said nothing, and that was his answer.
She walked to the sideboard, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. Her hands trembled, the letters jagged. She wrote just a few words, then approached him with the slip.
Whats this? he frowned, confused.
Divorce papers. Ill sign them tomorrow. Leave.
Emily, lets not do this in a rush
Go, James, she repeated, her voice ringing like metal. Pack your things and go chase that lightness. I dont want to see you again.
He gave her a long, heavy look, then nodded and left the room. Half an hour later she heard the soft thump of his suitcase being opened and the click of the lock. He said nothing goodbye. The front door shut quietly, cutting off the past.
Emily was left alone in the living room. She sank into the armchair he used to sit in every evening. The silence pressed on her ears. For twentyfive years the house had been alive with Lucys laughter, Jamess footsteps, the hum of the telly, kitchen chatter. Now it was empty, echoing like a crypt. She didnt cry; the tears had run out long ago. Inside was only a barren desert, cold and lifeless.
The next morning the phone rang insistently. It was Lucy, their daughter, whod been living with her husband for the past two years.
Mum, hi! Dont forget were expecting you for dinner tonight. I baked your favourite apple crumble.
Emily closed her eyes. How to tell her? How to explain that the family no longer existed?
Lucy, we wont be coming, her voice was hoarse, foreign.
Is everything okay? Are you ill? Lucy sounded worried.
James and I were getting divorced, love.
Silence lingered on the line, then Lucy whispered:
He left?
Yes.
Im coming over now.
An hour later Lucy was sitting across from her at the kitchen table, gripping her hand tightly, eyes full of sympathy.
I knew something was off, Mum. Hes been distant lately, always on his phone, late meetings every night. I just didnt want to believe it.
I dont know, Emily admitted. It feels like Ive been ripped out of my life, and they havent told me what to do next. Its empty, Lucy.
Ill talk to him, Lucy said firmly. Ill tell him how you feel. How could he do this to you?
Dont, Emily shook her head. It wont change anything. Hes made his choice. He wants lightness.
They sat in silence for a while. Then Lucy got up, opened the fridge, and started rummaging for food.
Were not going to sit around feeling sorry for ourselves. Ill make us something tasty, and tomorrow well go shopping for a new dress for you. Well book you a salon appointment. New haircut, fresh start.
Why? Emily asked, detached.
Because life doesnt end, Mum! Lucy replied confidently. It just begins again.
The next few days drifted like a fog. Emily mechanically followed Lucys suggestions: shopping trips, a salon chair, light makeup. In the mirror she saw a neatly dressed woman in her fifties, hair styled, eyes still tired. The new dress fit perfectly but brought no joy. It felt like a masquerade, a splash of colour over a hollow void.
James called once to arrange collection of his remaining belongings. The conversation was brief, businesslike. No apologies, no reminiscing. He arrived on a weekday while Emily was home, packed his books, CDs, winter coat, lingered by the shelf of family photos. He picked up a picture of the three of themyoung, happy, with baby Lucy cradled in their armsstanding by the sea. He examined it, then placed it back carefully.
Ill leave it, he said quietly. Its part of your memories too.
Emily said nothing. As he left, she noticed hed slipped his old scarf the one shed knitted for him a decade ago onto the hall table. Was it forgotten or left on purpose? She picked it up, inhaled the familiar scent of his aftershave mixed with a hint of wool and cold. For the first time in days she burst into sobs, raw and ragged, clutching the fabric.
Loneliness settled heavy on her evenings. The house, once filled with his presence, now echoed with deafening silence. She tried to fill the gaps: TV shows felt trite, books blurred, she roamed the empty flat, stumbling over ghosts of the past his favourite armchair, his mug on the kitchen counter, the dent in the mattress where he used to sleep.
While rummaging through a wardrobe she found a box of her old fashion sketches. Before marriage shed studied fashion design, even won a small award for her final project. Then James came along, they married, Lucy was born, and his career took precedence. Her sketches had gathered dust. She sat on the floor, leafing through yellowed pages: delicate silhouettes, bold colour pairings, daring cuts. One sketch was the dress shed worn on their first date; James had called her a fairy that night. The memory pierced her chest. It felt as if another, more confident version of herself was staring back.
One afternoon her old friend Sophie called.
Em, love, I heard from Lucy. How are you holding up?
Managing, Emily replied curtly.
Listen, why not meet for a coffee? You cant stay cooped up all the time.
Emily hesitated, then agreed.
They met in a tiny, cosy café in the city centre. Sophie, a bubbly estate agent, was full of energy.
So, spill it. Though it sounds like the same old sitcom plot. Midlife crisis, greying beard, the bloke finds a young chick and thinks hes a Casanova.
Dont be harsh, Sophie. She might be decent.
Does it matter? Good or bad, hes still a cheat! Twentyfive years of my life, gone. Men!
Sophie ordered two towering cappuccinos and a plate of scones.
Eat, you need some positivity. What about the flat?
Its mine, my parents gave it to me. He doesnt lay claim.
At least youve got that. What will you live on? He wont be paying you any maintenance, are you disabled?
Ill find work, Emily said uncertainly. Im not completely helpless.
At fifty, no recent experience, what are you thinking? A shop assistant? A concierge? Wake up, Em! You were used to a certain standard.
Sophies words were harsh but true. Emily realised she had no plan. Her savings wouldnt stretch forever.
Remember how you used to sew? Sophie prompted. Those dresses you made! Everyone envied you at college.
That was ages ago, Emily shrugged. Who cares now? There are a hundred designers out there.
Try it for yourself! Not to sell, just because you love it. Find something that lights you up, or that ache will eat you alive.
The chat sparked something. That evening Emily dug out her old sketches again, this time with fresh eyes. She fetched her mothers vintage sewing machine from the attic, brushed off a bolt of fabric that had been meant for curtains, and let her fingers remember the needles rhythm. She sewed a simple summer dress, pouring everything shed felt into the cotton. When it was done, she slipped it on, stood before the mirror, and saw a light, airy dress the colour of a clear sky. It fit perfectly, made her look younger, leaner. She twirled, and for the first time in weeks a faint smile tugged at her lips.
A few days later, as she was leaving a shop, she bumped into James walking arminarm with a young, laughing girlSophie. The young womans short denim skirt and bright hair gave her a carefree vibe. They looked like father and daughter. James spotted Emily, froze. He stared at her new dress, at her eased posture, and something like surpriseor maybe admirationflashed across his eyes.
Emily you look good, he began.
Thanks, she replied evenly, not giving his companion a glance. And you look well.
He nodded, turned, and walked on. Emily felt his gaze linger for a moment, then she kept moving, feeling a light sting of melancholy mixed with relief. She realised the sharp pain had dulled; only a gentle wistfulness remained. He no longer saw her as a broken woman, but as someone who had moved on. That was a small, but important victory.
Inspired, she made another dress, then a skirt, a blouse. Lucy, when she saw her mothers work, gasped.
Mum, this is amazing! You could be a proper designer!
Who would want them? Emily blushed.
Everyone! Lucy declared. Lets set up a page for you on Instagram. Ill take photos, write a catchy bio.
Emily hesitated, but Lucy was relentless. She created an account called Emilys Dresses, posted crisp photos against historic doors in the city centre, and added a few witty captions. The first few days were quiet, then a message arrived: a woman in her forties wrote that she adored the dress and wanted one in a different colour. Emily measured, chose fabric, and sewed through the night, nervous about disappointing her first client. When the finished piece was delivered, the clients delighted review poured in, and wordofmouth spread.
Soon orders kept coming. Emily turned a spare bedroom into a tiny studio, bought a professional sewing machine, an overlock, a couple of mannequins. She watched online tutorials, read up on new fabrics, and spent less time dwelling on the past. Her life filled with new purpose, new worries, new joys. Her clientele were mostly women her age, tired of massmarket drabness, craving something elegant that flattered them. Emily understood them like no one else; she wasnt just making clothes, she was giving confidence back.
One evening, as she was finishing a commission, the doorbell rang. James stood on the threshold, looking thinner, a bit lost.
May I come in? he asked quietly.
She stepped aside. He entered, eyes taking in the makeshift showroom: dresses on hangers, sketches scattered on the sofa, swatches everywhere.
Wow, he muttered. Lucy told me youre sewing, but I didnt expect it to be this serious.
And what did you think? That Id sit by the window and weep? Emily replied with a hint of irony.
I I dont know what I thought. he sat down heavily. Things with Sophie didnt work out.
What a surprise, Emily said, unable to hide a faint laugh.
Please, dont mock me, he rubbed his forehead wearily. Shes a nice girl, but were from different worlds. She lives for clubs, socials, the instantgratification stuff. I realised that lightness can just be emptiness. I miss our evenings, Emily. Your soups, the way you laughed at bad comedies. Ive been an idiot.
Tears welled in his eyes.
I want to come back, if youll have me.
Emily stared at him, at the man shed loved almost her whole life, who had shattered her heart and now stood at the door, broken and pleading. Part of her remembered the twentyfive years of happiness and wanted to rush into his arms, forgive, forget. Another part, forged by pain and solitude, whispered a firm no.
You know, James, she began slowly, choosing her words, when you left I felt my world ended. I was just your wife, a shadow. When you disappeared I almost vanished too. Then I found myself again, the girl Id buried under the weight of chores and expectations. I remembered that Im not just Jamess wife, Im Emily a person with my own desires, talents, dreams.
She walked to the window hed been standing by that night.
I dont hold a grudge. In fact, Im grateful you woke me up. But I cant take you back. Not because I havent forgiven you, but because Im no longer the woman you left. This flat is no longer the house you walked out of. Its my home now, my life, and theres no room for you in it.
James lowered his head, silent.
Goodbye, James, she said softly.
He stood, turned, and left without looking back. The door clicked shut, but this time Emily felt nothing but a light, lingering sadness and a huge, liberating sense of freedom. She walked back to her workbench, switched on the lamp, grabbed fabric and a pencil. Ahead lay a new collection, fresh ideas, a life she was building herself and she liked it just fine.
