Fifteen years of marriage—all for nothing. Once upon a time, Emma had believed she could change her husband, pull him out of the swamp of drinking, laziness, and lies. But now, looking at him, she felt nothing—no pain, no love. Just exhaustion. And it all started with an ordinary evening, like hundreds before…
Simon stumbled home drunk—not tipsy, but completely plastered. He collapsed at the kitchen table, slammed his fist down, and shouted about how cold and emotionless she was, how dull. Then he announced he was leaving her—for Lucy from the corner shop. Lucy *understood* him, unlike Emma. Then he passed out right there, snoring into his sleeves.
Emma stood, went to the bathroom, washed her face, and stared into the mirror. Thirty-nine. Empty eyes. No rage, no hurt. Just silence. That night, she decided: enough was enough.
By morning, when Simon dragged himself to the kitchen with a pounding headache, she was already waiting, a piece of paper in hand. Official-looking. Divorce papers.
“—What’s this?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“—Exactly what you said last night. Living with me is hard, I irritate you. Fair’s fair. I’m filing for divorce.”
“—You’re not afraid I’ll leave?” he sneered.
“—Not anymore. I’m tired of being afraid. Go if you want. But we’re splitting the flat properly. Or stay, if you’d rather—on one condition.”
“—And what’s that?”
“—My brother Oliver moves in until court. He’ll pay rent, and I’ll transfer half the bills to your card.”
Simon exploded. Threatened to take the flat for himself, dump their debts on her. Told her if she wanted freedom, *she* could leave. He was staying.
Emma said nothing. She moved in with her mum, left Oliver the keys. Three days later, she was off to Cornwall—a tiny seaside village, the kind she’d dreamt of all her life. Soon, she’d buy the little cottage by the shore.
Simon didn’t believe it. Waited for Emma to crawl back, for everything to go back to normal. But three weeks passed. Then a month. Then a solicitor’s letter arrived—property division, valuations, shares. All official. And Emma was gone.
He begged. Called her mother, messaged Oliver. No luck. Emma was free. And lying on the beach with a book, she finally felt it: she was *living*.
One day, a stranger—a tearful woman—hurried over to her towel.
“—Please… my husband’s relapsed. I don’t know what to do—”
Emma opened her mouth. Closed it. Stood, brushed off the sand, and said:
“—Sorry. That’s not me anymore.”
And she walked on—into the sun, toward her new life.
