Fifteen years of marriage—all for nothing. Once upon a time, Emily had believed she could change her husband, drag 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 had all started with an ordinary evening, like hundreds before…
Simon came home drunk. Not just tipsy, but utterly plastered. He slumped at the kitchen table, pounding his fist against the wood, shouting about how cold and emotionless and dull she was. Then he announced he was leaving her—for Lucy, the woman from the corner shop. Lucy *understood* him, unlike Emily. And with that, he passed out right there at the table, snoring loudly.
Emily stood up, walked to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and stared into the mirror. Thirty-nine. Her eyes were empty—no anger, no hurt. Just silence. And that night, she decided: enough.
The next morning, when Simon stumbled into the kitchen, hungover and groggy, she was waiting for him with a piece of paper in her hand. It looked very official—divorce papers.
“What’s this?” he grumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“Exactly what you said last night. Living with me is hard, I irritate you. So fair’s fair. I’m filing for divorce.”
“Not scared I’ll walk out?” he sneered.
“Not anymore. I’m too tired to be scared. Walk if you want. But we split the flat properly. Or, if you’d rather, you can stay. On one condition.”
“What now?”
“My brother Oliver moves in until the court date. He’ll pay rent for the spare room, and I’ll transfer half the bills to your account.”
Simon exploded. Threatened to take the flat, saddle her with debts. Told her if she wanted freedom so badly, *she* could leave. He was staying.
Emily said nothing. She moved in with her mum, left the keys with Oliver. Two days later, she was gone—down to a little seaside town near Brighton. There, she found a tiny cottage by the shore, the kind she’d dreamt of all her life. A little longer, and she’d buy it outright.
Simon didn’t believe it. He waited for Emily to come crawling back. For things to return to normal. But three weeks passed. Then a month. Then a letter arrived from the solicitor—property division, valuations, shares. All official. And Emily was gone for good.
He tried to backtrack—begged, called her mother, messaged Oliver. Useless. Emily was free. And as she lay on the beach with a book, she finally felt it: she was *living*.
One day, a stranger—a tearful woman—approached her towel.
“Please… what should I do? My husband’s lost it again. I don’t know how to—”
Emily opened her mouth to reply. Then closed it. Stood up, brushed off the sand, and said:
“Sorry. That’s not my problem anymore.”
And she walked on—into the sun, toward her new life.
