I Want a Divorce,” She Whispered, Turning Her Gaze Away

“I want a divorce,” she whispered, turning her face away.

It was a bitter evening in London when Emily murmured those words, her gaze slipping from the eyes of her husband, Henry. His face drained of colour as the silent question hung between them.

“Im leaving you to the woman you truly love,” Emily said, realising the most important woman in his life had always been his mother. “I wont play second fiddle any longer.”

Her throat tightened, betraying tears welling in her eyes. Years of disappointment and heartache clawed at her chest, leaving her breathless.

“What are you talking about? What other woman?” Henry asked, staring at her in disbelief.

“Weve spoken of this before. Since our wedding, your mother has drained usfinancially, emotionally, every way possible. And you let her, because her soups richer and her scones fluffier. I cant do this anymore,” Emily burst out.

Tears streaked her flushed cheeks. She mourned the dreams shed once held so clearlya promising fiancé, a respectable career, life in the heart of the cityonly to find it all a battle for scraps of happiness.

Five years earlier, Emily had stepped hesitantly into the grand sitting room of their flat. The furnishings, the china, the ornamentsall seemed impossibly fine to a girl whod spent most of her life in shared lodgings, then university halls.

“Fancy me landing a man with his own place,” shed teased, resting her hands on Henrys shoulders. “Wait till I leave socks everywherethen see how impressed you are.”

Shed moved in quickly after they met, swept up in a whirlwind romance that begged to be indulged. Back then, she was in her final year at Kings College, studying journalism, while Henry, five years older, worked as a sales director with a steady income.

A year after moving in, they married.

“One day, well turn the guest room into a nursery,” Emily had once remarked, wrapping her arms around him, hinting she was ready for children.

But a month later, the unexpected arrival cameHenrys mother, Mrs. Whitmore, stood at their doorstep with two suitcases. She had an excellent relationship with her sonat least, in her eyes. Her upbringing, steeped in guilt and the demands of a single parent, had shaped a man who felt eternally indebted. She took pride in his success, convinced it was her doing.

Every payday, Henry repaid the debts of their flat, the car, and his childhood. Emily watched from the sidelines, careful not to disrupt their bond, only broaching the subject occasionally.

“Where did the money from selling the house go?” she asked one evening, pouring tea, treading lightly. Mrs. Whitmore had come from a small village near Oxford, where shed inherited a modest cottage.

Year after year, Henry offered to help her find a place in town, but she refused. Then suddenly, she sold the cottagequickly, cheaply.

“Some for my future travels, some invested in my new venture,” Mrs. Whitmore said.

Despite hardships in her youth, she remained ambitiousand overbearing. Such people demanded caution; give them an inch, and theyd take a mile.

Lately, shed discovered an online cosmetics business. To stay partnered with the company, she had to purchase their products in bulk. That was where the cottage money had gone.

“Ive decided theres no harm in me staying here,” she announced, stirring honey into her tea.

“Of course, we love having you!” Emily pressed gently, hoping this was temporary. “Ill ask my friendshes an estate agent. Shell find you a lovely flat nearby.”

“No need. Two homes are excessive. Best to saveI dont mind roughing it,” Mrs. Whitmore countered, playing the martyr.

Emily looked to Henry, hoping hed object. She didnt dislike his mother, but sharing their home indefinitely was untenable. Yet Henry merely shrugged. “Whatever suits you.”

He always backed his mother, no matter how dubious her schemes, believing he owed her unquestioning loyalty.

And there were many schemesmacramé, candle-making, soap-crafting, scrapbooking. She hunted for a fortune but found it in Henry, who funded every whim.

Since his promotion, Mrs. Whitmore hadnt worked a day.

Henrys childish belief that he owed his mother for his very existence crushed his will, manifesting in excessive financial support and blind obedience.

It was startling how a grown man could be so swayed, as pliant as a child.

The guest room never became a nursery. Three years passed with little change. Emily worked at a publishing house, her articles on family and relationships well-received. Yet for all her insight into others lives, she couldnt untangle her own.

Her opinions held no weight in a home where Mrs. Whitmore ruled.

An only child of a single mother, Henry had married a woman who might demand his time and moneya threat his mother countered by monopolising both, convinced he owed her everything.

The household cleaners were all replaced by her pyramid scheme products. Emily couldnt bear the sight of the little bottles. The “business” brought no profit, just empty promises.

Shed raised it with Henry, only to hear, “Mum knows what shes doing,” or from Mrs. Whitmore, “Patiencegood things take time.” Yet three years had passed, and the “tree” hadnt grown, while the costs piled up.

When Mrs. Whitmore suggested Emily “invest in the family business,” she knew drastic action was needed.

The final straw was a conversation that should never have happened.

On New Years Eve, theyd finally stolen a rare night alone. After ice-skating, they sat in a cosy café, rosy-cheeked and glowing.

“Henry, are you happy?” Emily asked.

“Of course,” he said, squeezing her hand. “How could I not be, with you beside me?”

“I want a baby,” she whispered, leaning close.

“Right now?” he teased, kissing her fingers.

That night, they agreed it was time. But the next day, Mrs. Whitmore barged into their bedroom.

“You cant have a child yet!”

Stunned, Emily didnt react at first.

“Henry hasnt paid off the mortgage, the car”

“Youre just afraid hell stop funding your nonsense,” Emily shot back, the first time shed dared speak so bluntly.

“Ive only ever wanted the best for my son. Hes all I haveI raised him alone!”

“You dont owe him for that. You chose to have him. You can hope for his love, not demand it.”

Mrs. Whitmore understood but clung to her comfortable life. “Henry will see Im right.”

And Emily feared she was correcthis mothers sway was that strong.

Nothing would stop her from wanting a child, but for Henry, his mothers disapproval was enough.

Yet after a tense late-night talk, she realised he was hopelessly lost, even to himself.

Yesterday, hed loved the idea. Today, he argued, “Maybe its not the right time. Were not ready.”

Emily knew she couldnt stay.

“I want a divorce.”

Henry paled.

“Im leaving you to the one you truly love. I wont be second best anymore.”

The injustice burned. How often had she tried to talk, only for Henry to deny reality? Tears spilled over.

“What other woman?” he asked, bewildered.

“Since we married, its always, Mum says this, Mum says that. She controls our money. I cant take it.”

Henry barely heard her, grappling with how things had come to this. When she fell silent, he sat beside her, studying her tear-streaked face.

“Is this really just about Mum living here?”

“How can you not see? Shes taken you from yourself. Without my salary, wed struggle. She forbade a baby to keep her allowance. Shes not a bad woman, but she needs boundariesand you erase them. You suffer. I suffer. Our child would too. Your debts are paid, Henry. Live for yourself.”

The conversation was painful, but Henry begged for a chance, promising to set things right.

The first steps were hardestrefusing his mothers extravagant monthly “investments,” then insisting she move out.

A month later, Emily picked wallpaper for the nursery. Mrs. Whitmore, though initially resistant, adjusted. Without Henrys money, her “business” collapsed, forcing her to find real work.

A year later, they welcomed a baby. Mrs. Whitmore, now content in her own flat, visited often, helping gladly. The family spent days togetherhappy, at last.