Life After Divorce

Life After Divorce

Diary Entry

“Mum, why are you so stubborn?” Mums voice had that familiar tone: patient, a bit patronising, as if explaining something obvious to a clueless child. It always made my stomach twist. “Matthew is a wonderful man. Handsome, clever, well-paid, and he owns his own place. What more could you possibly want?”

I put my spoon down and looked up from where I was stirring the soup. My hands were trembling, so I quickly tucked them under the table, not wanting her to notice.

“Mum, he cheated on me,” I said quietly, meeting her gaze head-on. “Not once, not twicerepeatedly. We were married six months, and Id collected so much evidence the judge didnt even hesitate. He wouldnt allow time for reconciliation! Can you imagine? Even a strangersomeone meant to be neutraldecided our marriage couldnt be saved.”

“So what?” Mum shrugged, tightening the ties on her apron, as if that explained away any awkward little detail. “Men will be men. Remember: a good wife keeps her husband close. Maybe you shouldve tried harder, dear. Gone to a class, the gym, got your nose done or changed your hair. But noyou went straight for divorce!”

I sighed, feeling exhaustion rising like a tide. This conversation had been on a loop for a fortnight, always following the same script. After the split, Id moved in with Mummy own flat (inherited from Gran) was let out, and I was waiting for the tenants to clear out. I longed for the day I could settle into that spacemy own, finally, where I could simply breathe.

***

The sharp chime of the front doorbell cut through the air. I just knew who it was. Matthew. Again. My stomach dropped, palms grew damp. As if by design, Mum invited him round every time, ignoring my protests, blind or unwilling to see my pain.

“Anna, its Matthew!” she announced, popping her head out of the kitchen, her face lit by an almost childish glee. “Come in, love!” she called, voice warm and invitingso much so it made me want to gag.

I gripped my spoon so hard it dug painfully into my hand, white fingertips pressing on cold metal. My throat was tight, chest heavy.

“Mum, I dont want to talk to him,” I said softly, struggling to keep my voice steady.

“No ones asking your permission,” she shot back, surprisingly curt, a flash of irritation on her face. “Its my house, Ill invite who I like. While youre under my roof, youll follow my rules.”

Hot tears rushed to my eyes, but I clenched my jaw and swallowed them. I left the table, barely avoiding knocking over my mug, pushing past Mum and Matthew in the hallway where he was taking off his shoeshis familiar aftershave burning my nose, making my skin crawl.

“Anna, wait!” he called, putting on that fake concernhe always could dial that in, and it only riled me more.

I didnt answer. I shoved the patio door open, stepped out into the chilly London air, and slammed it behind me. Cold whipped under my jumper and stung my neck and ears, but I hardly noticed. I pressed myself to the balcony railings, knuckles bone-white, gazing at the grey blocks of flats, the distant pinpricks of living room lights, the blurred figure hurrying under an umbrella towards God knows what. Somewhere a rubbish truck rumbled, distant pop music drifting in from a flat across the waycheerful and carefree, so entirely at odds with everything inside me.

All I could think was, “Please let him go away soon.” I shivered in my thin cardigan, not made for autumn, clutching it tight. From the kitchen below came Mums cheerful natter with Matthew, the sound of clinking glasses, running tap, her laughter bubbling as if nothing was wrongas if I wasnt out here, shaking in the cold, fighting back tears.

Minutes dragged like syrup. My fingers grew numb, my ears burned, shoulders shivering uncontrollably. But I could not go back inside. I inhaled deeply, willing myself to calm down, trying to focus on Londons night-soundsthe buzz of the capital, distant voices. Anything but what was happening behind the wall.

The door behind me creaked open. Instinctively, I whirled round. Matthew had stepped out.

“Anna,” he said, stopping a few steps away, hands buried in his jeans, tilting his head as if searching my eyes. “Cant we just have a normal chat?”

“We have nothing to say,” I replied, turning back to the street, watching raindrops track the glass of the next balcony.

“Listen” he stepped closer; his presence prickled across my skin. “I know Ive made mistakes. Ive changed. Give me another chance. Ill be different, I promise.”

“You didnt even say sorry.” I turned to him then, heat building under my skin. “You just want things to go back to how they were, because it suits youbecause its easier. You havent changed, Matthew. Youre just mourning what you lost.”

“I really”

“Enough.” My voice rose, a spark of unfamiliar certainty. “I dont need your promises. I dont need a man who cant stay faithful, who puts his wants above respect for me.”

I yanked the door, but it had locked again. Typical. Mums little intervention.

“Mum!” I shouted. My tone startled even meso desperate. “Let me in!”

A minute later, I heard the lock click and Mum appeared in the gap, beaming as if it was some happy occasion. Same old cherry-print apron, now carrying a steaming mug of tea.

“You twowhat are you doing out here?” She set the tea on the little table shed dragged outside earlier, straightening the cloth. “Come along! Suppers ready and spearmint tea, just as you like.”

I brushed past, avoiding her eyes, a knot of rage inside menot just for Matthew, but for Mum too, always barging into my life, indifferent to my feelings, as though my pain, my choices, barely registered.

“Mum,” I stopped in the hallway, meeting her eyes, “please. No more. I dont want to see him. And I dont want you inviting him. Its my life now. Ill decide whats best for me.”

“Oh honestly, darling.” She patted my shoulder, but her touch now felt foreign, unwelcome. “Hes sorry! Men make mistakes, but if a womans wise, she gives a second chance. Youre just too proud. You should be more gentle, more willing…”

I closed my eyes, counting to ten, holding back a rising storm. No point arguingId tried. Still, tears threatened. I turned away, shutting myself in the spare room, as if it could shield me from it all. The air was closeId forgotten to open the windowand I dropped onto the edge of the bed, hands trembling wildly, making fists and pressing them to my knees to steady myself.

From the kitchen, their voices floatedMums charged, almost triumphant, as if shed scored some victory. Matthew answered more softly, but I recognised the old tones: coaxing, patronising, as if talking a child through a tantrum.

How dare he come here, after all this? After insisting every woman was “just a friend,” when at least three had turned out to be far more, right within six months of our marriage. Thats just the ones I caught.

Half an hour later, when voices died down and the flat door closed with a heavy thud that echoed in my chest, I emerged. The kitchen was fragrant with mint and vanillaMum had made one of her morning cakes, filling the flat with that comforting smell. For a moment I wanted to sit like a little girl at the table, forget it all, but I forced the feeling down.

“Still sulking, love?” Mum turned with her now-rote smilefalse, pasted on. “Matthew really is a good lad. Hes trying, I told him: Prove to Anna youve changed.”

“Mum,” I rested against the doorway, feeling the rough-painted wood under my fingers, “I dont want him to prove anything. I dont want to see him. I just want to be left alone until I can move. Is that so much to ask?”

Mum slumped into a chair, lower now, as if her own invisible weights dragged at her shoulders.

“Youre so extreme,” she said, more earnestly and tired. “Life isnt black and white. Yes, he was wrong. But nobodys perfect. Maybe you pushed him away? Maybe you should have tried harder, looked better…”

Tears blurred my eyes, a sharp pain jamming my chestlike someone had crushed my heart.

“So its my fault?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “My fault he cheated?”

“Wellnot exactly,” she hedged, eyes sliding to the window now dark with night. “In relationships, there are always two sides. You could have been softer, more patient…”

“He could have been loyal,” I cut in. And there was steel in my voice even I hadnt known. “Is that so much to ask? Just to be honest, not lie, not betray? Thats what marriage is meant to be.”

***

Matthew became a regular ghost, lurking about as if drawn to my doorstep. Sometimes hed happen to be loitering near Mums block when I took out the bins, hands in pockets, sheepish smile. Other times, the doorbell would go and there he was with a box of Black Magic and, “Just passing, thought Id pop in,”though I knew full well he was lying in wait.

Once he turned up with a bunch of red roses and a box of old-fashioned cherry liqueur chocolatesthe kind Id loved as a teenage girl. The flowers were fresh, still beaded with droplets, and the box glimmered under the kitchen strip-light.

“For you,” hed said, handing me the flowers, a shadow of that smile Id once found charming. Now I just saw the tiredness around his eyes and the hollowness in his gaze.

“Thanks, but dont,” I didnt even touch the bouquet. “I asked you not to come.”

“I know,” he murmured, his vulnerability almost convincing for a moment. “But I just cant give up. You mean so much to me.”

“Meant,” I corrected, hating the finality, but standing firm. “In the past.”

He paused, nodded, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Fine. I get it. Sorry for pushing myself on you.”

He turned to leave, but then Mum emerged.

“Matthew, love, dont stand on ceremony! Anna, invite your ex-husband indont be silly. And take the flowers, for heavens sake! Beautifulthey make me jealous.”

“Mum, hes leaving,” I said, as even as I could, though inside I fumed. “And I dont want bouquets from strangers!”

“Dont be daft, love!” Mum took his arm. He stiffened but didnt pull away. “Come on in, Ive just made a pie. Lets have some tea.”

Matthew stepped inside. I gave up arguing. I just retreated to the bedroom and shut them out.

Mums voice drifted through the wall: “Shes just hurt, but shell come round. Just keep coming. Shell see how determined you are.”

I clamped my hands over my ears, but her words still seeped in, like toxic smoke. I wanted to screamrun out there and finally say everything, all the bitterness and painbut instead I drew out my sketchpad and started furiously sketching, anything to keep my hands busy so my mind could clear. The lines were jagged, restless, but gradually a pattern formed and calm seeped back in.

***

Months slipped by. I finally moved into Grans old flatcloser to work, my independence. I made a few new friends, joined them in the pub sometimes, and began Saturday morning yoga in a local hall. Those classes made me feel strongernot just in my body, but deep inside. Each morning reaching for Tree Pose, I thought about sending roots into this new life, letting go at last.

One Saturday, I ended up chatting with the instructor, Simon. A few years older than me; gentle, calm-eyed, never once casting a judging glance. Swapping numbers led to coffee, which led to more coffee

He was nothing like Matthew. He didnt flood me with grand vows or overblown compliments. He simply showed up when needed, listened when I wanted to talk, stayed silent when I didnt. His presence didnt make me anxious. For the first time, I felt safe. Flawed and realmyself, not some perfectionists fantasy.

The first time I mentioned Simon to Mum, she pounced, barely letting me finish.

“Who is he? What does he do? Wheres he from?” Her questions fell like hailstonesfast, sharp-edged.

“Yoga instructor. Teaches at a studio near my office. Rents a place in the next neighbourhood,” I said, doing my best to keep calm.

“And thats it?” Mum’s mouth twisted as if she’d bitten a lemon. “No status? No money? Are you planning to live in a rental all your life? Or let him move into yours? Supporting him, are you?”

“Mum, I dont care how much he earns,” I replied, eyes steady. “Hes kind. Hes reliable. He respects me. Its enough.”

“Respects!” Mum mimicked, all bitter sarcasm. “Matthew respected you too. You just didnt appreciate it! You always make things difficult.”

I closed my eyes, counting to ten. Id stopped arguing long ago. Mums world was small and sturdy: a “good husband” meant property, a car, steady job; a “good wife” is someone who just keeps forgiving and swallowing pain. No argument could crack it.

With Simon, it was gentle, steadylike a river thawing, slow but sure. We talked endlessly, wandered hand-in-hand through parks, cooked pasta in his tiny kitchen, swapped dreams. He just *was* thereand that was enough for trust to root and grow.

Six months after we met, he asked me to marry him. We were in the park, spring leaves unfurling, and he held my hand and said simply:

“Anna, Id love us to stay like this, always. Will you?”

I looked at his soft, honest eyes and felt an unfamiliar, warming surge inside.

“Yes,” I said, my whole face breaking into a smile. “Yes. I would.”

I knew this would flare up a new row with Mum. I was right.

“You cant marry him,” Mum declared, arms folded in the hallway, whole posture broadcasting resistance. “Its a mistake. Youll regret this. Youre ruining your life.”

“Mum, Ive decided,” I buttoned my coat, but my heart pounded for a better reasonsomething like hope. “And Im happy. Isnt that enough?”

“No,” she snapped. Cold, almost not herself. “You cant see beyond your nose. Youve always been stubborn, foolishyoull regret it.”

***

The wedding was simple, exactly as Simon and I wanted. Just a handful of friends, a cousin or two. I wore a plain, elegant dress; Simon a navy suit and striped tie. When we exchanged rings and shared the first kiss, I realised: I was finally doing something truly my own.

Mum didnt show. Instead, she sent white lilies with a solemn black ribbon and a note”Hope you come to your senses.” I lingered over the flowers, then quietly set them aside. It hurt, but I wouldnt let it win.

Mum had another surprise. Shed persuaded Matthew to turn up at the register office. I saw him as Simon and I came outhe was leaning against his car, staring at us, his face unreadable, something between regret and confusion.

“What are you doing here?” I stopped, bracing myselfbut it was no longer so raw, just a dulled sting.

“Your mother asked me,” he shrugged with weariness. “She said youd realised youd done the wrong thing, but couldnt back out.”

“My mother says a lot,” Simon replied evenly, squeezing my hand, warm and steady. “But shes not always right.”

“Yeah, well,” Matthew curled his lip and stared at me. “Call me if you get fed up with poverty. Ill take you backno questions.”

And with that, he left, leaving an ugly aftertaste.

***

After our wedding, Simon and I started planning a move. We were both offered jobs in Manchestera bigger city, full of promise. I didnt need long to decide. I was hungry for a new beginning, somewhere no one would remind me of old wounds, somewhere I could build a life that was finally mine.

Before moving, I went to Mums place to say goodbye properly. She met me in silence, standing at her window looking out across the rooftops.

“Were leaving,” I said, lingering in the doorway. “Moving up north.”

“And?” she kept her back to me, voice flat and distant. “Running away?”

“No,” I shook my head, steady. “Running towards happiness. I want you to be part of itbut only if you can respect my choices.”

She spun around, her face etched with pain and frustration, jaw tight.

“Respect? Why should I? Youre running off to god-knows-where with some yoga teacher! Can he give you anything? Security? A future? This is a mistake!”

Exhaustion pressed on my chest. How often had we had this same battle? How many times had I tried to explain that happiness wasnt just money, titles, or property? I drew breath, held her gaze.

“Simon is wonderful,” I said quietly. “He supports me. He gets me. He respects what I decide. Yes, he gives me something Matthew never didpeace. The kind where you dont have to be on edge, dont have to second-guess everything. Where youre free to just be yourself.”

“Peace?” Mum snorted, lips twisting. “You call that peace? Living in some dodgy rental in a strange city, teaching at some studio? Matthew would have given you everythingcar, home, holidays. If only youd given him a chance. Youd never have to worry again!”

***

I didnt know Mum would ring Simon that night. I was packing the last boxes when his phone rang. He glanced at the number, jaw tightening, and answered.

“Simon dear,” Mums voice was strangely soft, almost maternal. “Im so worried about Anna. Shes so impulsive, so emotional She doesnt know what shes doing. This move is a mistake. Shell regret it.”

Simon listened, holding back a sigh.

“You see,” she went on, “she still hasnt recovered from Matthew. Still loves him, deep downjust too proud to admit it. Youre just a distraction, dear. Shell tire of you.”

He finally spoke, calm but firm. “Mrs Barnes, I appreciate your concern, but I know Anna better than you think. Ive seen her grow lighter, more confident. I trust in us.”

She scoffed. “Oh, youre naïve! Think shell be happy up there? No friends, no routine, no stability? Shell get homesick, realise she was wrong, and then wholl be here for her? Matthew will. Hes always around.”

Simon steeled himself, picturing my face, my rare giggle, the way I furrowed my brow over a crossword. He felt a surge of resolve.

“I think its best we end this conversation,” he said gently. “Anna is an adult. Shes made her choice. She chose me, and Im not going to let her down.”

He put his phone down, annoyed but also a bit wounded. I wondered, not for the first time, how Id survived all these years under Mums constant pressure to be the right kind of daughter.

***

Next day I called into Mums to say goodbye againhoping for a proper send-off. Id baked shortbread, just as shed used to when I was little, and picked a bunch of daisiessimple, honest, unpretentious.

Instead, I found another round of accusations.

“Youre not even willing to think it through?” Mum was wiping the kitchen counter, straightening a tea towel, only to scrunch it up again. “Stay a month. Give it time. Youre just tired, stressed”

“Mum, my mind is made up,” I said, drained. “Weve found a flat near the park, the jobs are sorted, Ive even got new colleagues on Zoom, Simons arranged hours at the studio. Its all sorted.”

“Sorted!?” she stopped, eyes shining with either unshed tears or furyI couldnt tell. “Sorted by him, you mean! He wants to isolate you. If you stayed herenear me, near Matthewyoud see sense. But there youre under his thumb.”

I froze. The words were so odd, so unfair, for a moment I couldnt speak. She didnt see mejust a projection of her own anxieties.

“You really believe that?” I asked softly.

“Dont you?” she replied, arms folded and defensive. “All men want control. Matthew was at least honest. This onehe hides behind being ‘nice.'”

“Stop.” I felt my throat closing, tears burning. “Please, stop. I cant live like thisevery choice doubted, every happiness questioned, being made to feel guilty for wanting to live.”

I spun to leave but Mum grabbed my armtight, almost painful.

“Wait,” her voice trembled for the first time. “I am your mother. I just want the best for you.”

“The best is what I choose for myself.” I gently prised my arm free. “I choose Simon. I choose our life. I choose space to breathe, to try, to fail, to be happy without being re-shaped to please you. I want your love, not your control. And if you cant give that, its better we take some time apart.”

“As you like,” she muttered, turning to the window, her shoulders shuddering just once. “If you come to your senses, you know where I am.”

I hesitated. I wanted to touch her shoulder, to say it would all be alrightbut I couldn’t lie. Quietly, I left, closing the door behind me. My new phoneone whose number she didnt knowwas in my pocket. Maybe, one day, wed reconcile. But right now, more than anything, I needed space to breathe. Space of my own. Space, at last, to live.