I Never Asked You to Break Your Life

I didnt ask you to upend your life.

Emily, are you sure youre alright? You dont make decisions like that in a week, Grace said, eyeing her friends trembling hands.

Ive thought it through, Emily pushed her coffee cup aside. Honestly, Grace, for the first time in years I know exactly what I want.

Thats not love, thats hormones! Grace snapped.

Thanks for the moral support, Emily replied dryly.

Im supporting you by telling the truth. Hes twentyfour, Emily. Twentyfour. When you were still in university, hed already started his first job.

Emily rolled her eyes. Numbers meant nothing when real feelings were involved.

Ive already decided, she said, firmer. Ill tell Victor tonight.

Grace gave a silent shake of her head and finished her latte. Emilys mind drifted to a place scented with coffee and fresh printing ink, where a man waited whose single glance made her knees wobble.

That evening Victor was perched on the edge of their bed the bed theyd picked together twelve years ago while arguing over whether a canopy was necessary. They never bought one. In those twelve years there had been few conversations, fewer touches, fewer glances. Their marriage had devolved into the polite cohabitation of two strangers sharing square footage and a budget.

Ive found someone else, Emily blurted, the four words shed rehearsed in the shower for days spilling out in a single breath. Silence followed.

Victor didnt shout. He didnt fling anything. He simply nodded, slowly, as if confirming a longheld suspicion, then began packing his things methodically, folding shirts collartocollar with his usual meticulousness a terrifyingly precise efficiency.

Victor

No need. I get it. He didnt even look back. Im going to my parents.

The door closed softly, almost soundlessly, and that was worse than any argument. Emily felt a strange mix of guilt and relief, an indistinguishable proportion that left her chest tight. The flat suddenly seemed as cavernous as an empty concert hall.

She was free.

The conversation with her parents happened three days later, and, just as shed feared, they didnt back her.

You realise what youre doing? her mother loomed over her like a vulture. Twelve years of marriage for a schoolboy? For whom? For a lad?

Mum, hes twentyfour, hes an adult

Adult! her father grunted, sinking into a squeaky chair. Adult is Victor the man who put up with you and supported you all those years, and you repay him like this

He never supported me. I run my own business, Dad, Emily snapped.

Youre disgracing us, her father added gravely.

Emily stood up from the table, her legs feeling like jelly, but forced herself to speak calmly.

I thought youd support me.

We thought wed raised a sensible daughter, her mother turned toward the window. Looks like we misjudged.

She left the flat without looking back, dialled Ian in the lift and said, Pick me up. He arrived twenty minutes later, lifted her into a hug, pressed his nose to the top of her head, and for a moment all the mess vanished.

Friends the couples shed once barbecued with and held New Years parties drifted away one by one. Kate texted, Sorry, Emily, cant do it. Victors like a brother to me, you know? Olivia simply stopped replying. Megan sent a long rant about betrayal and selfishness, after which Emily stared at the screen for five minutes, then deleted the entire fiveyear chat history and forbade herself a single tear.

For three weeks a hollow settled around her. Ian took her to meet his mates young blokes debating the latest Twitch streams, TikToks, and a new music video. Emily sat among them, smiling and nodding, but a sharp, almost physical loneliness gnawed at her. She missed half the jokes, didnt know the names they tossed around, and realised the only person she could actually talk to was Ian. But Ian was busy with his friends, leaving her alone in a noisy room.

This will pass, she told herself. Well build something new.

Shall we just get out of here? Ian lay next to her that night, running his fingers through her hair. A different city. No exhusbands, no meddling parents. A fresh start.

Emily propped herself up on her elbow, studying his face in the halfdark.

You serious?

Absolutely. I have contacts in Manchester the photography markets buzzing there. And you could open a new salon. Bigger, better.

The word salon struck a chord under her ribs. Her salon. Eight years building a client base, training staff from scratch. Abandon it?

His eyes sparkled with such confidence and excitement that she nodded. Yes. Start over. Prove it wasnt a midlife crisis or a whim but a genuine feeling worth the risk.

She sold the salon in three weeks for far less than it was worth, because the buyer sniffed urgency and haggled down to a bargain. Emily signed the papers with shaking hands, watched the money transfer to her bank account, and felt a bizarre sensation: as if shed cut off a piece of herself and handed it to some beigesuited aunt.

Done, she told Ian that evening. Were free.

He lifted her onto his shoulders, spun her around the room, and Emily burst into a genuine, ringing laugh that she hadnt heard from herself in years. The sale money felt like a small fortune, enough for any plan. First they rented a flat nearer the city centre, with lofty ceilings and huge windows their nest, their home.

The first weeks in the new town felt like a honeymoon. Breakfasts in bed, endless chats about everything and nothing. Ian filmed her on the balcony, in the kitchen, in the bathroom with damp hair each frame a love confession.

Then things started to shift.

At first it was subtle. Ian began staying later on shoots, coming home exhausted, eating dinner in silence while scrolling his phone. Lots of work, hed say. Gotta hustle while the orders last. Emily nodded, understood, and tried not to become the nagging wife.

But when she reached for him at night, he pushed away. When she brought up the salon or future plans, his replies were curt: Later, Well sort it, Not now. Each not now scraped at her insides.

Emily started looking for work more to fill her head than from any pressing need. Yet, at thirtyfour, finding a new gig proved tougher than shed imagined.

Money dwindled. The rent ate a hefty chunk each month. Ians earnings were spotty, and when Emily gently suggested splitting the bills evenly, he shrugged irritably. Im already putting in my share. Cant you see that?

She saw it. She saw Ian avoiding eye contact, checking his phone before leaving the room, slipping out for fresh air and returning at midnight smelling of someone elses cologne. Or maybe she was just imagining it.

We need to talk, Emily said one night when Ian staggered back at three in the morning.

About what?

About us. I dont get whats happening. Youve changed. I barely recognise you, you dont talk to me, were

Youre suffocating me, Ian snapped, flinging his jacket onto a chair. I told you I need space. Everythings moving too fast. You expect things Im not ready for. I never asked you to wreck your life.

Emily froze.

You didnt ask?

You decided. I didnt force you to divorce, didnt force you to sell anything. That was your choice. We moved here when you were already free.

Ian was technically right. It was her decision. Her blaze that burned everything she owned.

From that night Emily spiralled. She checked Ians phone while he slept, scrolling through messages, obsessively noting every like on his photos, every new follow models, budding female photographers each name a tiny dagger. She pinged him twenty times a day, asking where he was, who he was with, when hed be back. She staged jealous scenes and then despised herself for it, recognising the woman she never wanted to become.

Youre ill, Ian said after another blowup. You need a therapist, not a relationship.

Maybe he was right again.

Ian started disappearing more often. Shooting out of town. Staying with a mate. Dont wait up. Emily waited, sat in the dark, stared at the door, and with each passing hour something inside her dried up, turning to ash.

One Tuesday evening, after her fifth cup of coffee, the phone buzzed.

Emily, I cant do this any longer. Im sorry. Its gone too far. I never wanted to ruin your life. I cant take responsibility for this. Dont look for me. Please leave me alone.

She read it three times, then again, then once more.

The phone slipped from her fingers and she tumbled off the stool onto the cold floor.

She spent the next twentyfour hours in a hollowedout flat, moving from the floor to the sofa to the floor again the chill oddly comforting. She sobbed for ages, loudly, messily, with sniffles and all. When the tears ran dry, only a raw, burnt emptiness remained.

No husband. No business. No friends. No meddling parents. No lover. No money a quick glance at her bank balance showed barely enough for two months rent. At thirtyfour, the only thing she could still afford was a rented flat with lofty ceilings she could no longer keep.

Three days later she forced herself to call Victor. Not to beg him back, just to apologise, to admit how guilty she felt. Number unavailable. Hed blocked her.

She wrote her mother a long, rambling, honest message about her mistake, her pain, her need for help. Two hours later came the reply: We warned you. Deal with the fallout yourself. Dad asked me to tell you hes not ready to talk.

Emily set the phone down and let out a cracked, bitter laugh. That was it. The full set.

A week later she moved into a twelvesquaremetre room on the council estates outskirts shared kitchen, perpetually occupied bathroom. A plump, sixtysomething auntie gave her a sideways glance and muttered, Youll get over it, love.

A job came quickly nail technician in a basement salon down the road. Pay was pennies, but pride mattered more now.

In the evenings Emily stared at her hands the hands that once built a business, signed contracts, flipped through Italian cosmetics catalogues now spent a day polishing strangers nails for a few quid.

Months of madness passed, and everything shed built over a decade vanished. And the blame? It sat squarely on her own shoulders.