For hours we did that stupid thing where you catch each other’s eye, smile, look away, pretend you’re not doing it. I went home kicking myself for not speaking to him. Then the next day my phone buzzed.
Unknown:Hey Emma. This is random but I’d regret it forever if I didn’t message you. Harry gave me your number. I’m Dan, the guy who kept smiling at you at the party. I’m nota creep, I promise. I just think you’re beautiful. Fancy going out for a bite to eat?
Abigail’s mouth fell open.
“That is… revoltingly romantic,” she said. “I hate you.”
“I know,” I said, but my smile was sad.
We went out the next night because waiting felt impossible. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other long enough to order drinks. It was fast. Too fast, if you asked anyone sensible. But it felt right. Like a magnet snapping into place.
Within weeks we were basically living together. Socks in drawers. Shampoo in showers. Two lives just… merging.
A year later we were engaged. His proposal was a Tuesday night, takeaway containers between us. I was mid-bite into a spring roll when he sat up, nervous, and said:
“So… I think we should get married.”
Not a big speech. Not a knee. Just Dan, blunt and earnest and a little chaotic.
Then he pulled a ring box out of his hoodie pocket like it was a receipt.
“I love you,” he’d said, voice suddenly serious. “I don’t want to do life without you. So… should we just make this official?”
I’d said yes, obviously. The man had already stolen my heart and half my wardrobe space.
Oscar came along soon after. Not planned, not avoided. Then Sophie. Somewhere between nappies and sleepless nights we got married. Then Ruby happened; the ‘whoops’ that detonated our “we’re done” plan.
It all happened fast.
A massive climb to the top, that dizzy, can’t-get-enough-of-you high.
Then the drop into parenthood.
And now it feels like we’re stuck at the bottom, looking up at the hill and wondering how the hell we ever climbed it in the first place.
Abigail watched me quietly, eyes softer than usual. “You loved him like a storm.”
“I still do,” I whispered. “That’s what makes it confusing.”
“Do you want a divorce?” she asked gently, no jokes now.
I stared at my coffee. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Sometimes I say things just to… make him feel it. Make him understand I’m not okay.”
“And does he?”
I thought of his face in the kitchen. That flicker in his eyes. “I don’t know,” I said again. “But I can’t imagine not being his wife. Even when I’m furious.”
Abigail nodded slowly. “Then maybe you don’t need a divorce. Maybe you need a reset.”
“A reset sounds expensive,” I muttered.
She snorted. “Not a spa weekend. A reset in the way you talk. The way you reach. The way you stop living like business partners.”
I let out a breath that felt like it had been stuck in my chest for months.
“What if it’s too late?” I whispered.
Abigail’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you’ll know you tried. But I don’t think it’s too late. I think you’re both tired. And tired people say stupid things.”
