“Don’t you dare forget!”
—So, when are we getting that divorce?— Annie asked with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
—Oh, give it a rest, Annie!— grumbled George, shifting uncomfortably on their battered old sofa in their Manchester flat, his bad back protesting.
—Not a chance!— she shot back, arms crossed. —I’m just getting started!
—Annie, honestly, how long is this going to go on?— George’s voice was thick with irritation. —A bloke’s allowed one mistake in his life, isn’t he?
—Allowed? Maybe,— Annie mused, gazing out at the rainy streets. —But after your ‘one mistake,’ I decided I’ve got every right to rib you about it till I’m bored stiff!
Her triumphant grin made George wince like he’d bitten into a lemon.
—Maybe we *should* get divorced,— he muttered, fidgeting for a less painful position.
—Oh, brilliant!— Annie feigned enthusiasm. —Just remember, I warned you!
—Annie, stop rubbing my nose in it!— George groaned, sounding utterly defeated. —I admitted I was wrong! Apologised, swore it’d never happen again! What more d’you want?
—Dunno,— Annie rolled her eyes dramatically. —You were never one for romance, never made us millionaires, and as for indulging my whims…— she smirked, —with your dodgy back, you’re not exactly up to much. What’s left to even take from you?
—Annie!— George mustered his dignity. —I love you!
—Wow, what a revelation for our twentieth anniversary!— she drawled sarcastically. —My heart’s all aflutter, nearly brought a tear to my eye!
—Annie!— George groaned. —Want me to apologise again?
—Go on then!— She grinned, all teeth.
—I’m *sorry* for being a complete idiot and nearly wrecking our marriage!— he blurted, like he’d rehearsed it. —I swear, I’ll be the perfect husband and dad!
—Could work on the delivery,— Annie snorted. —Then *maybe* I’ll believe you.
—Annie, what’s *wrong* with you?— George snapped. —I’m baring my soul here, and you’re still at it!
—George, love,— Annie shook her head. —If you knew how much you hurt me, you wouldn’t just apologise—you’d be crawling on your knees!
—Annie, soon as I’m back on my feet, I’ll do whatever you want!— George vowed earnestly.
—Hmm, something tells me,— Annie narrowed her eyes, —the second you’re better, you’ll be back to divorce talk. Maybe I’m wasting my time nursing you. Though, while you’re stuck here, at least there’s *a husband* in the house!
—Annie, for the thousandth time: it was a mistake! I know I was a prat!— George jerked upright in outrage, then yelped in pain.
Bad backs don’t appreciate sudden movements.
—Oh, Annie-love, help!— he whimpered pathetically.
—Alright,— she sighed, marching over. —Lean on my delicate shoulder, then.
—God, what did I do to deserve this?— George whinged, hobbling to the loo.
—Ever heard of karma?— Annie puffed, propping him up. —You hurt me, now the universe’s paying you back! Every bit of your misery? That’s how *I* felt. And it’s not much better now. Maybe lay off the biscuits, eh?
—Definitely!— George wheezed, vanishing behind the door.
Two minutes later, a muffled groan:
—If I ever get into this mess again, I’d rather just…
Annie missed the rest, but when he shuffled back out, she chirped:
—So, ready for that divorce?
***
George’s divorce papers hit Annie like a bolt from the blue. If there’d been *any* warning, maybe. But no! Twenty years married, and it’d all been fairy-tale stuff.
They’d wed as skint students, madly in love. Scraped through uni in Manchester together, got a tiny flat in halls for married couples. Lived off their parents’ handouts but never complained.
After graduation, they rented their first proper flat. Scrimped till they landed steady jobs. Had a son, took out a mortgage. Child benefits for their daughter chipped away at the debt. Clawed their way up the career ladder, finally had some proper cash.
First a car on finance for George, then a little holiday cottage in the Lake District—no veg patches, just views. Mother-in-law and mum were angels, never a cross word between them. Friends over all the time, neighbours lovely.
Kids were brilliant—straight-A students, respectful. Life was perfect. Petty squabbles? Over wallpaper colours or lampshades? Sorted without shouting.
—George, *why*?— Annie choked, her world tilting. —What’s wrong?
—I’m *suffocating*, Annie!— he burst out. —Same thing every day! My soul’s screaming for freedom, and it’s just… *routine*, like wading through treacle!
—George, this is *our* life!— she fired back. —You helped build it! If there’s a problem, half of it’s on you!
—Not denying that,— he cut in. —But I can’t keep living like this!
—What *do* you want?— Annie fought tears. —Not divorce, but from *life*? Let’s change it together, we’re a *family*!
—Annie, no matter what we change, it’ll still be *us*!— he shot back. —We’ve done all we can, but I want something *else*!
—You haven’t even *tried*!— she fumed.
—What’s the point?— George snapped. —You won’t change! You’re happy; I’m not! If you twist yourself up for me, you’ll end up miserable. Then it’s just rows. Better to call it now!
—So twenty years means *nothing* to you?— Annie’s voice trembled. —You’d just throw it all away?
—Annie, if there’s no happiness, what’s the point of the family?
The question gutted her. *She’d* been happy. Thought George was too. Turns out? Not a bit. And now—divorce? Something inside her cracked, dangling by a thread.
—George, *please*, don’t rush this!— she begged. —You want change? *Change*! Maybe I’ll like your new life too?
George hesitated. Annie pressed:
—Unless there’s another woman.
—No!— he shook his head wildly. —Nothing like that!
Annie decided to give him his freedom… and watch. First, she checked: *was* there another woman? George’s phone had no passcode; his socials were wide open. She combed through everything—no red flags. Friends knew nothing either.
But they’d noticed *something*. Even their eighteen-year-old son, Oliver, said:
—Mum, is Dad alright?— he frowned. —Think he’s lost the plot!
—Hope so,— Annie said carefully. —What’ve you seen?
—You *not* noticed?— Oliver snorted. —Plays footie with the lads, chums up with *my* mates, scooters to work now! And his *clothes*?
Annie remembered—and cringed. George had gone full ‘midlife crisis.’ Bought trendy gear that clung *badly*. Sucked his gut in at mirrors, but no luck.
—Mum, he doesn’t see everyone’s laughing,— Oliver groaned. —*I’m* getting grief for it. Sort him out or get him medicated!
—Love, your dad’s ‘reinventing himself,’— Annie sighed. —But I’ll try to rein him in.
The football phase ended fast. First game, George twisted his ankle. Annie nursed him three weeks. Then he wiped out on the scooter—no helmet, too ‘cool’ for safety. Another week down.
Next, George declared holidays ‘too tame.’ Only ‘adventure’ now. Went hiking with a youth group, came back in an ambulance. Annie collected him, another month of rehab.
Her patience frayed; divorce seemed less mad. But she’d promised Oliver.
Time for tricks.
—Can’t make the kayaking,— George moaned over the phone. —Food poisoning. Stuck to the loo!
—Footie’s off!— another call. —Cramps like I’ve been kicked!
Rock festival, bike rally, folk gig, berry-picking—George missed it all, thanks to Annie’s ‘adjustments’ to his meals.
But when he planned aAnd as George hobbled back to the sofa with Annie’s help, he realised—sometimes the quiet, ordinary love you’ve already got is the best adventure of all.