Mum’s suburban house is like a Laura Ashley explosion—floral wallpaper, pastel cushions, and a permanent scent of potpourri. Tonight, it’s also packed with people because my parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided to throw a “Look how amicably we’re divorced” party.
My parents used to be so in love. The kind of love that made you roll your eyes as a teenager but secretly believe in it anyway. They had this ridiculous, effortless chemistry—the sort of couple who would slow dance in the kitchen to a song only they could hear, who could make each other laugh until they were in tears. They made love look easy.
Until, of course, it wasn’t.
Until my dad found a younger bimbo, and my mum just let him go.
The thing is, they never actually hated each other. There were no explosive fights or dramatic custody battles. No dishes thrown across the room, no bitter parting words. They just… unraveled. Quietly. Like a sweater with one loose thread that no one bothered to stop pulling.
One day, Dad was buying Mum flowers for no reason, and the next, he was “finding himself” in the arms of a woman whose idea of philosophy was a Pinterest board of motivational quotes.
Mum—Barbara Hollis, 56, former lawyer, current self-proclaimed wine enthusiast—handled it the way she handles everything: with poise, just enough passive-aggression, and an unshakable ability to host a dinner party under any circumstance.
She’s the kind of woman who always smells faintly of Chanel No. 5 and freshly baked lemon bars, who wears silk blouses and bold lipstick, and who can verbally eviscerate you with a single raised eyebrow.
“She wasn’t worth fighting over,” she had said once, swirling her wine. “Besides, men are predictable. Give them a midlife crisis and access to the internet, and suddenly they think they’re entitled to a 25-year-old.”
Which brings us to Melanie.
Melanie—Dad’s “special someone”—is the physical embodiment of every cliché about men and their younger, shinier replacements.
Blonde, toned, and permanently tanned in a way that suggests an unhealthy relationship with self-tanner, she looks like she was plucked straight out of an Instagram influencer’s highlight reel. She wears crop tops in all seasons, speaks fluent yoga instructor, and has the kind of high-pitched, breathy voice that makes every sentence sound like a question.
“Oh my God, Sophie, you’d love Barre. It would really help with your, like… posture?”
She’s always offering unsolicited advice about my weight, my energy, and how “mindful eating” would “transform” my life, all while surviving on a diet of green juice and expensive supplements. She never eats carbs in public, but I’m convinced she secretly binge-eats crisps in the car when no one’s looking.
Dad, for his part, acts like a man who has been temporarily possessed. He used to be normal—not the best dad, not the worst—but now he wears linen shirts unironically and says things like “We just vibe, you know?” when talking about Melanie.
Mum, meanwhile, treats Melanie like an annoying but ultimately harmless houseplant. She doesn’t openly hate her. That would be uncivilized. Instead, she kills her with kindness, always with a tight smile and just the right amount of condescension.
“Finally,” Mum greets me as I walk in, already clutching her first (or fifth) glass of wine. “You’re late. I thought maybe you’d brought someone.”
“For the hundredth time, Mum,” I sigh, peeling off my coat. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Well, not with that attitude,” Mum retorts, giving me the once-over and sighing dramatically. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to put in a little effort.”
Melanie beams at me and says, “Oh my God, babe, you’re adorable! You know, if you really want to lose a few pounds, I have this amazing green juice recipe.”
My eye twitches. “Thanks, Melanie. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Did you bring a date?” Melanie chirps, clearly oblivious to the steam coming out of my ears.
Before I can answer, Mum pipes up with a cheery, “No, but she’s trying to lose a few pounds.”
I excuse myself before I say something I’ll regret, only to see Mum staring across the room at a tall, devastatingly handsome man with dark hair, a chiseled jaw, and the kind of icy glare that could cut glass.
“That’s William Darcy,” Mum whispers, grabbing my arm. “He’s a lawyer. Very successful. And single.”
I roll my eyes. “Mum, no.”
“Oh, come on!” she hisses. “It’d be good to have a lawyer son-in-law. Just go talk to him.”
Before I can stop her, Mum waltzes over to Darcy, introducing herself with all the subtlety of a drunk matchmaker. “William! Lovely to see you. This is my daughter, Sophie—”
Darcy glances at me, frowns, and gives me a head-to-toe once-over that makes me want to crawl under a table. “Oh no. Excuse me, I’m not interested,” he says flatly, turning away.
My jaw drops. Did he just…?
I took a step back, desperate to flee before I could humiliate myself further. But in my rush, my elbow knocked against the edge of the table, and suddenly, my wine glass tipped—red liquid arcing through the air in slow motion horror—before splashing directly onto Darcy’s immaculate suit.
For a split second, there was silence.
I stared at the spreading stain, mouth opening and closing like a malfunctioning fish.
Darcy exhaled sharply, jaw clenching as he glanced down at the deep red mess soaking into his expensive fabric.
“You’ve got to be joking,” he said, voice flat and utterly unimpressed.
I let out a strangled noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “Um. Oops?”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters as he storms off, leaving me red-faced and plotting his demise.
As I drive home later, I vow to despise him for the rest of my life—or at least until he apologizes. Which, judging by his attitude, will surely be never.