[Story] Dimensions of Divorce pt. 1

Hi hi ✨

I hope you're doing well, this is 3/17 story. What started as a simple short story idea morphed into a full 3 part story. I'll publish part 2 shortly as this week's story, and part 3 maybe next week. I hope you like it! T3&T4 members check your folders for some extra images.

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Dimensions of Divorce pt. 1

"You're late," Therese said, not looking up from her phone as Daniel slid into the booth across from her. The red plastic seat creaked under her weight, her knees bumping the underside of the table and causing his coffee to slosh dangerously close to the rim.

"Traffic on the M25 was a nightmare," Daniel replied, running a hand through his dark hair, still damp from the morning shower. "And Paul couldn't find his dinosaur."

At this, Therese finally looked up, her blue eyes meeting his. "The T-Rex or the Triceratops?"

"The green one."

"That's the T-Rex."

"Right."

Daniel took a sip of his coffee, using the moment to properly look at his ex-wife. Five years on, and he still wasn't used to it – the way she filled the booth, how her broad shoulders stretched the fabric of her black tank top, the way her blonde pixie cut framed a face that had remained delicate despite the dramatic changes to the rest of her. At 7'2", Therese towered over most women, who averaged around 7'1" post-virus. But it wasn't just her height that set her apart; it was the way she carried it – with a confidence he both envied and resented.

"The kids are in the play area?" she asked, scanning the restaurant.

Daniel nodded. "Emma wanted chicken nuggets first. Paul went straight for the slide."

Therese smiled, a genuine expression that softened her features. "Sounds about right. Emma takes after you – food first, always."

"And Paul has your sense of adventure," Daniel added, surprising himself with the warmth in his voice.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, filled with the ambient noise of children's laughter and the hiss of the soda machine. For a moment, Daniel was transported back to before – before the virus, before Therese had changed, before everything between them had unravelled with frightening speed.

"So," Therese said, breaking the silence as she leaned forward, her elbows on the table making it tilt slightly in her direction. "How's work?"

Daniel suppressed a sigh. Small talk. They'd been reduced to small talk. "Fine. The merger's finally going through. Should mean a promotion, if Harrison keeps his word."

"That's good," she replied, nodding. "You deserve it."

"What about you? Sold any million-pound properties this week?"

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "As a matter of fact, yes. That riverside development in Greenwich finally closed. The Chinese investors were impressed with my... assertiveness."

Daniel could imagine. Therese had always been good at her job, even before the virus. But afterward, her presence in a room had become impossible to ignore. Her newfound physicality had translated into a confidence that clients found compelling. While his career had plateaued, hers had skyrocketed.

"Congratulations," he said, meaning it despite the twinge of something that might have been jealousy. "That's a big commission."

"Thanks. I'm thinking of using some of it to take the kids to Disney this summer." She paused, picking at the lid of her coffee cup with fingers that could easily crush it. "You'd be welcome to join, if you wanted. Emma keeps talking about going on Space Mountain with both of us."

Daniel blinked, caught off guard by the invitation. "I'll... think about it."

Therese nodded, not pushing. Her cargo shorts rode high on thighs that were nearly as thick as his torso, the fabric stretched taut. He forced his eyes away, focusing on the napkin dispenser.

"Paul's still having those nightmares," he said, changing the subject. "The ones about the monsters under the bed."

Therese frowned, concern immediately replacing the casual demeanor. "Still? I thought they'd stopped."

"They had. Started again after career day at school."

"What happened at career day?"

Daniel hesitated, not wanting to broach the subject but knowing it needed to be addressed. "Apparently, some of the kids were making comments. About... women like you. Amazon women."

Therese's expression hardened, the muscles in her jaw visibly tightening. "What kind of comments?"

"The usual ignorant stuff. That women with the virus are like a different species. That they're taking over." He shrugged uncomfortably. "Paul got upset, defended you. Got into a bit of a shoving match."

"And the teacher didn't step in?"

"The teacher is 5'7" and weighs about nine stone soaking wet. One of the few women who didn't contract the virus."

Therese's eyes flashed with anger. "That's no excuse. It's been eight years since the outbreak. This shouldn't still be an issue."

"I know," Daniel agreed, surprising himself again. "I had a word with the headmaster. She assured me it would be addressed."

Therese seemed to relax slightly at this, her shoulders lowering from their defensive position. "Thank you. For standing up for him. For us."

Daniel felt an unexpected warmth at her words. "He's my son too. And you're..." He trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. What was she to him now, besides the mother of his children? His ex-wife? The woman who had outgrown him in every possible way?

"I'm what?" Therese asked, her voice softer than before, a hint of vulnerability breaking through her confident exterior.

Before Daniel could respond, a small voice interrupted them. "Daddy, can I have another nugget?"

Emma stood beside the table, her dark hair pulled into pigtails that mirrored her mother's hairstyle from years ago, before she'd cut it short after the transformation. The virus had not yet touched her young body, the virus that only affected women after puberty, and Daniel felt a brief surge of irrational fear at the thought of his daughter someday towering over him as Therese did now.

"Sure, sweetheart," he said, reaching for the red box on his tray. "Here you go."

Emma took the nugget, then turned to her mother. "Mummy, can you come play with us? Paul is stuck at the top of the slide and won't come down."

Therese glanced at Daniel, a silent question in her eyes. He nodded, and she slid out of the booth, her movement fluid despite her size. Standing at her full height, she dwarfed both Daniel and Emma, her head nearly brushing the low-hanging light fixture above their table.

"Lead the way, monkey," she said to Emma, who grabbed her mother's hand – so small within Therese's palm – and pulled her toward the play area.

Daniel watched them go, his eyes tracking the confident sway of Therese's walk, the way other patrons instinctively moved aside to let her pass. There was something mesmerizing about her movement, a grace that belied her imposing frame. He remembered running his hands over her shoulders as they changed during those two startling weeks when the virus had taken hold – how fascinated and terrified he'd been as her body transformed day by day, his wife literally outgrowing him before his eyes.

He took another sip of his coffee, now lukewarm, and wondered not for the first time where they had gone wrong. Had it really been her physical change that drove them apart, or something deeper? The shifting power dynamic as her career took off while his stagnated? The way people began to look at them as a couple – with curiosity, with pity, sometimes with derision?

Or had it been his own insecurities, his inability to adapt to a world where his wife no longer needed his protection? Where she could open jars without his help, where she could carry all the groceries in one trip, where she could physically dominate any space she entered?

Through the plastic windows of the play area, he could see Therese crouching at the bottom of the slide, her arms outstretched as Paul finally came barreling down into her waiting embrace. Their son's laughter was visible even from a distance, his small body engulfed in his mother's massive arms. Daniel felt a familiar ache in his chest – not quite jealousy, not quite longing, but something in between.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, likely Harrison with more questions about the merger presentation. Daniel ignored it, continuing to watch his family – his former family – through the window, trying to remember when things had been simple between them.

---

"Did you pack his inhaler?" Therese asked as they walked through the car park, each holding one of the children's hands. Paul skipped alongside Daniel while Emma clutched Therese's index finger with her entire hand.

"It's in the front pocket of his backpack, along with the spacer," Daniel replied. "And I refilled his prescription yesterday, so there's a spare in the side pocket as well."

Therese nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Always prepared."

"One of us has to be."

"Hey," she protested, but without heat. "I was the one who remembered his science project last month when you sent him to school without it."

"Fair point," Daniel conceded.

They reached Therese's car first – a customized Range Rover with extra headroom and specially designed seats to accommodate her frame. Daniel helped Emma into her booster seat while Therese loaded Paul's weekend bag into the boot.

"Did you talk to your mum about next weekend?" Daniel asked as he buckled Emma in, his voice low enough that the children wouldn't hear. "I've got that conference in Birmingham, and my sister's away."

Therese leaned against the side of the car, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement pulled her tank top taut, emphasizing the definition in her shoulders and biceps. "She can take them Friday and Saturday, but she's got that charity thing on Sunday. I could rearrange my showing and take them Sunday if you're not back."

"That would be helpful, thanks," Daniel said, closing the car door and turning to face her. He was acutely aware of the difference in their heights – the top of his head barely reached her shoulder. Standing this close to her, he caught a whiff of her perfume, the same one she'd worn before the divorce. Jasmine and something else he could never quite identify.

"No problem," she replied, her voice dropping slightly as she leaned down towards him. "We're still a team when it comes to the kids, right?"

"Right," he agreed, swallowing hard. "A team."

For a moment, they stood there in silence, the space between them charged with unspoken words and memories. Daniel found himself staring at the hollow of her throat, remembering how he used to press his lips there, how she would sigh his name.

"I should get going," Therese said finally, breaking the spell. "I've got a viewing at two."

"Of course." Daniel stepped back, creating distance between them. "I'll pick them up Sunday at six, as usual."

Therese nodded, opening the driver's door. "Text me when you get home, so I know you made it safely."

It was a routine request, one that had survived their separation – a small remnant of caring that neither had been willing to relinquish.

"Will do."

As Therese folded herself into the driver's seat – a maneuver that still impressed him despite having seen it countless times – she paused, looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite read.

"It was good to see you, Danny," she said, the old nickname slipping out. "Really good."

Before he could respond, she closed the door and started the engine. Daniel stepped back as she reversed out of the parking space, raising his hand in a half-wave as she drove away.

"You too, Terry," he murmured to himself, using the pet name he hadn't spoken aloud in years. "Always good."

He stood there for a moment longer, watching until her car disappeared from view, then turned towards his own much smaller vehicle, feeling the absence of his children and, unexpectedly, of Therese herself.

---

Daniel's flat felt emptier than usual that evening. The silence pressed in on him as he moved through the rooms, picking up stray toys and dirty socks left behind by the whirlwind visit of his children. Their presence lingered in the small details – a half-finished drawing on the coffee table, a toy dinosaur forgotten under the sofa, the faint smell of the bubblegum toothpaste Emma insisted on using.

He poured himself a glass of whisky and settled on the couch, flicking through channels without really seeing what was on. His mind kept drifting back to the McDonald's, to Therese in that tank top, to the way she'd called him Danny.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Expecting it to be work, he was surprised to see Therese's name on the screen. A text message: Did you find Paul's dinosaur? The T-Rex? He's asking for it.

Daniel glanced around the living room, spotting the green plastic toy poking out from between the sofa cushions. He snapped a photo and sent it to her: Found it. I'll put it in his backpack for next time.

Three dots appeared as she typed a response: Thanks. He's been having a meltdown for the past half hour.

Daniel smiled, imagining the scene. Paul had inherited his mother's temper – quick to flare and just as quick to subside. Crisis averted, then?

Yes, he's asleep now. Emma too.

He hesitated, then typed: You called me Danny today.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. Finally: Old habits. Sorry if that was weird.

It wasn't weird. It was nice, actually.

Another pause, longer this time. Then: I've been thinking about what you said. About Paul and the nightmares.

Daniel took a sip of his whisky, the conversation shifting to safer ground. What about it?

I'm worried about him. About both of them, really. Growing up in this world, with a mother like me.

Daniel frowned at the screen. It wasn't like Therese to express insecurity, especially not about her transformed body. She'd adapted to the changes with remarkable resilience, embracing her new physical reality while many women struggled.

The kids are fine, he typed. They're proud of you. Especially Paul. That's why he got into that fight – he was defending you.

I know. That's what worries me. He shouldn't have to defend me.

Daniel considered his response carefully. Kids have always had to deal with others' reactions to their parents, whether it's race or religion or having two mums or two dads. Now it's this. They're resilient.

You sound like my therapist, came her reply, followed by a laughing emoji.

You're seeing a therapist? He couldn't keep the surprise from his message.

For about a year now. It's been helpful. Processing the changes, the divorce, everything.

Daniel felt a twinge of something – guilt, perhaps, or regret. That's good. I'm glad.

Another pause, then: What about you? Are you seeing anyone?

The ambiguity of the question hung in the digital space between them. Seeing a therapist? Or seeing someone romantically? He decided to interpret it as the latter.

No one serious. Had a few dates with a woman from work, but it fizzled out. He hesitated, then added: What about you?

Nothing serious, came her reply. Went out with a client a few times. He was... intimidated, I think.

Daniel could imagine. He remembered his own feelings when Therese had first completed her transformation – the mix of awe and fear and desire that had left him disoriented in his own marriage. His loss, he typed before he could stop himself.

Three dots, then: You didn't seem to handle it so well yourself, if I recall.

The message stung, but it wasn't untrue. I wasn't ready for it, he admitted. For any of it. The changes happened so fast.

Two weeks isn't that fast, Danny. You had time to adjust.

Physically, yes. Mentally... I don't know. Everything changed overnight. You changed. The dynamic between us changed.

I was still me, she responded. Just... more.

Daniel stared at the words, remembering how Therese had repeated that phrase during their arguments leading up to the separation. "I'm still me, Danny, just more of me to love." But it hadn't been that simple. Her physical transformation had coincided with a shift in her confidence, in her career trajectory, in the way the world perceived her. And yes, in the way he had perceived her too.

I know that now, he typed. I didn't then.

There was a long pause, long enough that Daniel thought the conversation might be over. He was about to put down his phone when another message came through.

Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I hadn't caught the virus?

The question hit him like a punch to the gut. Of course he had wondered – in the darkest moments of their separation, in the quiet hours after dropping the kids off, in the empty space beside him in bed at night.

Sometimes, he admitted.

And?

Daniel took a deep breath, considering his answer. I think we would have stayed together. But I'm not sure that would have been the right thing.

What do you mean?

The virus didn't create our problems, Terry. It just... magnified them. Forced us to face things we were ignoring.

He could almost see her expression as she read his words – the slight furrow between her brows, the pursing of her lips as she considered his perspective. It had always been one of the things he loved about her, the way she genuinely listened, even when she disagreed.

Like what? she asked.

Like the fact that I needed to feel needed. And that you needed to feel free to grow, in all senses of the word. He paused, then added: I was insecure before the virus. That's not on you.

The confession felt raw, exposed. Daniel took another sip of whisky, waiting for her response with a knot of anxiety in his stomach.

Thank you for saying that, she finally replied. It helps to hear it.

Relief flooded through him. It's the truth.

For what it's worth, she added, I didn't handle everything perfectly either. I got caught up in the changes, in the new opportunities. I could have been more patient with your adjustment.

The admission surprised him. Therese had always defended her enthusiasm for her transformation, her embrace of her new physical reality. To hear her acknowledge that she might have moved too quickly, left him behind in her rush to explore her new self, felt like a balm on an old wound.

We were both doing our best with an impossible situation, he offered.

Were we? Sometimes I think we gave up too easily.

The message hung between them, heavy with implication. Daniel stared at the screen, his heart pounding. What was she saying? That she regretted the divorce? That she thought they should have tried harder?

Before he could formulate a response, another message came through: Sorry, that wasn't fair. It's late and I'm tired. We should probably get some sleep.

Daniel felt a surge of disappointment, mixed with relief. He wasn't sure he was ready for this conversation, especially not over text. You're right. Give the kids a kiss from me in the morning.

I will. Goodnight, Danny.

Goodnight, Terry.

He set the phone down and finished his whisky in one swallow, the alcohol burning a path down his throat. The conversation had left him unsettled, old feelings stirring beneath the surface of his carefully constructed post-divorce equilibrium.

What did he want? After five years of separation, of building a new life, of learning to be Daniel without Therese – did he want to revisit the past? To explore what might still exist between them?

The image of Therese at McDonald's came back to him – confident, powerful, taking up space in a way she never had before the virus. And yet, underneath that imposing exterior, she was still Terry. Still the woman who remembered which dinosaur was Paul's favorite, who texted to make sure he got home safely, who apparently wondered, as he did, if they had given up too easily.

Daniel set his empty glass on the coffee table and leaned back on the sofa, closing his eyes. The flat felt too quiet, too empty. He missed the chaos of the children, the noise and energy they brought into his life. And, he realized with a clarity that surprised him, he missed Therese too. Not just as the mother of his children, but as the person who had known him better than anyone else. The person who still called him Danny, even after everything.

The question was: what was he going to do about it?

---

Sunday arrived with the grey drizzle typical of London spring. Daniel pulled up outside Therese's house at exactly six o'clock, his wipers clearing intermittent streaks of rainwater from the windscreen. The house – a five-bedroom Victorian semi with a recently built extension – loomed large against the darkening sky. It had been their family home once, before Daniel had moved into the flat. In the divorce, Therese had kept the house, a decision that had made practical sense given her size and the costly modifications they'd already made to accommodate her.

Daniel sat in the car for a moment, steeling himself. Their text conversation from Friday night had played on his mind all weekend. During a particularly dull moment of the conference, he'd found himself composing messages to her, deleting them before sending. What was there to say, really? That he regretted the way things had ended? That he sometimes lay awake at night thinking about her? That he had never quite gotten used to not being her husband?

With a sigh, he got out of the car and jogged through the rain to the front door. Before he could knock, it swung open, revealing Therese in loose cotton lounge pants and a zip-up hoodie that strained across her broad shoulders. Her hair was damp, as if she'd recently showered, and she wore no makeup. She looked softer somehow, more like the woman he'd married and less like the powerhouse real estate agent who closed million-pound deals.

"Hi," she said, stepping back to let him in. "You're right on time."

"Traffic was lighter than expected," Daniel replied, wiping his feet on the doormat. The entryway was familiar yet strange – the same furniture but arranged differently, new pictures on the walls, small changes that reminded him this wasn't his home anymore.

"The kids are just gathering their things," Therese said, leading him into the kitchen. "Emma insists on packing her own bag, so that's taking a while. Can I get you a coffee while you wait?"

"No, thanks. I've had enough caffeine today to power a small country."

Therese smiled, leaning against the kitchen counter. The movement was casual, but Daniel couldn't help noticing how the counter seemed diminutive next to her frame. Everything in the house had been custom adapted – countertops raised, doorframes heightened, furniture reinforced – yet she still appeared outsized for the space, a physical reminder of how dramatically their lives had changed.

"How was the conference?" she asked, crossing her arms in a gesture he recognized as self-conscious. Despite her confidence in public, in private moments Therese was still aware of the way her body dominated spaces.

"Boring," Daniel answered truthfully. "But potentially profitable. We made some good connections."

Therese nodded, her eyes meeting his briefly before flicking away. "That's good."

An awkward silence fell between them, filled with the distant sounds of the children upstairs and the gentle patter of rain against the windows. Daniel shifted his weight, unsure whether to bring up their text conversation or pretend it hadn't happened.

"About Friday night," Therese began, saving him the trouble. "I hope I didn't make things weird."

"You didn't," Daniel assured her. "It was... it was nice, actually. Talking like that."

"Yeah." Therese smiled, a small, hesitant thing. "It was."

Another silence, less awkward this time. Daniel found himself studying her face – the curve of her cheekbone, the small scar near her left eyebrow from a childhood bicycle accident, the fullness of her lower lip. He'd memorized these features once, known them as intimately as his own reflection. They were different now, set in a face that had subtly changed with the virus, but still essentially Therese.

"I meant what I said," she continued suddenly, her voice low. "About wondering if we gave up too easily."

Daniel's heart skipped a beat. "I wonder that too," he admitted. "Sometimes."

Therese uncrossed her arms, letting them fall to her sides. "What do you think would have happened if we'd tried harder? Been more patient with each other?"

It was a dangerous question, one that led down paths of regret and might-have-beens. But standing in their old kitchen, with rain drumming gently against the windows and the sounds of their children in the background, Daniel found himself wanting to explore it.

"I think," he said slowly, "that I would have eventually realized that your transformation wasn't about me. That it wasn't a rejection of who we were, but an opportunity for you to become more fully yourself."

Therese's eyes widened slightly, surprise and something else – relief, perhaps – flickering across her features. "And I think I would have realized that giving you time to adjust wasn't the same as holding myself back. That we could grow together, just at different paces."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and significant. Daniel felt a tightness in his chest, a mingling of regret for what they had lost and hope for... for what? What was he hoping for?

"Daddy!" The moment was broken by Emma's voice as she bounded into the kitchen, her backpack clutched to her chest. "I packed my unicorn pajamas and my sparkly shoes and three books for bedtime!"

Daniel smiled, crouching down to her level. "Three books, huh? That sounds like a lot for one bedtime."

"Mummy lets me have three," Emma said with the confidence of a child who knows exactly how to play one parent against the other.

Daniel glanced up at Therese, who shrugged with a guilty smile. "Weekend rules are different," she said.

"I see," Daniel replied, standing up. "Well, I suppose we can manage three books tonight as well."

Emma beamed, then turned to wrap her arms around Therese's legs in a goodbye hug. Therese bent down – a considerable distance – to embrace her daughter properly, lifting her off the ground with ease.

"Be good for Daddy," she said, pressing a kiss to Emma's forehead before setting her back down. "And remember to brush your teeth for the full two minutes, okay?"

"Okay, Mummy."

Paul appeared next, his school backpack slung over one shoulder in a posture clearly meant to emulate coolness. At twelve, he was already showing signs of the growth spurt that would eventually bring him to his adult height – likely around six feet based on Daniel's genes, though who knew how the next generation might be affected by the virus's long-term presence in the population.

"Got everything, mate?" Daniel asked.

Paul nodded. "Can we get pizza on the way home? I'm starving."

"We'll see," Daniel hedged, knowing full well they would indeed be stopping for pizza. It had become a Sunday ritual, one small constant in the fluctuating rhythm of co-parenting.

Therese ruffled Paul's hair, an action he pretended to dislike while secretly enjoying. "Don't forget you have that maths test tomorrow. Did you study?"

"Yes, Mum," Paul sighed, the universal tone of pre-teen exasperation transcending all contextual changes in their post-virus world.

"Good lad," Therese said, pulling him into a hug that engulfed his still-small frame. "Text me when you get to school, okay?"

"I will."

With the children ready, it was time to go. Daniel helped Emma with her coat while Paul insisted on managing his own, resulting in one inside-out sleeve that Daniel pretended not to notice.

At the door, Therese handed over the children's vitamin supplements – another point of parental coordination – her fingers brushing against Daniel's in the exchange. The brief contact sent a jolt through him, a physical reminder of the connection they still shared beyond co-parenting logistics.

"Thanks for taking them a bit early today," Daniel said. "I appreciate it."

"No problem." Therese leaned against the doorframe, the wood creaking slightly under her weight. "They're my kids too. It's not a favor."

Daniel nodded, appreciating her directness. It was one of the traits that had survived her transformation unchanged – her ability to cut through pretense, to name things as they were.

"Still, thank you. For everything. For..." He gestured vaguely, not sure how to encapsulate what he meant. For raising wonderful children? For managing the complexities of their shared lives? For the conversation they'd started, the acknowledgement of regrets and possibilities?

Therese seemed to understand, a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "You're welcome, Danny."

The use of his nickname felt deliberate this time, not a slip but a choice. Daniel held her gaze for a moment, allowing himself to remember what it had been like before – before the virus, before the changes, before they had let fear and insecurity drive them apart.

"I'll text you when we get home," he said, the routine phrase carrying more weight than usual.

"I'll be waiting." Therese's voice was low, intimate, a tone he hadn't heard from her in years.

With the children already heading down the path to the car, sheltering under Paul's umbrella, Daniel turned to go. But something made him pause, look back at Therese standing in the doorway of what had once been their shared home.

"Terry," he said, using her old nickname with intention. "Do you want to grab coffee sometime this week? Just us?"

Therese's expression brightened, surprise and pleasure evident in the widening of her eyes, the parting of her lips. "I'd like that," she said simply.

"Good. I'll call you."

"You'd better."

With a final smile, Daniel hurried through the rain to join the children in the car. As he backed out of the driveway, he caught sight of Therese in his rearview mirror, still standing in the doorway, one hand raised in farewell. She remained there until they turned the corner, her imposing silhouette framed by the warm light of the house.

Driving away, with his children chattering in the backseat about pizza toppings and school tomorrow, Daniel felt something shift inside him – a loosening of a knot he'd carried for five years. The conversation they'd started wasn't finished. The story they'd begun wasn't over.

Whatever came next – reconciliation, friendship, or simply a better understanding – it would be a new chapter. And for the first time in a long while, Daniel found himself looking forward to turning the page.