It was the 23rd of December in a small, quiet Scottish town. Snow coated the streets like powdered sugar, the fire crackled warmly in the living room, and Frank McAllister sat in his favorite chair, sipping tea with just the right amount of whisky in it.
Across the room, his wife, Mary, was knitting what looked like the tenth scarf of the winter.
Frank looked at her, sighed deeply, then leaned forward and picked up the cordless landline phone. He scrolled through the numbers and selected the one labeled “London Lad”—his son, Andrew.
The phone rang a few times before Andrew answered, clearly in the middle of some last-minute work.
“Hello? Dad?”
Frank took a deep breath, put on his most dramatic voice, and said, “Andrew… I hate to ruin your day, son, but your mother and I… we’re getting divorced.”
The line went silent for a second.
“…What?! WHAT are you talking about?!”
Frank sighed, adding some acting-worthy melancholy. “Forty-five years of misery is enough. We just can’t stand the sight of each other anymore. She leaves the spoons in the sink. I breathe too loud. We’re done. Finished.”
“Dad, come on, this isn’t funny—on Christmas? What happened?! Did you fight?”
“No fight,” Frank replied. “Just tired. Tired of pretending. Anyway, I can’t talk about it anymore. You call your sister and let her know. I’m exhausted.”
Then he hung up.
Meanwhile, in a two-bedroom flat in Leeds, 32-year-old Sarah had just sat down with a glass of wine, excited to binge-watch some Christmas movies in peace. Her phone buzzed with a call from her brother.
She picked up.
“Hey, Andy, what’s up?”
“Sarah, it’s an emergency. Mum and Dad are getting DIVORCED!”
Sarah dropped her wine.
“WHAT?!”
“Yeah, Dad just called me. Says 45 years of marriage is enough. They’re sick of each other.”
“Like hell they are!” Sarah shrieked, already reaching for her phone with the fury of a woman on a mission. “They just renewed their vows last year in Tenerife! This makes no sense!”
With steam practically coming out of her ears, she called the family landline in Scotland.
Frank picked up, trying very hard not to laugh.
“Dad. Are you SERIOUSLY divorcing Mum?!”
“Well, we just don’t see eye to eye anymore. She puts raisins in the stuffing. It’s unnatural.”
“OH MY GOD,” Sarah screamed. “Listen to me: DO. NOT. DO. ANYTHING. I am calling Andrew back, and we are both coming up there. First flight tomorrow morning. DO YOU HEAR ME?!”
“Loud and clear,” Frank said softly.
Sarah slammed the phone down and immediately started packing, muttering under her breath: “I swear if I have to mediate a 45-year-old breakup on Christmas, I’m charging therapy rates.”
Back in Scotland, Frank calmly placed the phone back on the receiver. Mary looked up from her knitting, raising an eyebrow.
“Well?” she asked.
He smiled smugly. “Sorted. They’ll be here by tomorrow.”
Mary chuckled. “And they’re paying their own fares?”
“Every penny.”
She smirked and shook her head. “You’re a devil.”
“No, Mary,” Frank said proudly. “I’m a father.”
🧨 Moral of the Story?
Sometimes, desperate parents take desperate measures. And if threatening to blow up a decades-long marriage is what it takes to get the kids home for Christmas… well, maybe it’s not blackmail — it’s creative persuasion.
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