Two years after the divorce, I ran into my ex-wife: I finally understood everything, but she only gave me a bitter smile and brushed off my desperate plea to start over
When our second child was born, Catherine stopped taking care of herself entirely. She used to change outfits five times a day, obsessively chasing perfection, but after coming home from the hospital in Manchester, it was as if she forgot anything existed beyond her worn-out jumper and saggy tracksuit bottoms, hanging off her like a flag of surrender.
In that “marvellous” ensemble, my wife didnt just move around the houseshe lived in it, day and night, often falling asleep in those rags as if theyd become a second skin. When I asked why, shed just shrug and mumble that it was easier for night feeds. There was a grim logic to it, Ill admit, but all those lofty principles she once preached like a sermon”A woman must always remain a woman, even in hell!”vanished into thin air. Catherine forgot everything: her beloved beauty salon in Liverpool, the gym she treated like a sacred ritual, andforgive my boldnessshe didnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, shuffling around the house with all the grace of a deflated balloon, as if it didnt matter at all.
Of course, her body suffered too. Everything saggedher waist, her stomach, her legs, even her neck lost its former elegance, becoming a shadow of itself. Her hair? A proper disastereither a wild, tangled mess like shed been caught in a storm or a hastily pinned-up bun with strands sticking out like a cry for help. The worst part? Before the baby, Catherine had been stunninga solid ten. When we strolled through London, men would turn their heads, their gazes clinging to her. It stroked my egohere was my goddess, mine alone! But now that goddess was gone, replaced by a faded outline of what once was.
Our home mirrored her declinea dreary swamp of chaos. The only thing she still managed was cooking. Hand on heart, Ill say it: Catherine was a wizard in the kitchen, and complaining about her food wouldve been a sin. But the rest? Pure tragedy.
I tried to wake her up, begged her not to let herself go like this, but shed only give me an apologetic smile and promise to do better. Time passed, and my patience wore thinwatching that pitiful ghost of a woman became unbearable. One stormy night, I dropped the verdict: divorce. Catherine tried to stop me, repeating empty promises, but she didnt shout, didnt fight. When she saw I wouldnt budge, she sighed in pain
*”Fine I thought you loved me.”*
I refused to get dragged into a pointless debate about love. I filed the papers, and soon enough, at the registry office in Birmingham, we got our divorce certificatesend of story.
Im hardly father of the yearaside from child support, I didnt lift a finger for my ex-family. The thought of seeing the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty again was like a punch to the gut Id rather avoid.
Two years passed. One evening, wandering the bustling streets of London, I spotted a figure in the distanceher walk so familiar, light, almost dancing. She was heading straight for me. As she got closer, my heart stopped. It was Catherine! But what a Catherine! Reborn from the ashes, more radiant than in our early, passionate daysthe very essence of womanhood. High heels, flawless hair, everything about her in harmonyher dress, her makeup, her nails, her jewellery And the scent of her old perfume hit me like a wave, drowning me in forgotten memories.
My face mustve said it allshock, longing, shamebecause she burst into sharp, triumphant laughter
*”What, dont recognise me? Told you Id bounce backyou just didnt believe me!”*
Catherine graciously let me walk her to the gym, briefly mentioned the kidstheyre thriving, full of energy, she said. She didnt say much about herself, but she didnt need toher glow, that unshakable confidence, that new, devastating charm screamed her transformation louder than words ever could.
My mind flashed back to those dark days: how shed dragged herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of everyday life, wrapped in that cursed jumper and tracksuit, that sad little bun a symbol of surrender. How it infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished fire! This was the same woman Id abandoned, along with our children, blinded by my own selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered out whether I could call her, confessed I finally understood, begged for a fresh start. But she only gave me a cool, victorious smile, shook her head with unyielding resolve, and said
*”Too late for that, mate. Cheers.”*
