Two years after the divorce, I ran into my ex-wife. Everything finally made sense, but she only gave me a bitter smile and brushed off my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child was born, Catherine completely stopped taking care of herself. She used to change outfits five times a day, obsessively chasing the perfect look, but after coming home from the hospital in Manchester, it was like she forgot anything existed beyond a worn-out jumper and saggy trackies that hung off her like a flag of defeat.
In that *brilliant* get-up, my wife didnt just potter 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 mutter that it was easier for nighttime feedings. There was a grim logic to it, Ill admit, but all those high-minded principles she used to preach at me”A woman must stay a woman, even in hell!”had vanished into thin air. Catherine forgot everything: her beloved beauty salon in Liverpool, the gym she once treated like sacred ground, andforgive the bluntnessshe didnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, shuffling around with everything on full display as if it didnt matter.
Of course, her body fell apart too. Everything saggedher waist, her stomach, her legs, even her neck lost its shape, like a shadow of what it used to be. Her hair? A proper nightmareeither a wild, tangled mess as if shed been caught in a gale or a haphazard bun with strands sticking out like a cry for help. The worst part? Before the baby, Catherine had been stunninga solid ten. When wed walk the streets of Brighton, blokes would turn their heads, their eyes glued to her. It stroked my ego*thats my goddess, mine alone!* And now? Nothing left but a faded outline of what shed been.
Our home mirrored her declinea gloomy swamp of chaos. The only thing she still had a grip on was cooking. Hand on heart, Ill say it: Catherine was a magician in the kitchen; 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, but shed just smile apologetically and promise to do better. Time passed, and my patience wore thinwatching that sorry ghost of a woman day after day became unbearable. One stormy night, I dropped the hammer: divorce. Catherine tried to stop me, repeating empty promises, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she saw my decision was final, she sighed in pain:
*”Fine I thought you loved me.”*
I didnt bother with a pointless debate about love. I filed the papers, and soon enough, at the registry office in Leeds, we got our decree absoluteend of story.
Im no Father of the Yearaside from child support, I didnt lift a finger for my ex-family. The thought of seeing the woman whod once dazzled me with her beauty again was like a gut punch Id rather avoid.
Two years passed. One evening, wandering the lively streets of London, I spotted a figure in the distanceher walk so familiar, light, almost dancing. She was heading straight for me. When she got close, my heart stopped*Catherine!* But what a Catherine! Reborn from the ashes, even more beautiful than in our early, passionate daysthe very picture of elegance. Sky-high heels, flawless hair, everything about her in perfect harmonyher dress, her makeup, her nails, her jewellery And the scent of her old perfume hit me like a wave, dragging me under forgotten memories.
My face mustve given me awayshock, longing, shamebecause she let out a sharp, triumphant laugh:
*”What, dont recognise me? Told you Id pull myself togetheryou just didnt believe me!”*
Catherine let me walk her to the gym, briefly mentioned the kids*thriving, full of energy*, she said. She didnt say much about herself, but she didnt need toher glow, that unshakable confidence, her devastating new charm spoke louder than any words.
My mind flashed back to those dark days: her trudging around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the grind of motherhood, wrapped in that cursed jumper and trackies, with that sad little bun as a flag of surrender. How it infuriated methe lost grace, the snuffed-out spark! This was the same woman Id abandoned, and with herour kids, blinded by my own selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered if I could call her, confessed I finally understood, begged for a fresh start. But she just gave me a cool, victorious smile, shook her head with unshakable resolve, and said:
*”Too late for that, mate. Cheers.”*
