“Emma, you and your husband are both equally to blame for the split,” the therapist said, looking straight at me.
“Im to blame? No! Hes the one who ripped the family apart!” I snapped.
“Listen, Emma, when a couple separates the fault is shared, fiftyfifty. Not ninetyten, not sixtyforty. You just didnt manage a healthy partnership,” she replied calmly.
“What am I supposed to do? Ive got two girls. Their dad loves them, but I cant stand him,” I pleaded, hoping the therapist had a magic wand.
“First, take a breath, Emma. You cant rush this, youll burn out. Who will look after the kids? They need a stable mum, not a nervous wreck. Are you thinking of getting into a new relationship?” she asked.
“Never! I cant be hurt again,” I whispered, tears welling up.
“Dont be in a hurry. Youre still young, lifes ahead of you,” she said gently. “Why did you marry in the first place?”
“For happiness,” I answered, sobbing.
“Exactly. Everyone wants a great life, yet we end up divorcing a lot. Schools teach us maths, not how to keep a marriage together. So we rush into marriage, then rush out with tears,” the therapist sighed. “And the years just slip by. Youth fades fast.”
“I tried so hard for the family. I put up with him for fifteen years while he was well, indifferent. He became a bore, I cant even look at him. Our love is shattered,” I vented.
“I have a little experiment for you, Emma. Up for it?” she smiled mischievously.
“What kind?” I perked up.
“Probably youll want to date again after a break. Find a practice boyfriend, so to speak, and use him to relearn the ropes of a relationship. Make it comfortable,” she suggested, raising an eyebrow.
“Where on earth am I supposed to find such a fool?” I asked.
“You dont need to look. Your practice boyfriend could be your exhusband.”
“How?” I was stunned.
“You’re not attached to him, right? If he walks away, it doesnt matter. So give it a go. Its a winwin, Emma,” the therapist convinced me.
I thought, why not? I wasnt losing anything. I didnt really miss Peter any more. Let him have it.
Peter had become such a nuisance that I packed the girls and moved into a flat in Manchester. We went to court, and the divorce was final. He begged me to think it over, but I burned the bridges.
I had no men in sight; after fifteen years of marriage I craved solitude. Peter started sending cheap gifts, flowers, even invited me to a saunalatestage attention that just wore me out. He still couldnt accept that it was over.
When I settled into my new flat, I felt an odd sense of relief. I breathed out, finally feeling like I was floating on cloud nine.
But the girls brought me back down:
“Mum, why is Daddy to blame?” they asked.
I was at a loss. How do I tell them Im done with their father, that his words are empty, that life feels grey and cramped?
Thats when I decided to see the therapist again, hoping for some guidance.
So the experiment began. I rang Peter a month after the split:
“Hey, how are you? Fancy meeting up? I have a few things Id like to discuss.”
“Emma? Sure, anytime,” he said, sounding thrilled.
We met in a park, sat on a bench. He kept inching closer, trying to take my hand. We talked about nothing. No heavy questions. He walked me home, planted a quick kiss on my cheek, and handed the girls the sweets hed bought.
When I looked into my flats window, Peter was still standing outside. I waved, he sent a cheeky airkiss back.
Honestly, those lowkey catchups with my ex were fine. No shouting, no broken dishes, and life started feeling brighter.
We ended up seeing each other about once a monthcoffee, a film, a stroll in the park. My days felt stitched together with a bit of joy, and I even started dreaming of a future where our paths might cross again.
A year went by.
“Peter, are we still on for today?” I asked, hopeful.
“Sorry, Emma, Im swamped. Ill call when Im free,” he replied, hanging up.
That happened a few times. I started getting anxious. Did someone else take his place? Was he seriously moving on? Jealousy crept in.
I called him again:
“Peter, the girls miss you. How about we take them to the zoo?”
“Emma, Ive got my wife in the maternity ward,” he said, sighing.
“What wife? Are you joking? This is ridiculous!” I shouted.
“Hes not kidding. Were expecting a baby with Lily.”
I was speechless, just managed to say:
“Goodbye then. I wish you both a happy life.”
That was the end of my story.
