28April2025
Two years after our divorce I ran into my exwife on the tube. The whole picture fell into focus at once, yet all she offered was a bitter smile before she brushed off my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child, little Lucy, was born, Emily stopped caring for herself entirely. Once she would change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch. After she returned from maternity leave in Manchester, it was as if shed erased from her mind any garment other than an old, threadbare sweatshirt and a sagging pair of joggers that hung around her like a wilted flag.
In that magnificent attire she didnt merely lounge at home she lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed in those rags, as if theyd become a second skin. When I asked why, she muttered that it was easier to get up at night for the children. There was a grim logic to it, Ill admit, but the grand maxims she once recited like a prayer A woman must remain a woman, even in the pits of hell! had gone up in smoke. Emily had forgotten everything: her beloved hairdressing salon in Brighton, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and, forgive the bluntness, she no longer even bothered to wear a bra, drifting through the house with a sagging bust as if it mattered not.
Naturally her body followed the same decline. Her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck drooped, becoming a shadow of their former selves. Her hair was a disaster, alternately a wild tangle blown by a storm or a hasty bun from which rebellious strands stuck out like mute screams. Before the baby, Emily was a tenoutoften beauty. Strolling through the streets of Brighton, men would turn, eyes glued to her. It swelled my ego she was my goddess, all mine. Now, from that goddess there was nothing left but a dim silhouette, a relic of past splendor.
Our house mirrored her downfall a bleak, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still managed was the kitchen. I swear on my word, Emily was a witch of the stove, and complaining about her cooking would have been blasphemy. Everything else was an absolute tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to sink further, but she gave me a sheepish smile and promised to pull herself together. The months dragged on, my patience wore thin watching each day the parody of the woman I once loved became unbearable. One stormy night I delivered the final verdict: divorce. Emily tried to cling, spouting empty promises of redemption, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realised my decision was irrevocable, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
It’s up to you I thought you loved me.
I gave no ground to a futile debate about love. I filled out the papers, and soon, in a solicitors office in Bristol, we each held our divorce certificates the closing of a chapter.
Im hardly a model father; apart from child support Ive done nothing for the family I once had. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me, feels like a blade to the chest Im desperate to avoid.
Two years later, strolling down the bustling streets of Liverpool, I spotted a familiar silhouette cutting through the crowd, her gait graceful as a dancers. She walked straight toward me. My heart froze it was Emily! But not the Emily Id known. She seemed risen from the ashes, more radiant than during our early, passionate days the very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair styled to flawless perfection, a symphony of dress, makeup, nails, jewellery and that signature perfume that hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must have shown everything astonishment, desire, remorse as she laughed, sharp and victorious:
Dont you recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feet you didnt believe me!
Emily kindly invited me to accompany her to the gym, slipping in a few remarks about the children they were thriving, she said, full of life. She spoke little of herself, but her glow, her unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted triumph louder than any words could.
Memories of those dark days flooded back: her dragging around the house, broken by sleepless nights and daily weight, draped in that cursed sweatshirt and joggers, her miserable bun a banner of surrender. The loss of elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and with her I had forsaken our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered a question could I call her? I confessed I finally understood and begged her to start anew. She gave me a cold smile, shook her head with unyielding resolve and said:
Youve realised too late, dear. Farewell.
Looking back, I see that letting pride dictate my actions only deepened the wreckage. I have learned that compassion and humility matter far more than the illusion of control, and that the respect we give ourselves must first be earned by how we treat those we love.
