Two years after our divorce I ran into my exwife on the high street of Liverpool. In an instant everything fell into stark clarity, yet she only offered me a bitter smile before brushing aside my desperate plea to start over
When our second child was born, Blythe stopped caring for herself entirely. Once she would change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch, but after she returned from maternity leave in Manchester she seemed to have wiped from her mind any notion of dress beyond a threadbare sweatshirt and sagging joggers that hung like a limp flag.
In that admirable attire my wife didnt merely linger at homeshe lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still wrapped in those tatters, as if the rags had become part of her skin. When I asked why, she muttered that it was easier to get up at night for the children. There was a dark logic to it, Ill admit, but the lofty maxims she once recited like a litanyA woman must remain a woman, even in the depths of hell!had evaporated into smoke. Blythe had forgotten everything: her beloved salon in Brighton, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, andpardon the raw confessionshe no longer even bothered to slip on a bra in the mornings, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally her body followed the same path of decay. Her waist collapsed, her belly swelled, her legs wilted, even her neck bowed, becoming a shadow of what it once was. Her hair? A living disaster: sometimes a wild tangle as if a storm had ravaged it, other times a haphazard bun from which rebellious strands burst forth like silent screams. The worst part was that before the baby, Blythe had been a radiant tenoutoften. When we strolled through the streets of Brighton, men turned their heads, eyes locked on her. It swelled my egothere she was, my goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess nothing remained but a dim silhouette, a relic of former splendor.
Our house reflected her downfalla bleak, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my life, Blythe was a witch of the stove, and to criticize her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? An absolute tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to sink so deep, but she only gave me a rueful smile and promised to pull herself together. Months slipped by, my patience wore thinseeing each day the parody of the woman I had loved became an unbearable torture. One stormladen night I uttered the verdict: divorce. Blythe tried to hold me, rattling empty vows of redemption, yet she never screamed, never fought. When she grasped that my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
Its up to you I thought you loved me
I refused to engage in a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the papers, and soon, in a solicitors office in Oxford, we each held our divorce certificate the close of a chapter.
I am surely no exemplar fatheraside from child support, I have done nothing for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty, feels like a blade lodged in my chest that I am desperate to avoid.
Two years slipped by. One evening, wandering the bustling lanes of Bristol, I spotted a familiar silhouette in the distanceher gait graceful, like a dance amid the crowd. She came toward me. When she was close, my heart frozeit was Blythe! But what Blythe! Reborn from her ashes, more dazzling than during our first fevered days the very embodiment of femininity. She wore towering heels, her hair coiffed to flawless perfection, every detail a symphonydress, makeup, nails, jewellery And that scent, her signature perfume from years ago, hit me like a crashing wave, yanking me back to buried days.
My face must have betrayed everythingastonishment, desire, remorsewhen she burst into a sharp, triumphant laugh:
What, you dont recognize me? I told you Id get back on my feetyou didnt believe me!
Blythe generously invited me to accompany her to her gym, slipping in a few snippets about the childrentheyre thriving, full of life, she said. She spoke little of herself, but it was unnecessaryher radiance, unshakable confidence, that new, irresistible charm shouted her triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts dragged me back to those dark days: her, dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of everyday life, cloaked in that cursed sweatshirt and joggers, her miserable bun a flag of surrender. How it had infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and with her I had turned my back on our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered a questioncould I call her? I confessed I finally understood everything and begged her to start anew. She answered with an icy smile, shook her head with unyielding firmness and said:
Youve realized it all too late, love. Farewell!
