Two years after our divorce I run into my exwife on the high street, and everything clicks into place. She offers me a bitter smile and rejects my desperate plea to start over
When our second child, Oliver, is born, Emily stops looking after herself completely. She used to change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every detail, but after she returns from maternity leave in Manchester she seems to have erased from her mind any clothing beyond a threadbare sweatshirt and sagging joggers that hang around her like a drooping flag.
In that glorious attire my wife doesnt just lounge at home she lives there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed that way, as if the rags have become an extra layer of skin. When I ask why, she mutters that its more practical for getting up at night with the kids. Theres a grim logic to it, I admit, but all the grand maxims she once rattled off like a litany A woman must stay a woman, even in the fires of hell! have vanished into thin air. Emily has forgotten everything: her beloved beauty salon in Sheffield, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and, forgive the bluntness, she no longer even bothers to put on a bra in the morning, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally her body follows the same downward spiral. Her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck slump, becoming shadows of what they once were. Her hair is a living disaster: one moment a wild mass blown by a storm, the next a hasty bun from which rebellious strands scream silently. The worst part is that before the baby she was a tenoutoften beauty. When we stroll through the streets of Brighton, men turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It swells my ego my goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess there is nothing left but a dim silhouette, a husk of her former splendor.
Our house mirrors her decline a gloomy, oppressive mess. The only thing she still masters is the kitchen. I swear on my word, Emily is a witch of the stove, and complaining about her meals would be sacrilege. Everything else? An utter tragedy.
I try to shake her, beg her not to sink so deep, but she merely offers a rueful smile and promises to pull herself together. Months slip by, my patience wears thin watching every day the parody of the woman I once loved becomes unbearable. One stormy night I drop the verdict: divorce. Emily tries to hold me back, rattling empty promises of redemption, but she never screams, never fights. When she realises my decision is final, she lets out a heartbreaking sigh:
It’s up to you I thought you loved me
I refuse to enter a sterile debate about love or its absence. I fill out the paperwork, and soon, in a solicitors office in Bristol, we each hold our divorce decree the end of a chapter.
Im hardly a model father aside from child support, Ive done nothing for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty, feels like a knife to the chest I want to stay far away from.
Two years drift by. One evening, while wandering the bustling lanes of Liverpool, I spot a familiar silhouette in the distance her stride as graceful as a dancer weaving through a crowd. She comes toward me. As she draws near, my heart freezes its Emily! But not the Emily I knew. She has risen from the ashes, more stunning than during our early, fevered romance the very embodiment of femininity. Shes perched on skyhigh heels, her hair coiffed to flawless perfection, every detail a symphony dress, makeup, nails, jewellery And that signature perfume, the one she used years ago, hits me like a tidal wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must betray everything astonishment, desire, remorse as she bursts into a sharp, victorious laugh:
What, you dont recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feet you didnt believe me!
Emily generously lets me accompany her to her gym, slipping a few tidbits about the kids theyre thriving, she says, full of life. She doesnt say much about herself, but it isnt needed her sparkle, her unshakable confidence, this new irresistible charm shout her triumph louder than any words could.
My mind races 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 surrender flag. The loss of elegance, the extinguished flame! Its the same woman I abandoned, and with her I turned my back on our children, blinded by selfishness and a fleeting rage.
As we part, I stammer a question can I call you? I admit I finally understand and beg her to start anew. She rewards me with an icy smile, shakes her head with unwavering firmness and says:
Youve got it too late, love. Goodbye.
