Emma, you and your husband share equal blame for the divorce, the therapist says, looking straight into my eyes.
My fault? No! Hes the one who tore the family apart! I protest.
You see, Emma, when a couple splits the responsibility is split evenly fiftyfifty. Not ninetyten, not sixtyforty, but exactly fiftyfifty. Dont argue. You didnt manage to build a healthy relationship, the therapist continues calmly and confidently.
What should I do? I have two daughters. My husband loves them, but I hate him. What now? I want to believe her, as if she holds a magic wand that could set everything straight.
First, calm down, Emma. You cant sprint through this or youll break. Who will look after the children? Your daughters need a stable mother, not a hysteric one. Are you thinking of starting a new relationship?
Never! Not a chance! I cant be disappointed again.
Dont rush. Youre still young, with a whole life ahead.
Why did I marry?
For happiness, I answer, tears spilling.
Exactly. Everyone wants great happiness, yet so many couples end up divorcing. School teaches us maths, not the art of marriage. The result? People rush into marriage, then run off in tears to a divorce the therapist sighs heavily. Time flies, youth fades.
I tried for the family! I put up with my husband for fifteen years while he sniffed at flowers but never smelled them. He was passive, apathetic, and I grew sick of him. I cant even look at him now. All our love is shattered! I need to vent.
Id like to suggest an experiment, Emma. Are you willing? the therapist smiles mischievously.
What kind? I perk up.
Youll probably want to try a new relationship eventually. Take a break first. Find a practice boyfriend, so to speak, and work on your partnership skills. Learn how to live with a man, make it comfortable for you both, the therapist asks, eyes inquisitive.
Where on earth do I find such a fool? I ask, surprised.
You dont have to look. Your practice boyfriend can be your exhusband.
How?
You dont mind him at all; it wouldnt matter if he walks away. So give it a go. Its a winwin, Emma, the therapist insists.
I decide to try. After all, I have nothing to lose. I really dont miss Peter Clarke. Let him go.
Peter had become such a nuisance that, after packing the girls, I moved into a flat in Camden. Soon the court pronounced the divorce. Peter begged me to reconsider, to wait, but I burned every bridge. I had no men in sight; after fifteen years of marriage I craved solitude.
Peter started panicking, sending cheap gifts, bouquets, inviting me to a spa. A belated wave of attention from him makes me weary. He still cant believe its over.
When I relocate with the girls to the rented flat, I feel a wave of relief. I finally breathe easy, as if Im soaring in a heaven of my own making.
Then the girls pull me back to reality:
Mum, whats Daddys fault?
Im stunned. How do I explain to my daughters that there is no life for me with their father, that his words are empty wind, that the world feels cramped and nauseating, painted in dull greys? Thats when I return to the therapist, hoping for guidance.
So the experiment begins. A month after the split, I call Peter:
Hey! How are you? Want to meet? I have a few things to ask.
Emma? Sure, meet whenever you like! Peter gushes.
We meet that evening on a bench in HydePark. Peter keeps edging closer, trying to take my hand. We chat about nothing at all. No questions arise for me. He walks me home, plants a warm kiss on my cheek, and hands the girls a small treat.
Inside my flat, I glance out the window. Peter is still standing outside. I wave at him; he blows a kiss back.
These casual dates with my ex feel perfectly fine. No arguments, no slammed dishes. Life takes on bright, juicy colours again.
We start seeing each other once a month coffee, a film, a walk in the park. My life feels woven from joy. I begin to imagine a future that ties our paths together again.
A year passes.
Peter, are we meeting today? I ask, hopeful.
Sorry, Emma, Im swamped. Ill call you when Im free, he replies, ending the call.
The same pattern repeats three or four times. I get nervous. Whats happening? Has someone else stepped into his life? Am I getting jealous? I need answers.
I call him again:
Peter, the girls miss you. Lets take them to the zoo.
Emma, I have a wife in labour, he says, breathless.
What wife? Are you joking? Are you mocking me? I shout.
No joke, Emma. Were expecting a son with Lily.
Im left speechless, managing only:
Goodbye. I wish you all the happiness under a clear sky.
