Two years after our divorce, I run into my exwife on the high street; everything clicks into place, yet she only offers me a bitter smile before dismissing my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child is born, Emma stops caring for herself altogether. She used to change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every detail, but after returning from maternity leave in Leeds she seems to have erased any memory of anything beyond an old threadbare sweatshirt and sagging joggers that hang around her like a wilted flag.
In that fashionable attire, my wife doesnt just lounge at homeshe lives there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed in the same rags, as if the tatters have become an extension of her body. When I ask why, she mumbles that its more practical for nighttime feedings. Theres a dark logic to it, I admit, but all the grand principles she once recited like a mantraA woman must remain a woman, even in the depths of hell!have gone up in smoke. Emma has forgotten everything: her beloved salon in Brighton, 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 bust as if it mattered not.
Naturally, her body follows the same route to ruin. Her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck slump, becoming mere shadows of what they once were. Her hair is a living disaster: one moment a wild tangle as if a storm has ripped through it, the next a haphazard knot from which rebellious strands burst like silent screams. The worst part is that before the baby, Emma was a dazzling tenoutoften. When we stroll through the streets of Bath, men turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It inflates my egomy goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess nothing remains but a dim silhouette, a relic of past glory.
Our house mirrors her declinea grim, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still masters is the kitchen. I swear on my heart: Emma is a witch of the stovetop, and complaining about her cooking would be sacrilege. As for everything else? An absolute tragedy.
I try to shake her, I 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 thinseeing every day this parody of the woman I loved becomes unbearable torture. One stormy night I deliver the verdict: divorce. Emma clutches at me, rattling empty promises of redemption, yet she does not scream or fight. When she realises my decision is final, she lets out a heartbreaking sigh:
Its up to you I thought you loved me
I refuse to indulge in a sterile debate about love or its absence. I fill out the paperwork, and soon, in a solicitors office in Manchester, we each hold our divorce certificatesthe end of a chapter.
I am hardly a model fatheraside from child support, I have done nothing for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once blinded me with her beauty, feels like a knife to the chest I dread.
Two years pass. One evening, while I wander the bustling streets of Liverpool, I spot a familiar silhouette in the distanceher gait, graceful as a dance amid the crowd. She walks toward me. As she draws near, my heart freezesits Emma! But not the Emma I knew. She has risen from the ashes, more radiant than during our early, passionate daysthe very embodiment of femininity. She wears skyhigh heels, her hair is coiffed to flawless perfection, and every detaildress, makeup, nails, jewelleryforms a symphony. The scent of her signature perfume hits me like a wave, dragging me back to buried days.
My face must betray everythingshock, desire, remorseas she bursts into a sharp, triumphant laugh:
What, you dont recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feetyou never believed me!
Emma generously lets me accompany her to her gym, slipping a few tidbits about the childrenTheyre thriving, full of life, she says. She talks little about herself, but her brilliance, unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shout her triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts flash back to those bleak days: her dragging around the house, broken by sleepless nights and daily grind, wrapped in that cursed sweatshirt and joggers, her miserable bun a banner of surrender. The loss of elegance, the extinguished flame! She was the same woman I abandoned, and with her I left our children, blinded by my selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we say goodbye, I stammer a questioncan I call her? I confess I finally understand and beg her to start over. She rewards me with an icy smile, shakes her head with unyielding firmness and says:
Youve realised far too late, love. Goodbye!
