Two years after the divorce, I met my former wife again. In that moment, everything became clear to mebut she only offered a bitter smile and dismissed my desperate plea to start anew.
When our second child was born, Catherine entirely ceased to care for herself. Once, she would change outfits five times a day, obsessively chasing the perfect look. Yet after returning from the hospital in Manchester, she seemed to forget everything but a threadbare jumper and saggy jogging trousers that hung off her like a flag of surrender. In this «magnificent» ensemble, my wife didnt merely move about the houseshe lived in it, day and night, often falling asleep in those rags as though they had become her second skin. When I asked why, shed shrug and mutter that it made nighttime feedings easier. There was a grim logic to it, I admit, but all those lofty principles she once preached like gospel»A woman must remain a woman, even in hell!»had vanished into thin air. Catherine forgot everything: her cherished beauty salon in Bristol, the gym she once treated as sacred, andforgive my bluntnessshe even stopped wearing a brassiere, padding about the house with a tired slouch, as though none of it mattered any longer.
Her body, too, had fallen into ruin. Everything saggedher waist, her stomach, her legs, even her neck had lost its former grace, becoming a shadow of itself. Her hair? A true nightmareeither a wild, tangled mess, as if struck by a gale, or a hastily pinned-up bun with straggling strands crying for mercy. The worst of it was that before the birth, Catherine had been radiantan absolute ten! When we strolled through the streets of York, men would turn their heads, their eyes clinging to her. It flattered my pridehere was my goddess, mine alone! And now? Nothing remained but a faded echo of her former splendour.
Our home mirrored her declinea gloomy swamp of chaos. The only thing she still mastered was cooking. In all honesty, Catherine was a sorceress in the kitchen; to complain of her meals would be a sin. But the rest? Pure tragedy.
I tried to rouse her, begging her not to let herself waste away, but shed only smile apologetically and promise to do better. Time passed, and my patience wanedwatching that pitiful ghost of a woman became unbearable. One stormy night, I delivered my verdict: divorce. Catherine tried to stop me, repeating empty promises, but she didnt shout, didnt fight. When she saw my decision was final, she sighed in pain:
*»As you wish I thought you loved me.»*
I refused to be drawn into a futile debate about love or its absence. I filed the papers, and soon after, at the registry office in Liverpool, we received our divorce certificatesthe end of our story.
I wont claim to be a model fatherbeyond child support, I did little for my former family. The thought of seeing the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty again was a blow to the gut Id rather avoid.
Two years passed. One evening, wandering the bustling streets of London, I spotted a figure in the distanceher stride so familiar, light, almost dancing. She was walking straight toward me. As she neared, my heart stoppedit was Catherine! But what a Catherine! Reborn from the ashes, more beautiful than in our earliest, most passionate daysthe very essence of womanhood. High heels, flawless hair, everything in perfect harmonyher dress, her makeup, her nails, her jewellery And the scent of her old perfume struck me like a wave, drowning me in forgotten memories.
My face must have betrayed everythingshock, longing, shamebecause she let out a sharp, triumphant laugh:
*»What, dont you recognise me? I told you Id pull myself togetheryou wouldnt believe me!»*
Catherine graciously allowed me to walk her to the gym, mentioning the children brieflythey were thriving, she said, full of spirit. She spoke little of herself, but she didnt need toher radiance, that unshakable confidence, this new, devastating charm shouted her transformation louder than any words.
My thoughts spiralled back to those dark days: how she had dragged herself through the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of routine, wrapped in that cursed jumper and joggers, that pathetic bun a symbol of surrender. How it had infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished flame! This was the same woman I had abandoned, along with our children, blinded by my own selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we parted, I stammered out a questioncould I call her? I confessed I finally understood, begged for a fresh start. But she only gave me a cold, victorious smile, shook her head with unyielding resolve, and said:
*»Too late for that, old boy. «Too late for that, old boy. I needed you when I looked like a ghost, not now that Ive come back to life. You wanted a perfect wife? You shouldve stayed for the mess.» She turned, the click of her heels sharp against the pavement, and vanished into the London crowd, leaving me standing thereolder, wiser, and utterly alone.
