Two years after the divorce, I bumped into my ex-wifeI finally understood everything, but she just gave me a bitter smile and brushed off my desperate plea to start over
When our second child was born, Catherine completely stopped taking care of herself. She used to change outfits five times a day, obsessively hunting for the perfect look, but after coming home from the hospital in Manchester, it was like she forgot anything existed beyond a worn-out jumper and saggy sweatpants that hung off her like a white flag of defeat.
In that *lovely* getup, my wife didnt just move around the houseshe lived in it, day and night, often falling asleep in those rags like they were a second skin. When I asked why, shed shrug and mumble that it was easier when she had to get up for the kids. There was a grim logic to it, Ill admit, but all those grand principles she used to preach at me*»A woman must stay a woman, even in hell!»*just evaporated into thin air. Catherine forgot everything: her beloved beauty salon in Bristol, the gym she once treated like a sacred temple, andforgive me for saying itshe wouldnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, shuffling around the house with no care in the world.
Of course, her body fell apart too. Everything saggedher waist, her stomach, her legs, even her neck lost its shape, like a shadow of its former self. Her hair? A proper nightmareeither a wild, tangled mess like shed been caught in a storm or a rushed-up bun with strands sticking out like a cry for help. The worst part? Before the baby, Catherine had been stunninga solid ten! When wed walk through London, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It stroked my ego*thats my goddess, all mine!* But now? That goddess was gone, just a faded outline of what shed been.
Our house mirrored her downfalla gloomy swamp of chaos. The only thing she still had a grip on was cooking. Hand on heart, Ill say it: Catherine was a wizard in the kitchen, complaining about her food wouldve been a crime. But the rest? Pure tragedy.
I tried to wake her up, begged her not to let herself go like this, but shed just smile apologetically and promise to do better. Time passed, and my patience wore thinstaring at that sorry shadow of a woman every day became unbearable. One stormy night, I dropped the bomb: divorce. Catherine tried to stop me, repeating empty promises, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realised I wouldnt budge, she just sighed in pain
*»Fine I thought you loved me.»*
I didnt entertain a pointless debate about love. I filed the papers, and soon enough, at the registry office in Leeds, we got our divorce certificatesend of story.
I wont pretend Im father of the yearaside from child support, I didnt lift a finger to help my ex-family. The thought of seeing the woman whod once dazzled me with her beauty again was like a gut punch Id rather avoid.
Two years passed. One evening, wandering through the buzzing streets of London, I spotted a figure in the distanceher walk was so familiar, light, almost dancing. She was heading straight for me. When she got closer, my heart stopped*Catherine!* But what a Catherine! Reborn from the ashes, even more beautiful than in our early, passionate daysthe very picture of elegance. High heels, flawless hair, everything about her in perfect harmonyher dress, her makeup, her nails, her jewellery And the scent of her old perfume hit me like a wave, dragging me under forgotten memories.
My face mustve said it allshock, longing, shamebecause she burst into sharp, triumphant laughter
*»What, dont recognise me? Told you Id bounce backyou just didnt believe me!»*
Catherine graciously let me walk her to the gym, mentioned the kids briefly*theyre thriving*, she said, full of energy. She didnt say much about herself, but she didnt need toher glow, that unshakable confidence, the sheer magnetism screamed her transformation louder than any words.
My mind flashed back to those dark dayshow shed dragged herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of it all, wrapped in that cursed jumper and sweatpants, that sad bun like a symbol of surrender. How it infuriated methe lost elegance, the snuffed-out spark! This was the same woman Id abandoned, and with herour kids, blinded by my own selfishness and a moments frustration.
As we said goodbye, I stammered, asking if I could call her. I confessed I finally understood, begged for a fresh start. But she just gave me a cool, victorious smile, shook her head with unshakable resolve, and said
*»Too late for that, mate. …Ive already moved on. You had your chance, and you walked away when I needed you most. Now Im not looking back.» She turned, heels clicking sharply against the pavement, each step a final punctuation mark on what once was. The city lights caught her silhouette, strong and unwavering, and just like that, she disappeared into the crowdleaving me standing there, swallowed by the noise, the guilt, and the quiet truth I could no longer ignore.
