Two years after our divorce I happened to run into my exwife. Everything fell into crystalclear focus, but she only gave me a sour smile before dismissing my desperate plea to start over
When our second child arrived, Poppy stopped looking after herself altogether. Once she would change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch. After she returned from maternity leave in Manchester, it was as if shed erased from her mind any garment that wasnt a threadbare hoodie and a sagging pair of joggers, hanging around like a flag at halfmast.
In that admirable attire my wife didnt just lounge at homeshe lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed as if those rags had become a second skin. When I asked why, she muttered that it was more practical for getting up at night with the kids. Theres a dark logic in that, Ill admit, but all those grand maxims she once droned at meA woman must stay a woman, even in the fires of hell!had blown away like smoke. Poppy had forgotten everything: her beloved hair salon in York, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and, forgive the bluntness, she no longer even bothered to put on a bra in the morning, wandering the house with a sagging bust as if it mattered not.
Naturally, her body followed the same downhill route. Her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck slumped, becoming a shadow of their former selves. Her hair was a living disaster: one moment a wild tumble as if a storm had ravaged it, the next a halfhearted bun from which rebellious strands stuck up like silent screams. The worst part was that before the baby, Poppy had been a tenoutoften beauty. Strolling down the promenade in Brighton, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my egomy own little goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess there was nothing left but a dim silhouette, a ghost of past splendour.
Our house mirrored her declinea gloomy, oppressive mess. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my heart, Poppy was a witch of the wok, and criticizing her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? An absolute tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to sink so low, but she only offered a sheepish grin and promised to pull herself together. Months slipped by, my patience wearing thinseeing each day a parody of the woman Id loved was an unbearable torture. One stormy night I dropped the verdict: divorce. Poppy tried to hold me back, rattling off empty promises of redemption, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realised my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
Your choice I thought you loved me
I didnt indulge in a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the paperwork, and soon, in a solicitors office in Bristol, we each held our divorce certificatethe end of a chapter.
Im hardly a model fatherapart 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, felt like a knife I wanted to keep far from my chest.
Two years slipped by. One evening, while wandering the bustling streets of Leeds, I spotted a familiar silhouette in the crowda gait as graceful as a dancer weaving through people. She was walking toward me. When she got closer, my heart froze it was Poppy! But a different Poppy, risen from the ashes, more radiant than during our first feverish romance the very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair styled to flawless perfection, every element a symphonydress, makeup, nails, jewellery And that signature perfume of hers hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must have betrayed everythingastonishment, desire, remorsewhen she let out a sharp, victorious laugh:
Cant recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feetyou never believed me!
Poppy generously let me accompany her to her gym, slipping in a few tidbits about the kidsTheyre thriving, full of life, she said. She didnt talk much about herself, but it wasnt neededher glow, her unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted her triumph louder than any words.
My thoughts drifted back to those bleak days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of daily grind, wrapped in that cursed hoodie and joggers, her miserable bun a flag of surrender. How it had infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and with her Id turned my back on our children, blinded by selfishness and a fleeting temper.
As we said goodbye, I stammered out a questioncould I call her? I confessed I finally understood everything and begged her to start anew. She answered with an icy smile, shook her head with unyielding firmness and said:
Youve figured it out far too late, dear. Farewell!
