Two years after our divorce I ran into my exwife. Everything clicked into place, and she gave me a sour smile before brushing off my desperate plea to start over
When our second child arrived, Poppy stopped caring about herself entirely. She used to change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch, but after returning from maternity leave in Manchester she seemed to have wiped from her memory any existence of clothing other than an old, threadbare sweatshirt and a sagging pair of joggers that hung like a wilted flag.
In that glamorous ensemble my wife didnt just lounge at homeshe practically lived there, collapsing onto the bed still dressed in the rags, as if theyd become a second skin. When I asked why, she muttered that it was more convenient for midnight trips to tend the babies. There was a grim logic to it, Ill admit, but all those lofty maxims she used to chantA woman must stay a woman, even in the fiery pits!had evaporated. Poppy had forgotten her beloved beauty salon in Sheffield, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and, forgive my bluntness, she no longer bothered to put on a bra in the mornings, drifting around the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally, her body followed suit. Her waist collapsed, her belly flared, her legs gave way, even her neck drooped, becoming a shadow of its former self. Her hair? A living disaster: one moment a wild, windtorn thicket, the next a halfhearted bun from which rebellious strands shouted their silence. Before the baby, Poppy was a tenoutoften beauty. Strolling down the promenade in Brighton, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my egomy own goddess, all mine! And now there was nothing left of that goddess but a dim silhouette, a relic of past splendor.
Our house reflected her declinea bleak, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my heart, Poppy was a witch of the stove, and complaining about her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? An outright tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to sink so low, but she offered a pathetic smile and promised to pull herself together. Months slipped by, my patience wore thinseeing every day a parody of the woman I once loved was torture. One stormy night I delivered the verdict: divorce. Poppy tried to cling, rattling off empty promises of redemption, yet she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realized my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
Your call I thought you loved me
I didnt waste time on a sterile debate about love. I filled out the forms, and soon, in a Liverpool office, we each signed our divorce certificateschapter closed.
Im probably not a shining fatheraside from child support, I havent done much for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me, felt like a blade to the chest Id rather avoid.
Two years slipped by. One evening, wandering the bustling streets of Bristol, I spotted a familiar silhouette in the distanceher gait as graceful as a dance amidst the crowd. She turned toward me. My heart frozeit was Poppy! But what a Poppy! Revived from the ashes, more radiant than ever, the very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair coiffed to perfection, everything about her a symphonydress, makeup, nails, jewellery Her signature perfume hit me like a tidal wave, dragging me back to buried days.
My face must have shown it allastonishment, desire, remorsewhen she burst into a sharp, victorious laugh:
Cant you recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feetyou didnt believe me!
Poppy generously invited me to her gym, slipping a few tidbits about the kidstheyre thriving, full of life, she said. She didnt talk much about herself, but her sparkle, unshakable confidence, that fresh irresistible charm shouted triumph louder than any words.
My mind drifted back to those dark days: her dragging around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of everyday, cloaked in that cursed sweatshirt and sagging joggers, her miserable bun a surrender flag. It had infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman Id abandoned, and with her Id left our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered a questioncould I call her? I confessed Id finally understood and begged her to start anew. She rewarded me with an icy smile, shook her head with unwavering firmness and said:
Youve figured it out too late, love. Farewell!
