**What About Me? Am I Just Extra?**
*»I cant do this anymore. Goodbye, Nicholas.»* I wrote that note without a single exclamation mark, completely calm. Nicholas would never read it. After a moments thought, I burned it.
Nick and I had fallen into a wild, all-consuming love years agoburning, restless, unstoppable. We raced toward the abyss without a care.
Nicholas had a wife and three young children. I had two sons and a husband. Everyone around us thought wed lost our minds. *»Have you both gone mad? Think about your families!»* But Nick and I didnt see anyone else. To us, the world was emptyno obstacles, no rules.
After those feverish nights, Id catch myself thinking Id never want children with Nicholas. Never.
He once said about his own kids:
*»I dont exactly adore children. My wife always wanted more. What do I care?»*
Honestly, that attitude unsettled me. But I wasnt planning to marry him! Let them have as many as they wantedtheir family, their business.
Three years later, Nicholas and I got married. Things were peaceful and warm between us. My sons, of course, stayed with me.
When his children grew up, the problems beganan endless cycle. They called in the middle of the night, showed up at his office, demanded he come running.
The reason? Money. Or rather, the lack of it. All three needed financial help. Nicholas did what he could, drowning in guilt, never daring to refuse. I understood. The kids did toothey exploited their fathers remorse without shame. Every whim was indulged. I pitied them, even as I knew I was enemy number one in their eyes.
Years passed. Grandchildren arrivedfive so far, though likely more. The eldest daughter fled her abusive husband in slippers, desperate for support with her three little ones. The youngest claimed benefits as a single mother but lived beyond her means, carefree and reckless.
The middle son? A hopeless drunk, always skint, paying child support to his ex. Since he couldnt hold a job, Nicholas handed over the moneyfrom *our* budget. His granddaughter, the spitting image of him, was his favourite. He adored that fatherless girl more than the rest.
A right mess, isnt it?
Nicholas himself was drowning in debt, though his children had no clue. Only I knewand my sons, who begged me to leave *»that side-project sponsor.»* Once, I asked him to buy me perfume. He frowned:
*»Darling, you know Ive no sense of smell. Why waste money? Ill get it soon.»*
*»Surein about eight years,»* I muttered.
I stopped asking. The excuses were always the same: *»Marianne needs a private maternity suite!»* (Why not a shared ward?), *»The granddaughter needs a fur coat!»* (Wouldnt a puffer jacket do?), *»The thirty-year-old son needs new shoes!»* (Because his old ones have holes).
Every fight was about his grown children. Id always end it with: *»If we ever divorce, Nicholas, thank your kids for it!»* And yet, he swore he couldnt live without me.
But what about me? Im exhausted. I want *my* life, not the chaos of Nicholass children. Their names echo through the house like a funeral bell.
I remember a line from a film: *»Well, Im not an orphan either, thank God!»* I have my own children and grandchildren who need love. Why couldnt I stop twenty years ago?
The devils a cunning director, writing each of us a script. I wouldnt wish his sticky grasp on anyone. My fault, really. You sow wild oats and reap thistles. The fiery nights dried up. What felt like bottomless love? Over time, I hit rock bottom. Like living with stolen misery.
My son moved to another cityjob, family, a fresh start. Hes been asking me to join him.
So Im leaving. For good. I wrote Nicholas a note, then burned it. Hell understand. Or he wonta note wont change that.
P.S. I visited my children, my grandchildren. Stayed with my other son in Germanymarried to a strict Düsseldorf woman. Their kid doesnt speak a word of English. What he sees in her, Ill never know. But love isnt about reason, is it?
Theyre all happy. That soothes my soul.
A month later, I came back. I dont think Nicholas even realised Id left for good. But he did buy me expensive French perfume.
