«Emily, you and your husband share equal responsibility for the breakdown,» the therapist said, fixing me with a steady gaze.
«Me? That’s absurd! He tore the family apart!» I snapped.
«Emily, when a marriage ends, the fault is split 5050, not 9010 or 6040,» Dr. Hughes replied calmly. «You couldn’t build a healthy partnership.»
«What am I supposed to do? I have two daughters. He loves them, but I despise my husband. How can I manage?» I pressed, hoping his words could work like a magic wand.
«First, calm down. You can’t rush headlong into anythingyoull break. Who will look after the girls? They need a stable mother, not a hysteric one. Are you planning to start a new relationship?»
«Never! Not after another disappointment,» I declared, tears welling.
«Take your time. Youre still young; your whole life lies ahead,» he advised.
«Why did I marry at all?»
«For happiness, of course,» I whispered, sobbing.
«Everyone wants great happiness, yet many end up divorcing. School teaches us arithmetic, not the subtleties of marriage. The result? People rush into wedding vows, then sprint to the courtroom in tears, while the prime years slip away.»
«I gave everything to the marriage. I endured fifteen years of a husband who never seemed to notice anything beyond the colour of a flower. He grew passive, and I grew exhausted. I cant even look at him now; all our love lies shattered,» I vented.
«May I suggest an experiment, Emily?» Dr. Hughes smiled mischievously.
«What sort of experiment?» I asked, curiosity lighting my eyes.
«Youll probably want to enter a new relationship after a pause. Find a ‘practice partner’someone you can test the waters with, someone you can learn to live with. That way youll become comfortable again,» he said, leaning in.
«Where would I find such a fool?» I asked, bewildered.
«You dont have to look far. Your ‘practice partner’ could be… your exhusband.»
«My ex? How?»
«Think of it this way: you have nothing to lose, and youre not attached to him. If he walks away, youre fine. Its a winwin scenario.»
I decided to give it a try. After all, there was nothing left to risk. I certainly didnt miss Peter Brown any longer. Let him go.
Peter had become such a nuisance that I gathered my daughters, Lucy and Grace, and moved into a flat in Manchester. The court granted our divorce, and Peter begged for a second chance, but I burned every bridge. I had no man on the horizon; after fifteen years of marriage, I craved solitude.
Peter started frantic, sending cheap gifts, flowers, even inviting me to a spa. It was belated attention, and I was tired of his desperation. He still couldnt accept that it was over.
When Lucy and Grace settled into our new flat, I felt a lift of relief. I finally breathed easy, as if Id stepped into a garden after a storm.
But the girls pulled me back to reality:
«Mum, why is Daddy at fault?»
I froze. How could I explain that life with their father was no longer an option? His words felt like windempty and suffocating. My world turned a bleak, grey shade. Thats when I returned to Dr. Hughes for guidance.
The experiment began. A month after our split, I called Peter.
«Hi, Peter. How are you? Fancy meeting up? I have a few things to ask,» I said.
«Emily? Of course. Any time,» he replied, his voice bubbling with joy.
We met in a park, sharing a bench. Peter kept edging closer, trying to take my hand. We talked about nothing in particular; no burning questions rose. He walked me home, planted a warm kiss on my cheek, and handed cookies to the girls.
When I peered through the flats window, Peter lingered outside. I waved; he sent an airy kiss back.
Those harmless dates with my ex were oddly satisfying. No fights, no broken platesjust colour returning to my life.
Soon we were meeting once a monthcoffee, a film, a stroll in the park. My days were stitched together with small joys, and I began to imagine a future where our paths were intertwined again.
A year passed.
«Peter, shall we meet tonight?» I asked, hopeful.
«Sorry, Emily, Im swamped. Ill call when Im free,» he said, ending the call.
He repeated this pattern three or four times. Anxiety gnawed at me. Had someone else taken his place? Was he truly interested elsewhere? Jealousy crept in, and I needed answers.
I rang him again.
«Peter, the girls miss you. Lets take them to the zoo.»
«Emily, Im in the delivery suitemy wife just gave birth,» Peter blurted.
«What wife? Are you joking?» I shouted.
«I’m not kidding. Were expecting a son with Lily.»
The words landed like a hammer. I could only manage a broken farewell.
«Goodbye, Peter. I wish you a cloudless happiness,» I whispered before hanging up.
The experience taught me that using an old wound as a practice field only delays true healing. I learned that clinging to the familiar, even when its toxic, can keep you from discovering genuine peace.
Sometimes the most effective way to mend a broken heart is to let go, trust the passage of time, and allow life to bring its own balance.
