Two years after the divorce, I ran into my ex-wife: I 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 as if shed forgotten anything existed beyond a worn-out jumper and saggy trackies that hung off her like a flag of surrender.
In that *brilliant* get-up, my wife didnt just potter around the houseshe lived in it, day and night, often falling asleep in those rags like theyd become a second skin. When I asked why, shed shrug and mutter that it was easier for night feeds. There was a grim logic to it, Ill admit, but all those grand principles she used to preachA woman must stay a woman, even in hell!had vanished into thin air. Catherine forgot everything: her beloved beauty salon in Leeds, the gym she once treated like holy ground, andforgive my bluntnessshe wouldnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, shuffling around with drooping breasts as if it meant nothing.
Of course, her body fell to ruin too. Everything saggedher waist, her stomach, her legs, even her neck lost its shape, becoming a ghost of what it once was. Her hair? A proper nightmareeither a wild, tangled mess, like shed been caught in a storm, or a hasty bun with strands sticking out like a cry for help. The worst part? Before the baby, Catherine had been stunninga perfect ten! When we strolled through the streets of Brighton, men turned their heads, their eyes glued to her. It stroked my pride*thats my goddess, mine alone!* But now? That goddess was gone, just a faded outline of what shed been.
Our house mirrored her declinea gloomy swamp of chaos. The only thing she still had a grip on was cooking. Hand on heart, Ill say it: Catherine was a magician in the kitchen; complaining about her food wouldve been a sin. But the rest? Pure tragedy.
I tried to wake her up, begged her not to let herself wither like this, but shed just smile apologetically and promise to do better. Time passed, and my patience wore thinseeing that pitiful ghost of a woman every day became unbearable. One stormy night, I dropped the verdict: divorce. Catherine tried to stop me, repeating empty promises, but she didnt shout, didnt fight. When she saw my mind was made up, she sighed in pain:
*Fine I thought you loved me.*
I refused to be dragged into some pointless debate about love. I filed the papers, and soon enough, at the registry office in Bristol, we got our divorce certificatesend of story.
I wont claim to be a model fatherbeyond child support, I didnt lift a finger for my ex-family. The thought of facing the woman whod once dazzled me with her beauty was like a punch to the gut, one Id rather avoid.
Two years passed. One evening, wandering the bustling streets of London, I spotted a figure in the distanceher walk so familiar, light, almost dancing. She was heading straight for me. As she got closer, my heart stoppedCatherine! But what a Catherine! Reborn from the ashes, more beautiful than in our earliest, feverish daysthe very picture of elegance. Sky-high heels, flawless hair, everything about her in perfect harmonyher dress, makeup, nails, jewellery And the scent of her old perfume hit me like a wave, drowning me in forgotten memories.
My face mustve betrayed everythingshock, longing, shamebecause she let out a sharp, triumphant laugh:
*What, dont recognise me? Told you Id bounce backyou just didnt want to believe it!*
Catherine graciously let me walk her to the gym, mentioned the kids briefly*thriving, full of energy.* She didnt say much about herself, but she didnt need toher glow, that unshakable confidence, that devastating charm screamed her transformation louder than any words.
My mind flashed back to those dark days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of it all, wrapped in that cursed jumper and trackies, that pathetic bun a symbol of surrender. How it infuriated methe lost grace, the snuffed-out spark! This was the same woman Id walked away from, along with our children, blinded by my own selfishness and a moments anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered if I could call her, confessed I finally understood, begged for a fresh start. But she just gave me a cool, victorious smile, shook her head with unyielding finality, and said:
*Too late for epiphanies, mate. Cheers.*
Lesson learnedsome realisations come with a price, and by then, the bills already been paid.
