Two years after the divorce, I ran into my ex-wifeit all made sense to me now, but she just gave me a bitter smile and shut down 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 like she forgot anything existed beyond a worn-out jumper and saggy sweatpants that hung off her like a flag of surrender.
In that *lovely* getup, my wife didnt just move 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 mumble that it was easier when the kids woke her up at night. There was a grim logic to it, Ill admit, but all those high-minded principles she used to preach»A woman should always stay a woman, even in hell!»had vanished into thin air. Catherine forgot everything: her beloved beauty salon in Liverpool, the gym shed once treated like holy ground, andforgive me for saying itshe didnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, shuffling around the house with no care in the world.
Of course, her body took the hit too. Everything fell aparther waist, her stomach, her legs, even her neck lost its shape, just a shadow of what it used to be. Her hair? A proper nightmareeither a wild, tangled mess like shed been through a storm or a rushed-up bun with strands sticking out like a cry for help. The worst part? Before the baby, Catherine had been stunninga solid ten! When we walked through the streets of Brighton, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It fed my pride*thats my goddess, all mine!* But now? That goddess was gone, just a faded sketch 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 itCatherine was a wizard in the kitchen, and complaining about her food wouldve been a sin. But the rest? Pure tragedy.
I tried to snap her out of it, begged her not to let herself go like this, but shed just give me an apologetic smile and promise to do better. Time passed, and my patience wore thinseeing that ghost of a woman every day became unbearable. One stormy night, I dropped the hammer: divorce. Catherine tried to stop me, repeating empty promises, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she saw I wouldnt budge, she just sighed in pain:
*»Fine I thought you loved me.»*
I didnt bother with a pointless debate about love. I filed the papers, and soon enough at the office in Birmingham, we got our divorce certificatesend of story.
I wont pretend Im father of the yearaside from child support, I didnt lift a finger for my ex-family. The thought of seeing the woman whod once dazzled me with her beauty again felt like a punch to the gut, one Id rather avoid.
Two years passed. One evening, wandering through the buzzing streets of London, I spotted a silhouette in the distanceher walk was so familiar, light, almost dancing. She was heading straight for me. When she got closer, my heart stoppedit was Catherine! But what a Catherine! Reborn from the ashes, more beautiful than in our early, fiery daysthe very picture of elegance. 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, pulling me under forgotten memories.
My face mustve given me awayshock, longing, shamebecause she burst into sharp, triumphant laughter:
*»What, dont recognise me? Told you Id bounce backyou just didnt believe me!»*
Catherine let me walk her to the gym, briefly mentioned the kidsdoing great, full of life. She didnt say much about herself, but she didnt need toher glow, that unshakable confidence, that new, 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 sweatpants, that sad bun a symbol of defeat. How it infuriated methe lost grace, the snuffed-out spark! This was the same woman Id walked away from, and with herour kids, blind to anything but my own ego and fleeting 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 steely resolve, and said:
*»Too late for that, mate. «Too late for that, mate. I’m someone else now.» She turned and walked away, her heels clicking like a metronome of a life already moved on, leaving me standing there in the echo of who we used to be.
