Two years after the divorce, I ran into my exwife, Poppy. Everything just clicked for me then, but she only gave me a sour smile and brushed off my desperate plea to start over
When our second child was born, Poppy stopped caring about herself entirely. She used to swap outfits five times a day, hunting for perfection in every stitch, but after coming back from maternity leave in Manchester she seemed to have wiped any memory of anything other than an old, threadbare sweatshirt and a saggy pair of joggers that hung around her like a wilted flag.
In that lovely getup, my wife didnt just lounge at home she lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed like that, as if the rags had become an extra skin. When I asked why, she mumbled that it was easier to get up for the kids at night. There was a grim logic to it, I admit, but all those grand principles she used to chant to me A lady must stay a lady, even in the thick of it! had gone up in smoke. Poppy had forgotten everything: her beloved beauty salon in Birmingham, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and forgive the bluntness she didnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally, her body followed the same downhill route. Everything collapsed her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck slumped, becoming a shadow of its former self. Her hair? A living disaster: half the time a wild, stormtossed tangle, the rest a halfhearted bun with rebellious strands jutting out like silent screams. The worst part was that before the baby, Poppy was a tenoutoften beauty. When we strolled through the streets of Brighton, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my ego my goddess, all mine! And now that goddess was nothing more than a dim silhouette, a relic of past glory.
Our house mirrored her decline a gloomy, oppressive mess. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my heart, Poppy was a witch with a saucepan, and complaining about her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? An absolute tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to sink so low, but she only offered a rueful smile and promised to pull herself together. The months slipped by, my patience wore thin watching every day the parody of the woman Id loved was pure torture. One stormy night I finally gave the order: divorce. Poppy tried to hold me back, spouting empty promises of redemption, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realised my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
It’s up to you I thought you loved me
I didnt waste time on a sterile debate about love. I filled out the papers, and soon, in a solicitors office in Oxford, we each held our divorce certificates the end of a chapter.
Im probably not a stellar dad apart 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 knife to the chest Id rather avoid.
Two years later, one evening as I was wandering the lively streets of Liverpool, I spotted a familiar silhouette in the distance that graceful gait, like a dance in a crowd. She was coming toward me. When she got close, my heart froze it was Poppy! But what a Poppy! Rising from the ashes, more dazzling than ever, the very picture of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair was immaculate, everything about her was a symphony the dress, the makeup, the nails, the jewellery And that signature scent of hers hit me like a wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must have shown it all shock, desire, remorse as she burst into a sharp, triumphant laugh:
Dont you recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feet you didnt believe me!
Poppy kindly let me tag along to her gym, slipped in a few updates about the kids theyre growing like weeds, full of life, she said. She didnt say much about herself, but it didnt matter her glow, that unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted her triumph louder than any words could.
My mind raced back to those dark times: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and daily grind, wrapped in that cursed sweatshirt and saggy joggers, her miserable bun like a surrender flag. The loss of elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman Id left behind, and with her Id abandoned our children, blinded by selfishness and a fleeting rage.
As we said goodbye, I stammered a question could I call her? I confessed Id finally understood everything and begged her to start over. She gave me a chilling smile, shook her head with firm resolve and said:
Youve realised too late, love. Goodbye!
