What About Me? Am I Just Extra?
I cant do this anymore. Goodbye, Nicholas. I wrote the note without exclamation marks, perfectly calm. Nicholas would never read it. After a moments thought, I burned it.
Years ago, Nick and I fell into a love that burned like wildfirereckless, intoxicating, unstoppable. We were racing toward disaster 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 gone mad? Think of your families! But Nicholas and I barely noticed. To us, the world was emptyjust the two of us, no obstacles in sight.
After our stolen moments, Id catch myself thinking one thing clearly: I never wanted children with Nicholas. Not ever.
He once said of his own kids, I dont adore children. My wife always wanted more. What do I care?
Honestly, that unsettled me. But I wasnt planning to marry him! Let them have their brood, I thought. Their business.
Three years later, Nicholas and I married. Life was peaceful, sweet even. My sons stayed with me.
But as his children grew older, the chaos beganendless calls at midnight, surprise visits to his office, urgent demands for money. They needed help, always. Nicholas, drowning in guilt, never refused. I understood; they were his children. But they knew it too, exploiting his remorse without shame. Part of me pitied them, though I knewto their family, Id always be the villain.
Years passed. Grandchildren arrivedfive so far, with more likely. His eldest daughter fled an abusive marriage, now raising three little ones on her own. His youngest lived on benefits, yet spent like a socialite, always short but never cutting back. His middle son? A hopeless drunk, jobless, paying child support from Nicholass pocketour pocket. His granddaughter, the spitting image of him, became his favourite.
Nicholas was drowning in debt, though his children never guessed. Only my sons and I knew, and they begged me to leave the side sponsor. Once, I asked for perfumejust once. He frowned. Darling, you know Ive no sense of smell. Why waste money? Ill get it soon.
Soon? I sighed. In another decade, maybe.
I stopped asking. There was always an excuseVIP maternity care for his daughter (why not a shared ward?), a fur coat for his granddaughter (wouldnt a puffer jacket do?), new shoes for his thirty-something son (because the old ones had holes).
Our fights were always about his grown children. Every argument ended the same: If we divorce, Nick, blame your kids. Yet he swore he couldnt live without me. And me? Im exhausted. I want my own life, not his childrens. Their names echo through our home like church bells.
I think of that line from an old film: Well, Ive got people too, thank God! I have my own sons and grandchildren who need love. Why couldnt I stop myself twenty years ago?
Life writes cruel scripts. No one deserves to be tangled in its web. But here I amreaping the weeds I sowed. The passion faded, the love ran dry. Now, Im living with stolen misery.
My eldest son moved awaywork, a family of his own. Hes asked me to join him for years.
Im going. For good. I wrote Nicholas a note. Burned it. Hell understand. Or he wont. Either way, words wont change it.
P.S. I visited my children, my grandchildren. Stayed with my other son in Manchestermarried to a meticulous Englishwoman. Their child speaks no Russian. What does he see in her? But love isnt logical, is it?
Theyre happy. At peace. Thats all I need.
A month later, I came back. Nicholas never even realised Id left for good. But he did buy me expensive French perfume.
