Two years after our divorce I ran into my exwife on the street. In an instant everything clicked, yet she only offered a bitter smile before she brushed off my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child arrived, Emma stopped caring for herself entirely. She used to change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch, but after coming home from maternity leave in Manchester she seemed to have wiped from her memory any clothing that wasnt a threadbare sweatshirt and a sagging pair of joggers, hanging about her like a tattered banner.
In that lovable garb my wife didnt just lounge around the house she lived there, day in, day out, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed in those rags, as if they had become a second skin. When I asked why, she muttered that it was more convenient for nightly trips to tend to the children. I admit there was a dark logic to it, but all those grand maxims she once recited to me A woman must remain a woman, even in the pits of hell! had gone up in smoke. Emma had forgotten everything: her beloved beauty salon in Birmingham, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and, forgive my bluntness, she no longer even bothered to slip on a bra in the morning, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally her body followed the same path of decline. Her waist collapsed, her belly protruded, her legs gave way, even her neck hunched, becoming a mere shadow of its former self. Her hair was a disaster: one minute a wild, stormtossed mess, the next a haphazard knot from which rebellious strands stuck out like silent cries. The worst part was that before the baby, Emma was a stunning tenoutoften. When we strolled through the streets of Brighton, men turned their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my ego my goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess there was nothing left but a dim silhouette, a relic of her former glory.
Our home reflected her fall a bleak, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my word, Emma was a witch of the stove, and to complain about her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? An absolute tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to sink so deep, but she only gave me a rueful smile and promised she would pull herself together. Days turned into months, my patience wore thin watching each day the parody of the woman I had loved was a torment I could no longer bear. One stormy night I delivered the verdict: divorce. Emma tried to hold me back, spouting empty promises of redemption, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she understood my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
Your choice I thought you loved me
I refused to waste breath on a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the paperwork, and soon, in a solicitors office in Liverpool, we each held our divorce decree the end of a chapter.
Im hardly a model father apart from child support, Ive done little for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty, feels like a knife to the chest Id rather avoid.
Two years slipped by. One evening, while wandering the bustling lanes of Newcastle, I caught sight of a familiar, graceful stride moving through the crowd. She came toward me. As she drew near, my heart froze it was Emma! But what a transformation! Rising from the ashes, more radiant than during our first passionate days, the very picture of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair coiffed to flawless perfection, every detail a symphony the dress, the makeup, the nails, the jewellery And that signature scent of hers hit me like a tidal wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must have shown everything shock, desire, remorse as she burst into a sharp, triumphant laugh:
So you dont recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feet you didnt believe me!
Emma kindly let me accompany her to the gym, slipping in a few tidbits about the children theyre thriving, she said, full of life. She didnt speak much of herself, but her brilliance, unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted her triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts drifted back to those dark times: her dragging around the house, shattered by sleepless nights and the weight of daily grind, wrapped in that cursed sweatshirt and sagging joggers, her pathetic bun a flag of surrender. How it had infuriated me the lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and with her I had turned my back on our kids, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
When we said goodbye, I stammered a question could I call her? I confessed I finally understood everything and begged her to start anew. She answered with an icy smile, shook her head with unyielding resolve and said:
You realised too late, my dear. Farewell.
Looking back, I see that clinging to pride only deepens loss; humility and genuine care are the only bridges worth building.
