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 searching 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 sweatpants that hung off her like a flag of surrender.
In that brilliant getup, my wife didnt just potter around the houseshe lived in it, day and night, often falling asleep in those rags as if theyd become a second skin. When I asked why, shed shrug and mumble that it was easier for nighttime feedings. There was some grim logic to it, Ill admit, but all those grand principles shed once preached like gospelA woman must always be a woman, even in hell!had vanished into thin air. Catherine forgot everything: her beloved beauty salon in Bristol, the gym she used to treat like a temple, andforgive my bluntnessshe didnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, shuffling around the house with her breasts sagging as if none of it mattered.
Of course, her body had suffered too. Everything had fallen aparther waist, stomach, legseven her neck had lost its shape, becoming a shadow of its former self. Her hair? A proper disaster. Either a wild, tangled mess, as if a storm had torn through it, or a hastily tied bun with strands sticking out like a cry for help. The worst part? Before the baby, Catherine had been stunninga solid ten. When wed walk the streets of London, men would turn their heads, their eyes glued to her. It stroked my pridethere she was, my goddess, mine alone! And now nothing remained of that goddess, just a faded outline of her past glory.
Our home 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 sorceress in the kitchen. 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 only smile apologetically and promise to do better. Time passed, and my patience wore thinwatching 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 scream, didnt fight. When she saw my decision was final, she sighed in pain:
*”Fine I thought you loved me.”*
I refused to get dragged into a pointless argument about love. I filed the papers, and soon after, at the office in Leeds, we got our divorce certificatesend of story.
I wont claim to be a model fatherbeyond child support, I didnt lift a finger to help my ex-family. The thought of seeing the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty again was like a punch to the gut, and Id rather have avoided it.
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 stoppedit was Catherine! But what a Catherine! Reborn from the ashes, more beautiful than in our earliest, most passionate daysthe very picture of femininity. High heels, flawless hair, everything 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 believe me!”*
Catherine graciously let me walk her to the gym, briefly mentioned the kidstheyre thriving, full of energy, she said. She didnt say much about herself, but she didnt need toher glow, that unshakable confidence, her devastating new allure shouted louder than any words.
My mind flashed back to those dark days: how shed dragged herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of daily life, wrapped in that cursed jumper and sweatpants, that pathetic bun a symbol of surrender. How it infuriated methe lost elegance, the snuffed-out fire! This was the same woman Id abandoned, along with our children, blinded by my own selfishness and momentary anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered if I could call her, confessed I finally understood everything, and begged for a fresh start. But she just flashed me a cold, victorious smile, shook her head with unyielding resolve, and said:
*”Too late for that, mate. Cheers.”*
