May 3rd
Two years after the divorce I happened to cross paths with my exwife. In that brief encounter everything became crystal clear, yet she only offered me a bitter smile before turning away from my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child was born, Margaret stopped caring for herself entirely. Once she would change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch, but after she returned from maternity leave in Manchester she seemed to have erased from her mind any notion of clothing beyond a threadbare hoodie and slack joggers that hung around her like a faded flag.
In that fashionable getup my wife didnt just linger at home she lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed in those rags, as if they had become part of her skin. When I asked why, she mumbled that it was more practical for nighttime trips to the children. There was a dark logic to it, I admit, but all those grand maxims she once recited like a mantra A woman must remain a woman, even in the pits of hell! had gone up in smoke. Margaret had forgotten everything: her beloved beauty salon in Brighton, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and, forgive my bluntness, she no longer bothered to put on a bra in the mornings, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally, her body followed the same route to ruin. Her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck slumped, becoming mere shadows of what they once were. Her hair? A living disaster: at times a wild tangle as if ravaged by a storm, at others a halfhearted bun from which rebellious strands stuck out like silent screams. The worst part was that before the baby, Margaret had been a tenoutoften beauty. Strolling down the promenade in Brighton, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my ego she was my goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess there was nothing left but a dim silhouette, a relic of former splendor.
Our house reflected her decline a bleak, oppressive mess. The only thing she still mastered was the kitchen. I swear on my word, Margaret was a witch of the stove, 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 merely offered a rueful smile and promised to pull herself together. Days turned into months, my patience wore thin watching each day the parody of the woman I once loved became an unbearable torture. One stormy night I finally delivered the verdict: divorce. Margaret tried to halt me, rattling off empty promises of redemption, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she understood my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
It’s up to you I thought you loved me
I refused to engage in a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the paperwork, and soon, in a solicitors office in London, we each held our divorce certificate the end of a chapter.
I am surely no exemplar of a father aside from child support, I have done nothing 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 I desperately try to avoid.
Two years later, strolling through the bustling streets of Liverpool, I spotted a familiar figure in the distance her gait, graceful as ever, cutting through the crowd like a dance. She came toward me. As she drew nearer, my heart froze it was Margaret! But what a Margaret! Revived from the ashes, more radiant than during our first passionate fling the very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair coiffed to flawless perfection, and every detail dress, makeup, nails, jewellery formed a symphony. The scent of her signature perfume hit me like a wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must have betrayed everything astonishment, desire, remorse as she let out a sharp, triumphant laugh:
What, you dont recognise me? I told you Id rise again you didnt believe me!
She kindly invited me to accompany her to the gym, slipping me a few tidbits about the children theyre thriving, full of life, she said. She spoke little of herself, but it was unnecessary her sparkle, her unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted her triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts dragged me back to those bleak days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of daily life, draped in that cursed hoodie and joggers, her pitiful bun a surrender flag. How it had infuriated me elegance lost, flame extinguished! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and with her I had cast aside our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered a question could I call her? I confessed I finally understood and begged her to start anew. She answered with a cold smile, shook her head with unwavering firmness and said:
Youve realised too late, dear. Farewell.
