Hey love, let me tell you whats been happening. Two years after we finally called it quits, I ran into my exwife on the high street. Everything clicked into place the moment I saw her, but all she gave me was a bitter smile before she brushed off my desperate plea to start over.
When our second little one arrived, Poppy just stopped caring about herself altogether. She used to change outfits five times a day, hunting for that perfect touch of class. After coming back from maternity leave in Manchester, it was as if shed wiped any memory of anything other than a saggy old hoodie and a pair of slouchy joggers that hung around her like a flag surrendering to the wind.
In that stylish getup, she didnt just lounge at home she practically lived there, collapsing onto the bed still dressed in that mess, as if the rags had become part of her skin. When I asked why, she mumbled something about it being easier to get up at night for the kids. There was a grim logic to it, Ill give her that, but all those grand maxims she used to recite A woman must stay a woman, even in hell! had gone up in smoke. Shed forgotten everything: her beloved beauty salon in Brighton, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and, forgive me for being blunt, she didnt even bother with a bra in the mornings, drifting around the house with a drooping chest like it mattered not at all.
Naturally, her body followed the same downhill slide. Her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck sagged, becoming a shadow of what they once were. Her hair? A living disaster one minute a wild tangle as if a storm had torn through it, the next a haphazard bun with stray strands screaming silently. 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 filled me with pride my own goddess, just for me! And now theres barely anything left of that goddess, just a dim silhouette, a ghost of her former glory.
Our house mirrored her decline a gloomy, oppressive mess. The only thing she still managed was the kitchen. I swear on my word, Poppy was a witch with a saucepan, and complaining about her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? A total tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to drown like that, but all she ever gave me was a pitiful smile and a promise to pull herself together. Days turned into months, my patience wore thin watching that parody of the woman I once loved became an unbearable torture. One stormy night I dropped the final line: divorce. Poppy tried to hold me back, rattling off empty promises of redemption, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realised my decision was set in stone, she let out a heartbreaking sigh and said,
Your call I thought you loved me
I didnt waste breath on a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the paperwork and, not long after, in a solicitors office in London, we each held our divorce certificates the end of that chapter.
Im probably not the model dad apart from the childsupport payments, Ive done nothing for my old family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me, feels like a knife to the chest Im desperate to avoid.
Two years slipped by. One evening, while wandering the bustling streets of Bristol, I spotted a familiar figure in the distance that graceful gait, like a dancer cutting through a crowd. She walked straight toward me. When she got close, my heart froze it was Poppy! But not the Poppy I remembered. Shed risen from the ashes, more stunning than ever, the very picture of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair was styled to flawless perfection, every detail dress, makeup, nails, jewellery sang in harmony. And that signature scent she always wore hit me like a wave, dragging me back to buried days.
My face must have shown it all shock, desire, remorse because she burst out laughing, sharp and victorious,
What, you dont recognize me? I told you Id get back on my feet you never believed me!
She kindly invited me to her gym, slipped a few tidbits about the kids Theyre growing wonderfully, full of life, she said and didnt talk much about herself. It didnt matter; her radiance, that unshakable confidence, this fresh, irresistible charm screamed triumph louder than any words could.
My mind drifted back to those dark days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of daily grind, draped in that cursed hoodie and slouchy joggers, that miserable bun like a pennant of surrender. It used to infuriate me the lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman Id abandoned, and with her, Id turned my back on our children, blinded by my selfish ego and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered a question could I call her? I confessed Id finally understood everything and begged her to start anew. She gave me a frosty smile, shook her head with unwavering firmness and replied,
Youve realised it all too late, love. Goodbye!
So that was it. Cheers for listening, mate.
