Two years after our divorce I bumped into my exwife. Everything clicked into place, but she only gave me a sour smile and brushed off my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child arrived, Poppy stopped caring about herself entirely. Once she would change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch. After her maternity leave in Manchester, it was as if the notion of anything beyond a threadbare hoodie and sagging joggers had vanished from her mind, the clothes hanging around her like a wilted flag.
In that stunning attire she didnt just lounge at home she lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed in the rags, as if theyd become a second skin. When I asked why, she muttered that it was more practical for getting up at night with the babies. There was a dark logic to it, Ill admit, but the lofty maxims she once spouted A woman must remain a woman, even in hell! had gone up in smoke. Poppy had forgotten everything: her beloved salon in Brighton, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, andsorry for the bluntnessshe no longer bothered to wear a bra, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally her body followed the same route to ruin. Her waist collapsed, her belly flared, her legs gave way, even her neck slumped, a mere shadow of its former self. Her hair? A living disaster: one moment a wild tangle like a stormtossed hedge, the next a haphazard bun from which rebellious strands stuck out like silent screams. The worst part was that before the baby, Poppy had been a tenoutoften beauty. Strolling through the streets of Brighton, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my egomy goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess, nothing remained but a dim silhouette, a relic of past splendor.
Our house mirrored her declinebleak, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my word, Poppy was a witch of the stove, and criticizing 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 only offered a rueful smile and promised to pull herself together. Months slipped by, my patience wore thinseeing each day a parody of the woman I once loved was torture. On a stormy night I delivered the verdict: divorce. Poppy tried to hold me back, rattling empty promises of redemption, yet she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realised my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
Your choice I thought you loved me
I didnt indulge in 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 certificatechapter closed.
Im probably no model fatherapart from child support, Ive done nothing for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me, felt like a knife to the chest Id rather avoid.
Two years drifted by. One evening, wandering the bustling streets of Bristol, I spotted a familiar silhouette in the distance, her gait graceful as a dance through the crowd. She walked toward me. When she drew near, my heart frozeit was Poppy! But what a Poppy! Risen from the ashes, more radiant than during our first passionate flingthe very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair was coiffed with immaculate perfection, and she was a walking symphonydress, makeup, nails, jewellery And that signature perfume of hers hit me like a tidal wave, dragging me back to buried days.
My face must have betrayed everythingshock, desire, remorsebecause she let out a sharp, victorious laugh:
Dont you recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feetyou didnt believe me!
Poppy generously invited me to accompany her to her gym, slipping in a few tidbits about the childrentheyre thriving, full of life, she said. She spoke little of herself, but it didnt matterher sparkle, her unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts rushed back to those bleak days: her dragging herself around the house, wrecked by sleepless nights and daily grind, swathed in that cursed hoodie and sagging joggers, her miserable bun a flag of surrender. How infuriating it had beenlost elegance, a snuffed flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and in doing so I had turned my back on our children, blinded by selfishness and a passing rage.
When we said goodbye, I stammered a questioncould I call her? I confessed Id finally understood and begged her to start anew. She rewarded me with a cold smile, shook her head with unyielding firmness and said:
Youve got it too late, dear. Goodbye!
