I still recall, as if it were a longago chapter of my life, the night I returned to our modest terraced house in a quiet London suburb and found Margaret arranging the table for supper. I took her hand, asked her to pause and sit with me for a moment, for I had something weighty to say: I want to file for divorce. She lingered in silence, then asked why. I could not answer, and my silence drove her to a frenzyshe abandoned the dinner, shouted incoherently, fell silent, only to scream again By the next morning she had wept through the night. I understood her sorrow, yet I could offer no comfort; my heart had turned away from Margaret and toward another woman.
Guilt gnawed at me, so I handed her a separation agreement, promising to leave her the house and the car, but she tore the paper to shreds and flung the fragments out the window, her tears resuming anew. I felt nothing but a lingering remorseafter a decade together, the woman I had shared my life with now seemed a stranger.
Regret for the ten years we had lived together pressed upon me, and I longed to shed these bonds and chase a true, new love. The following dawn, a letter lay on the nightstand outlining her conditions for the divorce: she asked that I postpone the filing for a month and, during that time, keep up the appearance of a happy family for the sake of our sons upcoming exams. She even recalled how, on our wedding day, I had carried her into the flat on my arms, and now she requested that I do the same each morning for the month, lifting her from our bedroom.
Since the new woman entered my life, Margaret and I had almost no physical contactshared breakfasts, shared dinners, and sleeping at opposite ends of the bed. When I first lifted her after such a long pause, a strange turmoil rose within me. Our sons delighted applause snapped me back to reality; Margarets face bore a fleeting, happy smile, yet something inside me ached. As I carried her the ten metres from bedroom to dining room, she covered her eyes and whispered barely audible, Please dont tell Oliver about the divorce until the appointed time.
On the second day, the role of the contented husband felt a little easier. Margaret rested her head on my shoulder, and I realized how long I had failed to notice the features I once loved, how they had changed since ten years ago. By the fourth day, lifting her, I was reminded that she had given me a decade of her life. On the fifth, a pang of vulnerability struck as her small frame clung to my chest. Each successive day, the task grew lighter.
One morning I found her staring at her wardrobe; all the clothes now hung far too large on her frail frame. Only then did I see how gaunt she had become, how her weight had lightened my burden each day. A sudden insight struck me like a blow to the solar plexus. Without thinking, I brushed a hand through her hair. She called Oliver, embraced us both tightly, and tears gathered in my throat, but I turned away, unable and unwilling to change my decision. I lifted her once more and carried her out of the bedroom; she clasped my neck, and I pressed her close, as on the first day of our marriage.
In the final days of the agreed month, a storm of confusion roiled within me. Something shifted, beyond definition. I went to Clara, the other woman, and told her I would not proceed with the divorce.
On my way home, I reflected that the monotony of family life does not arise from loves departure but from people forgetting each others significance. I slipped off the path, bought a bouquet, and attached a card that read, I shall hold you in my arms till the very last day of your life. Breathless with nervous excitement, I entered the house with the flowers, walked through every room, and found Margaret in the bedroomshe lay still, lifeless. For months, while I floated on clouds of infatuation with Clara, Margaret had silently battled a grievous illness.
Knowing she had little time left, she summoned her remaining will to shield our son from distress and to preserve, in his eyes, the image of a good father and loving husband.
