Dear Diary,
Today I gathered my things with a strange sense of pride. After fifteen years with my wife Emily, I walked out the front door of our flat in Birmingham. Emily, who is twelve years my junior, stood in the hallway with tears brimming in her eyes, hoping it was some cruel joke and that I would simply turn around.
Simon, please dont go, she begged. We still have to raise the kids. For the sake of the children, stay!
The children will understand, I replied, the words feeling hollow even as they left my mouth. Dont use them to rope me in! Theyre thirteen now; theyre practically adults.
How can they be adults? Emily wailed again, trying to grab my sleeve. At their age they still need their father! She strained to pull me back, but my hand slipped free.
Dont tie me down with the kids! Dont ruin my life! I snapped, frustrated. In that moment my thoughts were only on the bright future I imagined with my new, younger partner, Irene. I cared little for the children or the fact that I was tearing someone elses life apart.
With a final glance at the empty hallway, I stepped out, leaving Emily curled on the floor, sobbing into the cold tiles.
When Tom and Lily came home from school later that afternoon, Emily was still there, not crying now but staring vacantly at the wall. She rose slowly and whispered, Dads gone for good.
Dont cry, Mum, Lily tried to soothe her. Well manage without him.
Exactly, Tom added, offering his support. Well get through this together, Ill help.
Emily clung to Tom and Lily, her voice trembling, Youre both so kind. Its a comfort knowing youre here. Well make it, we will.
We did manage, though not without stumbling. Emily would weep in the night when the house was silent, missing the man she had loved, though her grief grew fainter as the weeks passed.
Meanwhile, life with Irene proved a mixed blessing. It was fun in the short term, but the everyday grind was unbearable. She knew nothing about cooking or cleaning, and when she did try, she never seemed keen. I found myself constantly comparing her to Emilyshe was the benchmark Id always known. Irene grew tired of being the second fiddle and eventually tossed me out of her doorstep, back to Emilys front step.
A year later I appeared again at Emilys door, eyes downcast, looking dishevelled and unkempt. I begged for forgiveness, saying, I love you and the children. I cant live without you. If you wont take me back, I dont know what to do. Emilys heart swelled with the old affection she still felt for me and the kids, and after a brief, heated exchange she let me in. The children accepted me, but their welcome was lukewarm; youthful idealism made it hard for them to fully forgive their father.
Emily seemed to blossom from the ordeal, pride swelling in her chest because I had returned. So Im better after all, she thought. I walked around feeling satisfied that she still cared for me, and it seemed, for a moment, that things were finally smoothing out.
Only Irenes jealousy kept the peace from holding. She resented that I could live contentedly without her. Determined, she tried to rekindle our relationship, and I, foolish as ever, fell into her trap once more.
This time I left not with the swagger of my first departure but quietly on a Saturday afternoon, when the house was empty and the children were at school. I slipped a brief note: Sorry, I was wrong, and walked out. Emily didnt plead this time; she pretended to watch the telly, masking the sting of failure. Anger, not despair, replaced the tearsanger at herself for having let her guard down and taken me back.
When the door shut behind me, she finally let the floodgates open, sobbing until the children returned from school. By the time Tom and Lily arrived, she had composed herself. Their reaction to my exit was unexpectedly upbeat.
Stuck in a jam, thats what it is, Tom said with a grin. Well manage just fine without him. Might even be better.
I returned to Irene, treating her like royalty, as if the whole world revolved around me. I stayed with her for a month before she, too, grew tired and showed me the door.
Again I stood on Emilys doorstep, head bowed, convinced she would once more open the gate. Instead, she looked at me calmly and said, You were right back then. It was a mistake to bring you back. Some wounds cant be healed; they have to be removed. Dont come again.
The words knocked the wind out of me. I realised, perhaps for the first time, that I was unwanted. Not by my new partnershe was as flighty as everbut by the children I had fathered. I had expected that the women in my life would always welcome me back, yet the reality was starkly different.
I close this entry with a thought that has finally settled over me: running away never mends the cracks you create; the only way forward is to own up to the mess youve made and face the consequences headon.
