**What About Me? Am I Just Extra?**
*”I can’t do this anymore. Goodbye, Nicholas.”* I wrote that note without a single exclamation mark, perfectly calm. Nicholas would never read it. After a moments thought, I burned it.
Years ago, Nick and I fell headlong into a passionate, all-consuming affair. Scorching, intoxicating, utterly reckless. We raced toward the edge of a cliff without a second thought.
Nicholas had a wife and three young children. I had two sons and a husband. Everyone around us tapped their temples, muttering, *”Have you both lost the plot? Think of your families!”* But Nick and I noticed nothingjust us alone on planet Earth. No obstacles, no regrets.
When the haze of passion lifted, Id catch myself thinking: *Id never want children with Nicholas. Never.*
Nicks take on his own kids? *”Im not exactly paternal. The wife always wanted more. Whats it to me?”*
Frankly, that raised an eyebrow. But I wasnt marrying him, was I? Let them breedtheir circus, their monkeys.
Three years later, Nicholas and I got married. Life was peaceful and warm. My sons, of course, stayed with me.
Then Nicks children grew up, and the circus arrived. Endless emergencies, like a broken record. Late-night calls, surprise visits to his office, urgent demands for cash.
The reason? Money. Or rather, the lack of it. All three needed constant support. Nick, ever the guilt-ridden dad, never said no. I understoodhe felt eternally indebted. The kids? They knew it too. They exploited his guilt shamelessly, their every whim indulged. Part of me pitied them, though I knew full well I was enemy number one in their eyes.
Years rolled by. Grandchildren arrivedfive so far, with no sign of stopping. The eldest daughter fled her tyrant of a husband in her slippers, now a single mum with three toddlers. The youngest lived on benefits but had champagne tastes, perpetually “struggling” between spa days. The middle son? A hopeless drunk, perpetually soused, paying child support from Nicks walletour walletto his ex-wife.
Nicholas, meanwhile, was up to his neck in debt. His kids hadnt a clue. Only I knewand my sons, who begged me to leave the *”patron saint of other peoples bad decisions.”*
Once, I asked Nick for perfume. Just once. He blinked. *”Darling, you know my nose is useless. Why waste money? Ill get it eventually.”*
*”Ah yes, around the next ice age,”* I sighed.
I stopped asking. The excuses were predictable: *”Lizzie needs a private maternity suite!”* (Why not NHS?) *”The grandkids need designer coats!”* (Since when do kids outgrow Primark?) *”Thirty-year-old Tim needs new shoes!”* (How *do* you wear through leather with no job?)
Our fights? Always about Nicks grown-up kids. Every row ended with me hissing, *”If we ever divorce, Nick, blame your brood!”* And yet, hed swear he couldnt live without me.
But *me*? Im exhausted. I want *my* life, not the never-ending soap opera of Nicks kids. Their names echo through our house like church bells at a funeral.
I remember a line from a film: *”Well, Ive got family too, you know!”* I *have* children and grandchildren who need love. God, why didnt I stop this twenty years ago?
Lifes a cruel scriptwriter. No one escapes its sticky fingers. My fault, really. I sowed wild oats and reaped a crop of nettles. The fire burned out. What felt like bottomless love? Turns out, Ive hit the bottom.
My eldest son moved awayjob, family, peace. Hes been begging me to join him.
So Im leaving. For good. Wrote Nick a note. Burned it. If he doesnt get it, ink wont help.
P.S. I visited the kids, the grandkidseven my other son in Germany, married to a Düsseldorf woman so precise, she could time an egg with a stopwatch. Their *Kinder*? Not a word of English. What he sees in her, Ill never know. Love isnt logical.
Everyones settled. Happy. And me? Finally, my souls at ease.
A month later, I came back. Not sure Nick even noticed Id left. But he *did* buy me that perfume. French. Extortionate. Typical.
