Two years after our divorce, I caught sight of my former wife on a rainslick street in Manchester. In that instant everything fell into stark clarity, yet she only offered me a bitter smile before turning away, dismissing my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child was born, Poppy stopped caring for herself entirely. She used to change outfits five times a day, hunting for perfection in every stitch, but after she returned from maternity leave in Leeds she seemed to have erased from her memory any garment other than an old, threadbare sweatshirt and a sagging pair of joggers that hung around her like a wilted flag.
In that admirable attire she didnt merely linger at homeshe lived there, day and night, collapsing onto the bed still dressed in the same rags as if they had 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 all the grand maxims she once drummed into meA woman must stay a woman, even in the pits of hell!had vanished like smoke. Poppy had forgotten everything: her beloved salon in Manchester, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, and forgive my bluntnessshe no longer even bothered to put on a bra in the morning, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Her body followed the same ruinous path. Her waist collapsed, her belly flared, her legs gave way, even her neck drooped, becoming a shadow of its former self. Her hair was a living disaster: some days a wild thicket battered by a storm, other days a hasty bun from which rebellious strands burst forth like silent screams. The worst part was that before the baby, Poppy had been a dazzling tenoutoften. When we walked the promenade in Brighton, men turned their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my egoshe was my goddess, all mine! And now that goddess was reduced to a dim silhouette, a relic of past splendour.
Our house mirrored her declinean oppressive, gloomy chaos. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my word, Poppy was a witch of the stove; to complain about 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 thinwatching each day the parody of the woman Id loved became an unbearable torment. One stormladen night I delivered the final verdict: divorce. Poppy tried to hold me, spouting empty vows of redemption, but she never shouted, never fought. When she realised my decision was set in stone, she let out a heartshattering sigh.
Now its your choice I thought you loved me, she whispered.
I refused to wade into a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the forms, and soon, in a London solicitors office, we each held our divorce certificatesthe closing of a chapter.
Im hardly a model fatherapart from child support, I contributed nothing to the family I left behind. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once blinded me with her beauty, felt like a knife to the chest I was desperate to avoid.
Two years drifted by. One evening, strolling the bustling streets of Liverpool, I spotted a familiar silhouettea gait as graceful as a dancers, cutting through the crowd. She was coming toward me. As she drew near, my heart frozeit was Poppy! But not the Poppy Id known. She had risen from the ashes, more radiant than during our first passionate flingthe very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair styled to flawless perfection, every detail a symphony: the dress, the makeup, the nails, the jewellery and that signature perfume of hers hit me like a wave, dragging me back to buried days.
My face must have betrayed everythingastonishment, desire, remorseas she burst into a sharp, victorious laugh.
What, you dont recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feetyou never believed me! she declared.
Poppy generously offered to escort me to her gym, slipping a few tidbits about the childrentheyre thriving, full of life, she said. She spoke little of herself, but it mattered not; her glow, her unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts raced back to those bleak days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of everyday drudgery, cloaked in that cursed sweatshirt and sagging joggers, her miserable bun a banner of surrender. The loss of elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and with her I had left our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said our goodbyes, I stammered a questioncould I call her? I confessed I finally understood everything and begged her to start anew. She met me with an icy smile, shook her head with unwavering firmness, and said:
Youve figured it out too late, dear. Farewell.
