Two years after our divorce, I run into my exwife on the street; everything becomes crystal clear, yet she only gives me a sour smile before turning away from my desperate plea to start over.
When our second child is born, Charlotte stops caring about herself completely. She used to change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every detail, but after she returns from maternity leave in Manchester, its as if the memory of any clothing beyond a threadbare sweatshirt and sagging joggers has evaporated, hanging around her like a wilted flag.
In that lovely attire, my wife doesnt just lounge at homeshe lives there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed in those rags, as if theyve become an extra skin. When I ask why, she mumbles that its more practical for getting up during the night with the kids. Theres a grim logic to it, I admit, but all those grand principles she once recited like a mantraA woman must remain a woman, even in the fires of hell!have gone up in smoke. Charlotte has forgotten everything: her beloved beauty salon in Leeds, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, andsorry for the bluntnessshe no longer even bothers to wear a bra in the mornings, wandering the house with a sagging bust as if it matters not.
Naturally, her body follows the same ruinous path. Her waist, belly, legs and even her neck slump, becoming shadows of what they were. Her hair is a living disaster: one moment a wild tangle as if a storm has ripped through it, the next a halfhearted bun from which rebellious strands burst like silent screams. Before the baby, Charlotte was a radiant tenoutoften beauty. Strolling down the streets of Brighton, men turned their heads, eyes glued to her. It puffed up my egomy goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess there is nothing left but a dim silhouette, a relic of past splendor.
Our house mirrors her declinea gloomy, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still masters is the kitchen. I swear on my life, Charlotte is a witch of the stove, and criticizing her cooking would be sacrilege. Everything else? An absolute tragedy.
I try to shake her, beg her not to sink so deep, but she only offers a rueful smile and promises to pull herself together. Months slip by, my patience wears thinseeing each day this parody of the woman I once loved becomes unbearable torture. One stormy night I deliver the verdict: divorce. Charlotte tries to hold me, spouting empty promises of redemption, but she doesnt scream, she doesnt fight. When she realises my decision is final, she lets out a heartbreaking sigh:
It’s up to you I thought you loved me
I refuse to wade into a sterile debate about love or its absence. I fill out the paperwork, and soon, in a solicitors office in Birmingham, we each hold our divorce certificatethe end of a chapter.
Im hardly a model fatheraside from child support, Ive done nothing for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me, feels like a knife to the chest I want to avoid at all costs.
Two years drift by. One evening, as I wander the bustling lanes of Cambridge, I spot a familiar silhouette in the distanceher gait as graceful as a dance in a crowd. She walks toward me. When she gets close, my heart freezesits Charlotte! But what a Charlotte! Revived from the ashes, more radiant than during our first passionate flingthe very embodiment of femininity. She wears skyhigh heels, her hair styled to flawless perfection, every detail a symphonydress, makeup, nails, jewellery And that perfume, her signature scent from years past, hits me like a crashing wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must betray everythingastonishment, desire, remorseas she bursts into a sharp, victorious laugh:
Can’t recognise me? I told you Id get back upyou never believed me!
Charlotte generously offers to escort me to her gym, slipping a few tidbits about the kidstheyre thriving, full of life, she says. She doesnt talk much about herself, but her brilliance, unwavering confidence, that new irresistible charm shout her triumph louder than any words.
My thoughts rush back to those dark days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and daily burdens, cloaked in that cursed sweatshirt and sagging joggers, her miserable bun a banner of surrender. How it infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I abandoned, and with her I had forsaken our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we part, I stammer a questioncould I call her? I confess I finally understand and beg her to start anew. She rewards me with an icy smile, shakes her head with steely resolve and says:
Youve understood far too late, dear. Goodbye.
