Dear Diary,
Two years after our divorce I happened to run into my exwife, Emily. Everything fell into stark clarity, but all she offered me was a bitter smile before she brushed aside my desperate plea to start over
When our second child was born, Emily stopped caring for herself entirely. She used to change her outfit five times a day, hunting for elegance in every detail. After returning from maternity leave in Birmingham, it was as if the very idea of anything other than a threadbare sweatshirt and a sagging pair of joggers had been wiped from her mind, the garments hanging around her like a faded flag.
In that admirable attire she didnt merely lounge at homeshe lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed in those rags, as if they had become an extension of her body. When I asked why, she mumbled that it was more practical for getting up at night for the children. There was a grim logic to it, I admit, but all those grand principles she once recited like a litanyA woman must remain a woman, even in the deepest hell!had gone up in smoke. Emily had forgotten everything: her beloved hairsalon in Manchester, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, andsorry for the bluntnessshe no longer bothered to put on a bra in the mornings, wandering the house with a sagging chest as if it mattered not.
Naturally her body followed the same road to ruin. Her waist, her belly, her legs, even her neck slumped, becoming mere shadows of what they once were. Her hair was a living disaster: one moment a wild mass blown by a storm, the next a haphazard bun from which rebellious strands burst out like silent cries. The worst part was that, before the baby, Emily was a radiant tenoutoften beauty. When we strolled through the streets of Brighton, men turned their heads, eyes glued to her. It swelled my egomy own goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess there was nothing left but a dim silhouette, a husk of former splendour.
Our house mirrored her declinea bleak, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still commanded was the kitchen. I swear on my heart, Emily was a witch of the stovetop; complaining about her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? A complete tragedy.
I tried to shake her, begged her not to sink so low, but she only gave me a rueful smile and promised to pull herself together. Months slipped by, my patience wore thinwatching each day the parody of the woman I had loved became an unbearable torture. One stormy night I delivered the final verdict: divorce. Emily tried to hold me, rattling empty promises of redemption, but she didnt scream, didnt fight. When she realised my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh:
It’s up to you I thought you loved me
I refused to engage in a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the paperwork, and soon, in a solicitors office in Liverpool, we each held our divorce certificatesthe close of a chapter.
Im certainly no exemplary fatherapart from child support, Ive done nothing for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty, feels like a blade to the chest Id rather avoid.
Two years drifted by. One evening, while wandering the bustling streets of Chester, I spotted a familiar silhouette in the distanceher gait, graceful as a dance amidst the crowd. She came toward me. When she drew near, my heart frozeit was Emily! But not the Emily Id known. She had risen from the ashes, more dazzling than ever, the very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair coiffed to flawless perfection, and every detailfrom dress to makeup, nails to jewellerywas a symphony. The scent of her signature perfume hit me like a wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must have shown everythingastonishment, desire, remorseas she laughed, sharp and victorious:
Dont you recognise me? I told you Id get back on my feetyou never believed me!
Emily kindly let me accompany her to the gym, slipping me a few tidbits about the kidstheyre thriving, full of life, she said. She didnt speak much of herself, but her radiance, unshakable confidence, and that new, irresistible charm shouted triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts returned to those dark days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of daily grind, cloaked in that cursed sweatshirt and sagging joggers, her miserable bun a banner of surrender. It had infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and in doing so I had forsaken our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
When we said goodbye, I stammered a questioncould I call her? I confessed that I finally understood everything and begged her to start anew. She answered with a cold smile, shook her head firmly and said:
Youve realised too late, dear. Goodbye.
Lesson learned: pride and neglect can strip away beauty and purpose, but true change must be nurtured from within, not waited for from the outside. I must strive to be present for those I love before its too late.
