“You’re both equally to blame for the divorce,” the counsellor said, fixing me with steady eyes.
“Im the one at fault? No! Hes the one who tore the family apart!” I snapped.
“Listen, Megan, when a marriage ends the responsibility is split fiftyfifty, not ninetyten or sixtyforty. You simply werent able to build a proper partnership,” he replied calmly, his confidence unshaken.
“What am I supposed to do? I have two daughters. My husband loves them, but I cant stand him. What now?” I wanted to believe him; it seemed as if he held a magic wand that could set everything straight.
“First, calm down, Megan. You cant rush headlong into anythingyoull break. Who will look after the girls? They need a sensible mother, not a hysteric one. Are you even thinking of entering a new relationship?” he asked.
“Never! Not after being hurt again,” I hissed, tears welling.
“Take it easy. Youre still young; lifes ahead of you. Why did you marry in the first place?” he probed.
“For happiness,” I whispered, sobbing.
“Exactly. Everyone wants happiness, yet so many end up divorced. School teaches us maths, not the art of marriage. So we rush into weddings, then sprint to the altar with tears, and the years just slip by. Youth fades fast.”
“I tried for the family. I put up with him for fifteen years while he was as dull as a stone, never noticing a rose. He became a bore. I cant bear to see him any longer. Our love is shattered,” I vented, desperate for release.
“Id like to propose an experiment, if youll allow it,” he smiled mischievously.
“What sort?” I asked, curiosity sparking.
“Youll probably want to date again eventually. Give yourself a pause, then find a boy for practice, so to speak. Use him to hone your relationship skills, learn how to live with a man, make it comfortable for you,” he said, his eyes searching mine.
“And where am I supposed to find such a fool?” I wondered aloud.
“You dont need to look. That boy for practice could be your exhusband.” He leaned forward.
“My ex? How could that work?”
“You dont feel sorry for him. If he walks away, you lose nothing. Its a winwin, Megan,” he assured.
I thought it over. I wasnt risking anything, and I really didnt miss Peter. Let him go.
Peter had become such a nuisance that I packed my daughters and moved into a flat in Manchester. The divorce courts settled things; he begged me to think it over, but I burned the bridges. I wanted solitude after fifteen years of marriage.
Peter went into overdrivecheap gifts, wilted flowers, even invited me to a spa. His belated attention was exhausting. He still couldnt accept it was over.
When I moved into the rented flat with Lucy and Emma, I felt a lift, as if Id finally found heaven, floating on clouds. Then the girls snapped me back to reality:
“Mum, whats wrong with Daddy?” they asked.
I was at a loss. How do you tell your children that life with their father isnt possible, that his words are empty wind, that everything feels cramped and grey? Thats when I returned to the therapist, hoping for clarity.
So the experiment began. A month after our split, I rang Peter.
“Hi, Peter. How are you? Fancy meeting up? I have a few things to ask,” I said.
“Megan? Sure, whenever you like,” he replied, his voice bubbling with relief.
We met in a park, sitting on a bench. He kept edging closer, trying to take my hand. We talked about nothing at all. He escorted me home, planted a quick kiss on my cheek, and handed the girls a small treat.
Inside, I glanced out the window; Peter was still standing outside. I waved, and he sent back an airy blowkiss. Those harmless rendezvous felt oddly satisfyingno fights, no shattered plates, just a splash of colour in my days.
We started seeing each other once a monthat cafés, the cinema, the park. My life seemed stitched together with joy, and I began to think I could weave a new path with Peter.
A year passed.
“Peter, are we meeting today?” I asked, hopeful.
“Sorry, Megan, Im swamped. Ill call you when Im free,” he said, ending the call abruptly.
That happened three or four times. I grew nervous. Had someone else taken his place? Was he getting serious about someone else? Jealousy gnawed at me. I needed answers.
I dialled him again.
“Peter, the girls miss you. Lets take them to the zoo.”
“Megan, Ive got a wife in labour,” he gasped.
“What wife? Are you joking? This is absurd!” I shouted into the phone.
“Not joking, Megan. Were expecting a boy with Lily,” he said calmly.
My mouth went dry. I could only manage, “Goodbye. I wish you a cloudless happiness.”
And with that, the experiment ended.
