Two years after our divorce I happened upon my former wife; everything fell into stark clarity, yet she only offered me a bitter smile before curtly turning down my desperate plea for a fresh start.
When our second child arrived, Ethel stopped caring for herself altogether. Once she would change outfits five times a day, hunting for elegance in every stitch, but after returning from maternity leave in Leeds she seemed to have erased from her mind any notion of clothing beyond a threadbare sweatshirt and a sagging pair of joggers that hung like a faded banner.
In that glorious garb my wife did not merely lounge at homeshe lived there, day and night, often collapsing onto the bed still dressed as if the rags had become a second skin. When I asked why, she muttered that it was more convenient for the nighttime trips to the children. There was a grim logic to it, I admit, but all the lofty maxims she once handed me like a litanyA lady must remain a lady even in the pits of Hell!had vanished like smoke. Ethel had forgotten everything: her beloved beauty salon in Bath, the gym she swore was her sanctuary, andpardon 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.
Naturally, her body followed the same path toward ruin. Her waist collapsed, her belly swelled, her legs grew flabby, even her neck drooped, a shadow of its former self. Her hair became a living disaster: at times a wild tangle as if a storm had raked it, at other moments a sloppy bun from which rebellious strands shot out like silent screams. The worst part was that before the baby, Ethel had been a dazzling tenoutoften. Strolling down the Brighton promenade, men would turn their heads, eyes glued to her. It fed my egomy goddess, all mine! And now of that goddess there was nothing left but a dim silhouette, a relic of past splendor.
Our house reflected her declinea gloomy, oppressive chaos. The only thing she still mastered was the kitchen. I swear on my heart: Ethel was a witch of the stove, and to complain of her cooking would have been sacrilege. Everything else? An absolute tragedy.
I tried to rouse her, begged her not to sink so far, but she only gave me a rueful smile and promised to pull herself together. Months wore on, my patience wore thinseeing each day the parody of the woman I once loved became unbearable torture. One stormy night I delivered the verdict: divorce. Ethel tried to hold me back, rattling empty promises of redemption, but she never shouted, never fought. When she realised my decision was final, she let out a heartbreaking sigh.
It’s up to you I thought you loved me
I did not indulge in a sterile debate about love or its absence. I filled out the papers, and soon, in a courtroom in Bristol, we each held our divorce certificatethe close of a chapter.
I am hardly a model fatherapart from child support, I have done nothing for my former family. The thought of seeing her again, the woman who once dazzled me with her beauty, was like a knife to the chest I was desperate to avoid.
Two years slipped by. One evening, while wandering the bustling streets of Manchester, I spotted a familiar silhouette in the distanceher gait graceful, like a dance amid the crowd. She came toward me. When she drew near, my heart frozeit was Ethel! But what a Ethel! Reborn from her ashes, more radiant than in those early, passionate daysa very embodiment of femininity. She wore skyhigh heels, her hair styled to flawless perfection, every detail a symphonydress, makeup, nails, jewellery And that signature perfume of hers struck me like a tidal wave, pulling me back to buried days.
My face must have betrayed everythingastonishment, desire, remorsewhen she burst into a sharp, victorious laugh.
What, you dont recognise me? I told you Id rise againdidnt you believe me!
Ethel generously allowed me to accompany her to her gym, slipping a few tidbits about the childrentheyre growing splendidly, she said, full of life. She spoke little of herself, but it was unnecessaryher brilliance, her unshakable confidence, that new irresistible charm shouted triumph louder than any words could.
My thoughts drifted back to those dark days: her dragging herself around the house, broken by sleepless nights and the weight of the everyday, cloaked in that cursed sweatshirt and sagging joggers, her miserable bun a banner of surrender. How it had infuriated methe lost elegance, the extinguished flame! It was the same woman I had abandoned, and with her I had turned my back on our children, blinded by selfishness and fleeting anger.
As we said goodbye, I stammered a questioncould I call her? I confessed I now understood everything and begged her to start anew. She met me with a icy smile, shook her head with firm resolve and said:
Youve understood far too late, dear. Farewell!
