“Do you even realize you left me at my lowest?”
She didn’t say it aloud—I just saw it written all over her face. The tight line of her jaw, the cold flick of her eyes, the way her lips barely moved as she shook her head and turned away.
We’d bumped into each other on a packed London street. I mumbled something desperate, something stupid—“Maybe we could try again?”—but she didn’t even pause. Just walked off, leaving me standing there like a fool, heat rising in my chest, my ears ringing with the echo of everything I’d ruined.
When our second son was born, Emily disappeared. Not physically—she was there, in the house, doing what needed to be done—but the woman I knew, the woman I loved, faded right before my eyes.
Before, she’d spend hours choosing outfits. She had that way of holding herself, like she knew exactly who she was. But after the hospital? It was like she’d forgotten how to exist outside motherhood.
Baggy T-shirts, worn-out joggers, the same clothes day in, day out—even slept in them. If I said anything, she’d snap, “It’s easier for night feeds.”
Maybe that was true. But what happened to the woman who used to say, “A woman should never stop being a woman”?
Gone. Like her manicures, her gym sessions, even the habit of wearing a bra. She floated around the house, shoulders slumped, eyes distant. Like this version of herself had become acceptable.
Her body changed too. Her waist vanished, her belly sagged, her legs lost their shape. Her hair was always either a frizzy mess or stuffed into one of those messy buns, strands poking out like antennae.
And yes—I’ll admit it—I noticed. I hated that I noticed.
But before the kids, she turned heads. Back in Manchester, men stared. I used to feel proud—this beautiful, magnetic woman had chosen me.
Now, all that was gone.
The house followed suit. She still cooked like a dream, but everything else slipped. Toys, laundry, clutter—everywhere.
I tried to be gentle. “Emily, you can’t let yourself go like this.”
She just gave a tired smile. “I’ll sort it out, James. Just give me time.”
But time kept passing, and nothing changed.
Eventually, I cracked. I filed for divorce.
She didn’t cry. She begged, yes. Promised she’d try harder. But when she saw my mind was made up, she just sighed. “Your choice. I thought you loved me.”
I said nothing. Just signed.
And after that, we became strangers.
I won’t pretend I was a good father. Beyond the money I sent, I wasn’t there. I couldn’t face her—couldn’t face the life we’d built and then broken.
Years passed.
Then, one afternoon, walking through the center of Birmingham, I saw her.
From a distance, I recognized the walk first—that same confident, effortless stride that used to drive me mad.
I froze.
Emily.
Only… not the woman I’d left.
This Emily was radiant. Hair shiny, styled. A flowing dress that moved like it had somewhere to be. Heels that clicked with purpose. Skin glowing. And the scent—her perfume—the one that used to linger on my shirts for days… it hit me like a punch.
She didn’t see me. But I saw her. And I saw exactly what I’d lost.