I ran into my exwife two years after our divorce. In that moment I finally grasped everything, yet she merely smiled and shook her head when I suggested we start over.
When our second child arrived, Laura stopped worrying about how she looked. She had once changed outfits several times a day, always impeccably dressed, each piece perfectly coordinated. After coming home from the hospital, it was as if she had forgotten there were any clothes beyond a threadbare tee and a pair of faded joggers.
She wore those same pieces all day, often even to bed. When I asked why, she said it was easier to get up at night to tend to the kids. That might have made sense, but where were the slogans she used to repeata woman must be a woman in every circumstance? She no longer mentioned her favorite salon, the gym, or her stylist. And, forgive the detail, she sometimes even skipped a bra in the morning, strolling around the house with a sagging chest, completely unconcerned.
Her body had changed, tooher waist, belly, legs were no longer the same. Her hair, once shiny and wellkept, was now a mess: either a tangled tumble of curls or a hurried bun with rebellious strands escaping. And to think that, when we walked the streets of Madrid, men turned their heads to look at her. I felt proud. Beautiful. Mine.
That woman was gone.
Our home mirrored her mood. The only thing Laura still kept flawless was the kitchen; her cooking remained a genuine delight. Everything else was depressingly dull.
I tried to show her she couldnt abandon herself like that. She would smile sadly and say shed try. Months passed, and each day I saw a woman I no longer recognized.
One day I reached my limit.
I decided to file for divorce.
There were no shouting matches or dramatic scenes. She tried to persuade me to reconsider, but when she saw my resolve, she simply sighed and murmured in a low voice:
Do what you want I thought you loved me
I didnt answer. Arguing about what love was or wasnt seemed pointless. I went to court, and soon after we signed the papers.
Im not sure I was a good father. I only sent the alimony, nothing more. I didnt want to see hernot the woman she had become.
Two years later
It was an autumn afternoon in Barcelona. I was wandering aimlessly, lost in thought, when I suddenly saw her.
There was something in the way she movedconfidence in each step that caught my eye. Her gait was light, elegant, full of selfassurance. When she drew close enough, my heart seemed to stop.
It was Laura.
But not the Laura Id left behind.
This version was even more striking than when I first met her. She wore high heels, a dress that accentuated her figure, perfect hair, immaculate manicure, subtle yet powerful makeup, and the same perfume that used to drive me wild.
I should have been stunned, but she burst into laughter.
Whats wrong? You dont recognize me? I told you Id change, and you didnt believe me.
She took me to the gym where she now trained daily. She spoke about the kidshow well they were doing and how happy they were. She said little about herself, but her eyes, posture, and bearing said everything.
And I
I remembered.
I remembered mornings when I was annoyed to see her in pajamas, hair disheveled, irritated that she no longer dressed up. I remembered the days her exhaustion drove me crazy. I remembered the exact moment I chose to walk away, the selfishness that convinced me she wasnt enough for me.
I also remembered that by leaving her, I had abandoned my own children.
Before we parting, I gathered enough courage to ask:
Can I call you? I understand everything now maybe we could try again.
Laura looked at me with serene calm, then smiled and shook her head.
Its too late, Alejandro. Take care.
And she walked away.
I stood there, frozen, watching her fade into the crowd.
Yes.
I finally understood.
But it was far too late.
