Two years had slipped by since that day, and now, there she was, walking just ahead of me on the bustling Oxford Street. My heart trembled in my chest the moment I caught sight of hera striking woman whose presence turned every head. In an instant, I recognised her: my ex-wife, Emilythe same Emily who, not so long ago, was the envy of every man in our circle.
After our wedding, the woman I married slowly faded away. Emily became a stranger to me, her glossy hair turned dull and greasy, always tied up in a careless bun, and she took to wearing enormous, baggy shirts and pyjama bottoms around the house. The elegant dresses that once highlighted her figure were exchanged for shapeless bags, and I never saw the fine lingerie she used to charm me with. She seemed to have completely abandoned any care for her appearanceno trips to the salon, no hint of makeup. Exercise was forgotten, and the figure shed once been so proud of softened, her tummy never recovering after the twins were born. The spark that once set her apart disappeared, replaced by endless fatigue and shadows beneath her eyes.
I watched the transformation unfold over those two yearsmy wife seeming further from the woman I once adored with every passing month. She put on weight and her clothes grew only larger and more formless. Each time I suggested, gently or not, that perhaps she should look in the mirror, shed be wounded, silenced for days. The tension crackled between us until I could no longer ignore it: I was in love with the Emily Id courted before our marriage, not the one shed become. That lively, dazzling Emilyso quick to laugh, so fiercely passionatewas gone. My friends envied me once, marvelling at how Id won her heart. Now, she didnt inspire me; she barely moved me at all, except with sadness and regret.
The last time we stood together, she wore an oversized, stained grey t-shirt and drooping shorts. Her legs, marked by cellulite, were bare, her hair a haphazard nest atop her head, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Her faceonce radiantwas heavy with sorrow and endless fatigue. She didnt even bother to shave her legs any more.
That evening, I told her the truth: I couldnt go on. I confessed that I felt only sadness, not love. It broke something in both of us.
Two years have passed, and today, fate brought her before me again. She strode confidently along the street, her curls loose and lively, her dress fluttering around her tall frame. Emily, resplendent once moretransformed from the tired woman Id left behind into the queen she used to be. She had become stunning all over again. This womanwho had mothered my twin sonswalked with the poise and beauty that once made her irresistible.
It hit me, painfully and without warning, that for all those years Emily hadnt had the time or energy to care for herself. She poured every bit of herself into our home and our children, building our world from the shadows. I never saw her effort, never noticed how she carried our family until she bent beneath the weight. Those few afternoons I spent alone with the twins, I was overwhelmed, exhausted within two hours. Yet she did it all day, every daytidying, cooking, loving, and holding our family together.
Of course she couldnt paint her nails or make it to the gym. Of course she needed time to heal after pregnancy, not my constant rebukes and hints to shape up. We never went out for her to wear those special dresses and jewellery anymore; wearing such things in the chaos of home was an empty gesture. I never let her remind herself, or me, of the woman she still was beneath the layers of exhaustion.
Looking back now, I see how I failed her. I was blind to her sacrifices, too wrapped up in my own disappointment to see the real pain. She bore our burdens, yet welcomed me home each night without complaint, always steady, always kind. She created a haven for me and our sonsbut I noticed only what was missing. If only Id offered to help, if only Id given her a few precious hours to breathe, she might have had time to care for herself again.
I was such a fool, too prideful to see the treasure I was losing every day. My self-righteousness blinded meI destroyed everything before I could realise what truly mattered.
Now, I look at hermy Emilyand ache for what I lost. She holds others at arms length, courted by many but unmoved. No one gets close; I wounded her too deeply. I want to make amends, to explain, even if only so I can be a proper father to our sons after missing so much of their lives. But I dont know if she can forgive me, or if I even deserve her forgiveness.
The weight of shame and guilt presses hard on my shoulders. All I can do is try to find the right words, to make her see that I finally understand what she gave up for me. I just wish Id seen it before it was too late.
