My husband left me after eleven years of marriage, citing a reason so starkly straightforward, it unsettled me long after I awoke. He said it was because I no longer took care of myself, as though self-neglect hovered like a forgotten coat on the back of a chair. Apparently, this had weighed on him for some time, though hed never once mentioned it to me in waking life.
When wed first met, I polished myself every morningfoundation, mascara, jewellery, each dress chosen with care, hair always curled. I had a job, friends to see, hours just for myself. But then children arrived, folding themselves into every corner of our world, and with them came routine and all its laundry lists: I continued my work, but also gathered up the house, cooked meals, wiped shelves, tended the garden, scheduled appointments, kept secrets and socks paired. All the invisible architecture that props up an English family home, thick as the London fog and just as undetected.
My days poured into one another, beginning before the milkmans first round and ending well after the midnight shipping forecast. Often, I stepped out without makeup, not through carelessness but because fatigue pressed the lids of my eyes into someone elses face. Id pull on whatever clean outfit I found at hand, not because I no longer cared, but because caring was a full-time occupation already. Hed breeze in, eat his dinner, settle with the telly, and drop off to sleep, never once asking how I was, if perhaps I wanted help with the heavy invisible things.
Over time, his words turned to pebbles in my shoes. Passive remarks about how I used to dress, how I used to bother with lipstick, how I looked tired, careless, frazzled. I thought it was just an occasional slip, never imagining each comment was a brick in the wall between us. He never said, I feel distant, or Lets talk. Instead, in the half-light, he packed his suitcases.
The day he left, his words were as sharp as the cold wind off the Downs. He told me he didnt feel the same anymore. That I had changed. That he missed the woman whod kept herself lovely, ready for him. I reminded him of all the bits I carriedschool runs, night feeds, birthdays rememberedfor the children and the home wed built together. He replied, quietly, that it wasnt enough. That he needed someone to take pride in, someone on display like an ornament in the window.
His shadow crossed the threshold, and I watched him go. Days later, I woke to the knowledge that he was seeing another womana woman unweighted by children, with time for the gym, and mornings spent perfecting herself in front of the mirror. And only then, swept along on a tide of dream-logic, did I realize: the problem was never truly the absence of lipstick.
Now, I still rise early, still keep the family afloat, still tend the odd gardenia on the windowsill. I take care of myself when I wish, not when someone else demands it. My moments without makeup were never out of lovelessness, but exhaustiona quiet testament to carrying our whole life on my back. But still, he left. I suppose I might join a pilates class at some point, though time is a scarce currency. No matter, reallyhe was never seeking me, just chasing after his own reflection.
