Im 55, and two months ago my wife asked for a divorce. She told me she needs to feel alive again. That little bombshell dropped on a perfectly ordinary afternoon, as we sat at our kitchen table, coffee growing colder while our cockerel crowed outside just like he did every day.
She was my second wife. Wed been married for fifteen years. No children of my own (doctors orders), but shed brought her kids from her first marriage. I raised them as if they were my own no favouritism, not ever. I gave them an education, a home, meals, advice (solicited and not). Now theyre all grown up, living in London. The two of us stayed behind in the countryside a modest but cosy house, a little vegetable patch, chickens, a couple of dogs, and predictably dull routines. Id always thought that kind of peace was happiness.
Our life was utterly unremarkable. Breakfast together, work, dinner in front of the telly, and early nights. At weekends, wed pop into town for shopping or visit friends. I never went astray, never put her down just one of those blokes who gets up at the crack of dawn, gets stuck into all the bits and bobs that need doing. In my mind, that was love.
But a few months back, she started changing. Kept saying she felt stuck, the village was suffocating, that she fancied moving to the city to be surrounded by noise, bustle, a faster pace. Id always argue: But weve got everything we need here the house is paid off, the airs clean, life is gentle. We went round in circles; she insisted, I shut down. I wanted us to stay. She wanted out.
Then, one day, she just stopped arguing. She looked at me and said, I dont want to fight anymore. I want to leave. I need to try something new before I get too old.
I mustered the nerve to ask if shed met someone else. She swore she hadnt. Said she wasnt leaving for anyone she was leaving for herself, to find some spark again, to start afresh in the city.
That night, we slept in the same bed, but we were miles apart. Next morning, she packed her clothes and a handful of memories, and left. No shouting. No drama. I just stood there, watching the bus drive away, a lump in my throat and hands shaking, feeling a bit daft for not knowing what to do with myself.
Now the house feels cavernous. Im still living the country life I always wanted just minus her. I get up early, make coffee for one, chat to the dogs (theyre sympathetic, but not much for conversation). Sometimes I wonder if I shouldve listened harder, compromised a bit more, questioned my stubborn belief that love meant simply staying put and keeping things ticking along.
Why did all this happen? Was it because I tried so hard to be a decent bloke?
