Im 55 now, and about two months back, my wife asked for a divorce. Her reason, she said, was that she needed to feel alive again. She told me this one perfectly ordinary afternoon, while we were sat at the kitchen table. Our coffee was going cold and the old cockerel was making a racket outside, same as he did every day.
Shes my second wife, actually. Wed been married for 15 years. I cant have kids of my ownmedical stuffbut she came into my life with children from her first marriage, and I treated them as if they were my own. Never made any difference between them and what I imagined my own might have been. I gave them a good education, a roof over their heads, meals on the table, advice when they needed it. Now theyre grown up and living in London. The two of us stayed behind in the countryside a modest but lovely cottage, with a vegetable patch, chickens, a pair of dogs, and the quiet sort of daily routine some people dream of. I always thought that peace and quiet was enough.
Life was simple. Wed have breakfast together, get on with work, dinner in front of the telly, and wed head to bed early. Weekends, wed go into town for shopping, or see friends. I never cheated. Never belittled her. I was one of those blokes who puts the home first: up before dawn, get the graft done, look after things. I thought, honestly, that was what love looked like.
But a few months ago she started changing. Shed tell me she felt stuck, that country life was suffocating her, and she wanted us to move into the cityto have a bit of life, people, noise, a different tempo. Every time, Id respond that we already had everything we needed herethe house is ours outright, the air is clean, life is peaceful. Wed argue about it quite a lot. She kept pushing her point. I clammed up. I wanted to stay. She wanted out.
And then, one day, she just stopped arguing. Looked straight at me, and said, I dont want to keep fighting. I want to leave. I need to experience something else before I get too old.
I asked if there was another man. She swore there wasnt. She said she wasnt running to anyone, just towards herselfand towards this urge to feel alive again and start over in the city.
That night, we slept in the same bed, but it wasnt the same anymore. The next day, she packed her clothes, took a few mementos, and left. No shouting. No drama. I just stood there and watched her catch the coach, with a lump in my throat and hands shaking like mad.
Now, this cottage feels massive. Im still here in the countryside, just as I always thought I wanted, but now its just me. I get up early, make coffee for one, chat with the dogs. Sometimes I wonder if I messed upmaybe I didnt listen enough, didnt bend when I should have, kept thinking love meant just staying and dutifully carrying on.
Why did this happen to me? Just because I was a decent chap?
