Almost two years ago my wife, Emma, told me something Ill never forget. She said, You live so predictably that Im bored of you. Even though I thought our routine was dull, I was happy with it. Every morning I rose early, had a quick tea, did a few stretches and got dressed for work. The first thing I did was make Emmas breakfast because she left for her job even earlier, then I got ready myself. We prepared all our meals at home; I packed a sandwich for both of us and a fruit snack for later. On the way back from work each evening I stopped at the corner shop, then I cooked, cleaned and did the laundry. Before bed we watched a programme and went to sleep.
I was convinced I was right. Everything seemed perfect: I was wellkept and fed, the flat was tidy and comfortable. What more could I ask for? Every Saturday I tackled a thorough springcleaning, baked something tasty and cooked a proper Sunday roast. In the evenings we invited friends over or headed out to the city centre. On Sundays we visited our parents half the day at my mums in Liverpool, the other half at my fathers in Leeds. We helped them with chores, chatted and enjoyed the time with family.
In the evenings we relaxed at home. We never fought or raised our voices. Harmony ruled the house. But one day I declared I was fed up with Emma. For hours I complained that I wasnt satisfied, comparing us to my mates who were always out having a laugh, living it up, and feeling fulfilled. We dont even argue, I said, so why stay like this? And with that I walked out.
I was completely content with the way we lived and didnt want any change. Yet, for Emmas sake I was ready to try anything, even a makeover. She started by clearing out her wardrobe, spent the money wed saved for a new flat on a flood of fresh clothes, cut her hair short and dyed it a bold shade. She decided not to look boring any more. Then she found a new job not the usual admin role, but a position organising events. That opened a world of original entertainment for her.
A week later I returned home, stunned by the new Emma. From that day she promised us a completely different life, and we followed through. We hardly stayed in the flat any more, constantly on the move, meeting fascinating people. Every night we hit a pub, a restaurant, a club, a house party, or anything else. We went camping, cycling, kayaking, and took weekend trips to other towns.
After a few months of this exciting pace, I started craving quiet, peace and simply staying at home. I missed homecooked meals and Emmas baked goods. There was no time left for me to stand at the stove. I had changed so much that Emma no longer missed my company.
A week later I told her I couldnt keep up this highoctane lifestyle. I wanted to return to the old, quiet, cosy days, spend evenings at home and drive to my parents on weekends for fresh, homemade food instead of reheated takeaways.
She wasnt interested in that any more. Shed grown accustomed to adult responsibilities and didnt want to revert. The current way of living suited her just fine. She still liked the old routine, but she wouldnt switch back. When I insisted on restoring everything to the way it was, a real blowup erupted.
It turned into a fullblown scene: dishes were smashed, neighbours called the police, and I packed my things and stayed with my mother, assuming Id come back and find Emma as she once was. That would have been too much. Were not characters in a film who can change on a whim. When I finally returned home, I found divorce papers on the kitchen table along with a note that said I was boring her and that she could no longer live with me.
