At the divorce hearing, my wife said, Take everything! and a year later I regretted believing her
Claire examined the documents with a steady gaze. For some reason, I couldnt even detect a trace of resentment.
So, youve finally made up your mind, have you? I asked, struggling to keep my irritation in check. Well then? How do you suggest we split things?
She looked up, her eyes dry, unwavering the sort of determination birthed from a long, sleepless night considering the wreckage of a wasted life.
Take everything, she said, her voice soft but resolute.
What do you mean, everything? I squinted at her, not quite trusting what I was hearing.
The house, the cottage, the car, the savings. All of it, she said, her hand gesturing around the solicitors office. I dont want a thing.
Youre joking, I said, beginning to smile. Or is this some sort of trick?”
No, David. No games, no tricks. For thirty years I put my life on hold. Thirty years spent washing, cooking, cleaning, waiting. Thirty years listening to you call holidays a waste of money, my hobbies childish, and my dreams childish nonsense. Do you know how many times I wanted to visit the seaside? Nineteen times. Do you know how many times we actually went? Three. And all three, you grumbled it was too dear and pointless.
I gave a short laugh.
Here we go again. At least we had a roof over our heads, food on the table
Yes, we did, Claire nodded, and now, youll have all the rest as well. Congratulations, enjoy your victory.
The solicitor was visibly taken aback. He must have seen every kind of bickering and heartbreak, but not a woman simply walking away from everything husbands and wives usually battle for.
Are you sure you understand what youre saying? he asked her quietly. By law, youre entitled to half the marital assets.
I understand, she smiled so radiantly it was as if shed just dropped a heavy weight. And I understand that half a wasted life is still a wasted life, only smaller.
It was hard to hide my relief. Truthfully, Id imagined nasty arguments, perhaps threats, games of leverage. This, I hadnt expected fate presenting me a windfall on a silver tray.
Thats more like it! I slapped my hand on the desk. Finally, youre being sensible.
Dont mistake sense for liberation, she replied, signing the papers.
We drove home in the same car, though it felt like we were living on different planets.
I hummed a jaunty tune under my breath I think it was one from childhood, an old ditty. The car bumped over potholes, and my whistling echoed and faded with every jolt.
Claire paid me no mind; she seemed lost in another world, her gaze fixed out the fogged window. Trees and pines zipped by, and her heart, I could sense, fluttered like a young bird about to take its first flight.
Strange, I thought the drive was so ordinary, yet suddenly there was this vast emptiness, or perhaps an opening, inside me. As if a stones weight had simply dissolved. I caught sight of Claire faintly smiling and touching a cool cheek. Maybe, I realised… perhaps this was what freedom felt like.
Sometimes, all it takes is a single moment, one glance through a window at trees flying by, for your world to take on colours you thought long faded.
Three weeks later, I heard Claire had moved into a small flat in Milton Keynes.
The place was humble. Bed, wardrobe, table, a tiny television. Two pots of violets sat on the windowsill her first real purchase for her new life.
Youve completely lost it, our son, Jamie, said on the phone, the exasperation in his voice clear as day. You left everything, mum, and bolted to that dump?
I didnt abandon anything, sweetheart, Claires voice was calm, steady. I left it. Thats not the same.
But how? Dad says you just gave him everything. Hes even thinking of selling the cottage says its too much faff for just him.
She smiled into the little mirror above the sink. Shed been sporting a new bob all week, something shed never have attempted while we were together. Too trendy, not dignified, what will people think? my old mantras, echoing faintly.
He can do as he likes, she said lightly. Your fathers always known what to do with property.
But what about you? Youve got nothing left!
Ive got the most important thing, Jamie. My life. And you know whats surprising? Turns out you can start fresh, even at fifty-nine.
She found work as the receptionist at a small private care home for the elderly. The job was challenging, but interesting. She met new people and, for once, she owned her free time.
Meanwhile, I revelled in my solitary victory.
The first fortnight, I strutted round the house like a new lord of the manor, taking it all in this was all mine. No one to nag me about socks on the floor or unwashed plates.
Lucky devil, Dave, my mate Paul nodded, sipping whisky in the kitchen. Other blokes lose half of what they own more, even. Look at you: house, car, cottage the lot!
Too right, I smirked. At last, Claires seen sense. Clearly, she realises she wouldnt last a month without me.
By the end of the month, however, the shine began to tarnish.
Clean shirts stopped materialising in the wardrobe. The fridge was nearly always empty, and knocking up a proper dinner was a bigger ask than Id thought. My colleagues started commenting that I was looking a bit scruffy.
You alright, Dave? my manager asked once. Everything okay at home?
All good, I answered, forcing a bright tone. Just reorganising a few things.
One evening, opening the fridge, I found only a bottle of ketchup, a block of processed cheese, and a half-empty bottle of gin. My stomach growled all Id had that day was some toast.
Bloody hell, I muttered, slamming the fridge. This cant go on
So I ordered takeaway again what else to do when your fridge looks like the empty plains, spare a withered bit of rosemary shoved at the back. As I waited for the delivery bloke, I sifted through a mountain of bills. Suddenly, the cold numbers hit me: council tax, internet, bank, electric…
Before, it had all seemed like background noise something from a parallel world. I suppose thats what happens: when someone else is there, life quietly ticks over. You dont notice the little things, the costs, you just get on with it.
The doorbell snapped me from my daze. The delivery man handed over the bag and card machine.
Thatll be eight pounds sixty, he said evenly.
How much?! I nearly dropped my keys. For a stew and a bottle of water?
Yeah, thats standard, he shrugged, having heard it all before.
I paid without another word. Back in the kitchen, I paused silence. Even the fridge was humming with a peculiar loneliness. The house, so modern with its gleaming lamps and mirrors and all the things I used to want, now felt more like a waiting room. Chilly, cavernous the kind where you could swear a cold wind would whistle down the hallway, echoing in your own chest.
Meanwhile, Claire stood at the edge of the Channel, raising her face to the sunlight and salt breeze.
Shed joined a group of older tourists the local Pensioners Activity Club was doing a week in Brighton. For the first time, she travelled without anyone moaning about wasted money, without lectures about saving by just staying home.
Claire, come on, photo time! called her new friend Patricia, an energetic widow shed met at the art class.
Claire hurried over, beaming, as the group jostled for the snapshot. Whod have thought you could wear a bright summer dress at her age, hair loose, laughing like a schoolgirl?
Selfie time! Patricia declared, waving her phone on a stick. Were posting these!
That evening, in her hotel room, Claire flicked through the photos. There she was: a woman with sparkling eyes, a radiant smile almost a stranger to herself. When had that furrow between her brows gone? When had her shoulders dropped, her whole body lightened?
I should upload these, Claire whispered, hesitating, then finally posted them on her long-abandoned social media.
Back in London, I grappled with a burst pipe in the kitchen. Water flooded the floor, ruined the cupboard, and the plumber said, Sorry, mate, they dont make these any more youll need to replace the whole lot.
For Gods sake! I swore, mopping up with an old tea towel. Whats the plumbers number? Claire always knew
It dawned on me: my wife had memorised the lot plumbers, hairdressers, the best butcher at the market, even a good shoe repairer. The invisible web that held things together had collapsed, and I was left battling chores that once solved themselves.
Stupid pipe! I hurled the soggy rag at the floor. Now Ive got to cook, clean, work and this damned leak
By the time Id managed to turn off the water and clear up the mess, it occurred to me I hadnt checked social media in days. Bored, I flicked through and froze.
There, grinning out from the beach, was Claire in a bright summer dress, with her new haircut, looking genuinely happy?
Whats all this? I muttered, zooming in. She left with next to nothing!
But the comments only confused me more:
Claire, you look so young!
Youre glowing, love!
Brighton suits you!
I scrolled down to see more pictures of her at the library, painting with a group in the park, Claire with a wildflowers bouquet, smiling on a bench.
What on earth I put the phone down, glancing round my messy kitchen. She was supposed to supposed to…
I couldnt even finish the thought. I suppose, deep down, Id expected her to suffer, to miss all the things I thought mattered. But the woman in those pictures was someone else lighter, bolder, alive.
A few days later, a storm battered the cottage roof. I needed to cover the leaking loft, but the job was too big.
Paul, mate, I need a hand! I pleaded down the phone. Even if you just bring some nails I cant manage alone.
Sorry, Dave, my mother-in-laws ill and Im stuck at the hospital, Paul said. Cant you ask Claire? She used to help.
She I hesitated. Shes not here anymore.
Wheres she gone? Paul sounded baffled.
Shes just gone, I snapped. Never mind, Ill do it myself.
But patching the roof alone was harder than Id imagined. The rain lashed down as I stretched the tarp. Suddenly my foot slipped and I went crashing down. Pain shot through my ankle.
Sprain, youre lucky, the young A&E doctor said dryly. Couldve been a break. Week off your feet, keep it up.
A week? Whos going to fix the roof? Its leaking! I protested.
Not my worry, the doctor shrugged, scribbling out a prescription. Get the missus to help try resting for once.
I wanted to retort, but bit my tongue.
Three days passed in silence. I hobbled round the flat on crutches, ordering food I could ill afford. Cooking for myself ended in disaster balancing at the hob on one leg was next to impossible.
On the fourth day, I caved and phoned Jamie.
Alright, son, I said, forcing a cheery note. Hows life?
All fine, Dad, he sounded cautious. Something happened?
Sort of hurt my ankle. Could you pop round, give your old man a hand?
A long pause.
Sorry, Dad, Im up north on a business trip. Not back for three days.
Oh. Well, no worries Ill manage.
You know, Jamie said awkwardly, you could try Mum? Shed
No! I snapped. No need. Im just fine.
I hung up and tossed the phone aside. Pride kept me from admitting I missed her, missed the small, gentle things she did, her presence her very existence in the house. Id never realised quite how much she did, invisible, unthanked.
A week and a half later, able to walk again, I headed out to the cottage to survey the damage. The loft ceiling was stained with mould. My favourite sofa was ruined. Damp hung in the air.
Brilliant, I muttered, slumping onto the garden bench.
The apple trees trees Claire always tended looked a state. The grass was waist-high; the neat stone paths shed laid had vanished. Everything had withered in her absence.
On the way home, I stopped at a roadside café, exhausted. I ordered a bowl of stew and a cup of tea. The first mouthful caught in my throat it was nothing like Claires. Bland, sour.
Are you all right, love? the waitress asked, concern in her eyes.
Yes, I just I didnt know what to say. How do you explain that a simple bowl of stew could sum up a whole lost life?
When I got home, I sat in silence, staring at our old photos on the shelf. There we were young and smiling at the Tower of London, Jamie just a lad, our twentieth anniversary
What a fool Ive been, I whispered, gazing at the joy in Claires face.
Mustered up, I sent her a message. But the reply was not what I expected.
Claire had moved to a seaside town. She was surrounded by laughter and music, real friends. She was living, really living the life Id never let her have.
At nearly sixty years old, shed started living at last.
And as I close todays entry, heres the truth I learned the hard way: sometimes, letting go of everything you think you own is the only way to discover what you never really had and who you really are.
