He left, and we stayed behind—starting to rebuild our lives without him.
The evening was like hundreds before: the children chattering in the kitchen, dinner cooling on the stove, the sauna already warmed. Everything as usual, everything for him. My husband came home, sat at the table, ate in silence. Then he went to the sauna. I thought it was just another ordinary night. But when he returned, he spoke in a hollow, distant voice: “You don’t appreciate me. There’s nothing left for me here. I’m leaving.”
He gathered his things—neatly, methodically. Took his laptop, documents, even his favourite mug. Left for his mother’s. Just like that. No tears, no shouting, no explanation.
I stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, listening to the door shut behind him. And you know what? I didn’t collapse. I didn’t sob. I didn’t feel the ground give way beneath me. No. I felt… relief.
The night passed in unexpected calm. No snoring from the other pillow, no grumbling, no endless complaints about the children being noisy or dinner not being right. In the morning, I woke as if born anew. The kids were already up. I made breakfast, we ate, and they went out to play in the garden. I stayed—alone, but not empty.
We’d just finished renovating—only small jobs left to tidy up. I decided to tackle the curtains. Grabbed the drill, screws, rawl plugs—tools I’d never touched before. That damn bracket wouldn’t stay put, kept slipping. But I did it. I managed. Hung the curtains. Beautiful, light, blue with a floral pattern—like a new act in the play of my life.
Later, I went to the kitchen, made three litres of spiced apple jam and bottled fresh tomato juice. As the jars cooled on the windowsill, I wondered—was it somehow my fault? Had I missed something, left words unspoken, loved too little? But the more I thought, the clearer it became: no. He hadn’t been with us for a long time. His body was here, but his heart was elsewhere.
I went outside, fetched the paint and the ladder—heavy, ancient, practically a relic from the war. Dragged it to the wall with effort, fear nearly outweighing resolve. I’d been terrified of heights since childhood. But I climbed. And I painted. The house brightened. I breathed. As silly as it sounds, in that moment, I knew: I could do anything. I’d manage everything myself.
Night brought quiet. The children slept. I sat with a cup of tea in the kitchen, free from the weight of dread for the first time in months. Take him back? Why? He chose to leave. Chose his mother, his freedom, his illusions. Let his mum deal with her “little angel,” as she always called him. I reckon she’ll soon realise his wings are tattered and his halo’s rusted.
But for us? We’ll be fine. I’ll handle the garden, the house, the children. I’ll grow stronger. I already have. Not because I want to—because I can’t afford to be weak anymore. Now I’m both mother and father. And that’s alright. It’s not the first time.
I’m already thinking about divorce. No point delaying. He left—not for a visit, not for work, but from his family. That was his choice. And we—the children and I—will make ours. We’ll start over. Without him. Step by step, we’ll build our life. A real one. A free one. An honest one. Ours.
—Sometimes the hardest goodbyes are the ones that set you free.
