He left, and we stayed behind—beginning to build our lives again without him.
The evening was like hundreds before: the kids chattered in the kitchen, dinner cooled on the stove, the sauna already warmed. Everything as usual, everything for him. My husband came in, sat at the table, ate in silence. Then he went to the sauna. I thought nothing of it—just another night. But when he returned, his voice was distant, hollow:
*”You don’t appreciate me. There’s nothing left for me here. I’m leaving.”*
He packed methodically, deliberately. Took his laptop, his documents, even his favourite mug. Left for his mother’s. Just like that. No tears, no shouting, no explanation.
I leaned against the doorframe, listening as the front door clicked shut behind him. And you know what? I didn’t collapse. Didn’t sob. The ground didn’t give way beneath me. No—I felt… relief.
The night was strangely peaceful. No snoring from the other side of the bed, no grumbling about the kids being loud or dinner not being right. In the morning, I woke as if reborn. The children were already up, so I made breakfast—porridge and toast. We ate, and then they ran off to play in the garden. I stayed behind—alone, but not empty.
We’d only just finished renovating. Just little things left to sort. I decided to tackle the curtains. Grabbed the drill, the screws, the rawl plugs—tools I’d never dared touch before. That blasted pole wouldn’t stay put, sliding every time I thought I had it. But I managed. I did it. Hung the curtains myself—soft blue linen with daisy prints, like a fresh start stitched in fabric.
Later, I made marmalade. Three jars of it, golden and sharp with Seville oranges. While they cooled on the windowsill, I wondered—was this somehow my fault? Had I missed something, not loved enough? But the longer I thought, the clearer it became: no. He’d been gone long before he walked out. His body here, his heart elsewhere.
I dragged the old ladder out—rickety as hell, probably older than me—and hauled it to the front of the house. My hands shook. I’d hated heights since I was little. But I climbed. Painted the window frames until the whole cottage gleamed. And when I stepped back, I realised—I could do anything.
Night settled quietly. The kids were asleep. I sat at the kitchen table, tea steaming in my hands, and for the first time in months, there was no knot of dread in my chest. Take him back? Why? He chose this. Chose his mum, his freedom, his delusion. Let *her* deal with her *”little angel”*—she’d soon see the halo was tarnished and the wings molting.
We’d be fine. I’d tend the garden, keep the house, raise the kids. I’d grow stronger. Already had. Not because I wanted to—because I had to. Now I was both mother *and* father. And that was alright. I’d done it before.
I’d already started thinking about divorce. No point delaying. He didn’t leave for a visit or a work trip—he left his family. His choice. Ours was this: we’d start over. Without him. Brick by brick, we’d build a life. A real one. A free one. *Ours.*
