He left, and we stayed—beginning to rebuild our lives without him.
The evening was like hundreds before it: the kids making noise in the kitchen, dinner cooling on the stove, the sauna already heated. 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 it was just another ordinary night. But when he returned, he said in a strange, distant tone:
“You don’t appreciate me. There’s nothing left for me here. I’m leaving.”
He packed his things, methodically, deliberately. Took his laptop, his documents, even his favourite mug. Went to stay with his mother. Just like that. No tears, no shouting, no explanations.
I stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, listening as the door clicked shut behind him. And you know what? I didn’t collapse. I didn’t sob. The ground didn’t give way beneath me. No. I felt… relief.
The night passed surprisingly quietly. No snoring from the other side of the bed, no grumbling, no endless complaints about the kids being loud or dinner not being right. I woke the next morning as if I’d been reborn. The children were already up, so I made breakfast, we ate, and then they went out to play in the garden. And I stayed—alone, but not empty.
We’d just finished renovating. A few things were left to tidy up, so I decided to hang the curtains. I grabbed the cordless drill, screws, wall plugs—tools I’d never even touched before. That bloody rod refused to stay put, sliding out of place every time. But I managed. I did it. Hung the curtains myself. Light, blue, with a floral pattern—like opening a curtain on the next act of my life.
Later, I went to the kitchen and made three jars of spiced apple jam and a few bottles of tomato juice. As the jars cooled on the windowsill, I wondered—was it my fault? Had I missed something, left words unsaid, loved him too little? But the longer I thought, the clearer it became—no. He’d been gone for a long time. His body was here, but his heart wasn’t.
I went outside, grabbed a tin of paint and the ladder—heavy, ancient, practically from the war. I dragged it to the wall, fear battling with determination. I’d been afraid of heights since childhood. But I climbed it. And I painted. The house gleamed. I breathed. And as silly as it sounds, in that moment, I knew: I could do anything. I could handle it all myself.
Night brought silence. The kids slept. I sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea and, for the first time in months, felt no dread. Should I take him back? Why? He chose this. His mother, his freedom, his illusions. Let his mum deal with her “little angel,” as she always called him. She’d soon realise his wings were clipped and his halo had rusted.
But us? We’ll be fine. I’ll manage the garden, the house, the kids. 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 it’s alright. It’s not the first time.
I’m already thinking about divorce. No point delaying. He didn’t leave for a visit or a business trip—he left his family. That was his choice. And the kids and I? We’ll make ours. We’ll start again. Without him. Step by step, we’ll build a life. A real one. A free one. An honest one. Ours.
[Rest of the story continues in the same adapted style, maintaining tone and meaning while fitting English cultural context.]
