He left, and we stayed behind—starting to rebuild our lives without him.
The evening was like hundreds before it: the children chattered in the kitchen, supper cooled on the stove, the bathroom steamed from a freshly run bath. Everything as usual, everything for him. My husband came home, sat at the table, ate in silence. Then he went to wash up. I thought it was just another night. But when he returned, his voice was hollow, distant:
*”You don’t appreciate me. There’s nothing left for me here. I’m leaving.”*
He packed his things methodically, carefully. Took his laptop, documents, even his favourite mug. Went to stay with his mother. Just like that. No tears, no shouting, no explanation.
I leaned against the doorframe, listening as the door clicked shut behind him. And you know what? I didn’t collapse, didn’t weep, didn’t lose my footing. No. I felt… relief.
The night passed in eerie calm. No snoring from the other pillow, no grumbling about noisy children or the wrong dinner. By morning, I woke as if reborn. The kids were already up. I made breakfast, we ate, and they ran out to play in the garden. And I stayed—alone, but not empty.
We’d just finished redecorating. A few details remained. I decided to tackle the curtains. Grabbed the drill, screws, rawlplugs—tools I’d never touched before. That blasted rail wouldn’t stay put, slipping no matter what. But I managed. I did it. Hung the curtains myself—light, blue, with a floral print, like a fresh curtain on a new act of my life.
Later, I stirred a bubbling pot of spiced apple jam, filled jars as tomato juice simmered beside it. While they cooled on the windowsill, I wondered—*Was it my fault? Did I miss something, fail to love him enough?* 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 dragged the old, paint-splattered ladder from the shed—heavy as lead, like something out of the Blitz. Fear clawed at me as I climbed, my lifelong dread of heights gnawing. But I did it. I painted the house. The walls gleamed. I breathed. And ridiculous as it sounds, in that moment, I knew: *I can do anything.*
Night brought quiet. The children slept. I sat with tea at the kitchen table, free of the gnawing dread that had haunted me for months. Bring him back? Why? *He* chose to leave. Chose his mother, his freedom, his fantasy. Let his mum deal with her “little angel”—she’d soon see the wings were clipped and the halo tarnished.
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 weakness isn’t an option anymore. Now, I’m both mother and father. And it’s alright. Not the first time.
I’ve started thinking about divorce. No point delaying. He didn’t leave for a visit or a business trip—he left his family. His choice. And the children and I? We’ll make ours. We’ll start fresh. Without him. Step by step, we’ll build a life. A real one. Free. Honest. *Ours.*
