He left, and we stayed behind—beginning to rebuild our lives without him.
The evening was like any other: the children chattered in the kitchen, dinner cooled on the stove, the bathhouse steamed, ready for him. Everything as usual, everything for him. My husband came in, sat at the table, ate in silence. Then he went to wash up. I thought nothing of it. 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 methodically, meticulously. Took his laptop, his documents, even his favorite mug. Just like that. No tears, no shouting, no explanation. He left for his mother’s house.
I leaned against the doorframe, listening as the door clicked shut behind him. And you know what? I didn’t collapse. I didn’t weep. The ground didn’t crumble beneath me. No—I felt… relief.
The night passed in eerie calm. No snoring from the pillow beside me, no grumbling about the children’s noise or supper not being right. Come morning, I rose as if reborn. The kids were already up. I made breakfast, we ate, and they ran off to play in the garden. And I was left—alone, but not empty.
We’d just finished renovating. Just the little things remained. I decided to hang the curtains. Grabbed the cordless drill, screws, rawlplugs—tools I’d never dared touch before. That damned curtain rail wouldn’t stay put, no matter what I did. But I did it. I managed. Hung them myself—light, soft blue with a floral print, like a curtain rising on the next act of my life.
Then I went to the kitchen, boiled three jars of spiced apple jam and bottled fresh tomato juice. As they cooled on the windowsill, I wondered—was it my fault? Had I missed something, failed to love him enough? But the more I thought, the clearer it became: no. His body had been here, but his heart was long gone.
I dragged the old, cast-iron ladder from the shed—heavy as sin, probably left over from the war—and heaved it against the wall. Fear clawed at me; I’d been afraid of heights since childhood. But I climbed. And I painted. The house glowed anew. I breathed. And as ridiculous as it sounds, in that moment, I knew—I could do anything. All of it.
Night brought silence. The children slept. I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, no gnawing dread in my chest for the first time in months. Take him back? Why? He left. Chose his mother, his freedom, his delusion. Let his mum deal with her precious *angel* now—she’d soon learn his wings were clipped and his halo rusted.
We’d be fine. I’d manage the garden, the house, the kids. I’d grow stronger. I already had. Not because I wanted to—because I couldn’t stay weak. Now I was both mum and dad. And that was alright. I’d done it before.
I’d started thinking about divorce. No point delaying. He hadn’t gone on a trip or popped out for a pint. He’d walked out of our family. His choice. The children and I? We’d make ours. We’d start fresh. Without him. And step by step, we’d build a life. A real one. Free. Honest. Ours.
