I drove my little girl, Poppy, to his flat in Croydon for the weekend, and that was the last time I saw Mark. Its been twelve weeks, three months of silence, and the man who once seemed stuck in a perpetual slump now looks like hes been reborn.
For years I nagged him about shedding the extra poundsTake a walk, cut the biscuits, Id say. He ignored me, drowning in takeaway curry, fizzy pop, and a couch that seemed glued to his back. I could never coax him out for a jog, let alone a gym session. And now, the smallest room in his council flat holds a bright yoga mat stretched across the floor, his hair is clipped short, his shirts are pressed, and his shoes are polished. He even knows how to load the washing machine without asking.
We talked, finally. Id heard enough. He told me Id spent all those years putting him down, that hed been a fool for believing in the marriage. Now hes done with usme, the baby, the whole life we built. Hes in a new relationship, grinning like a kid who finally got the girl hed always wanted, and hes spending his time on the gym, his career, his confidence. That hit me harder than any argument ever could.
People say you should give as much as you expect to receive, but Mark never gave back. I loved him, respected him, and only offered a comment now and then when I thought something should change. He never thought I was right; he never lifted a finger for me or for Poppy, even when shed been out of his sight for months.
Even after we split, his world still revolved around himself. I wish hed once walked in my shoes, struggled the way I did, and learned the value of what hed taken for granted. But who can say? The night air in my flat feels colder now, and the emptiness echoes louder than the silence between us.
