I’m sorry I didn’t live up to your expectations.
It unfolded like something out of a sitcom or a melodramatic soap opera: one summer evening James Whitaker was glued to his laptop, his wife Blythe was bustling about the house, the car alarm went off and James bolted into the garden thank goodness for the warm night. Blythe, while dusting the side table, nudged the computer mouse and the dead screen flickered back to life.
Blythe never believed in snooping through Jamess phone, rifling through his pockets or peeking over his shoulder while he worked she thought it indecent. Yet this time she happened upon a chat on a dating site purely by accident. She glanced at the screen, saw a conversation and, before she could look away, the word “darling” caught her eye. Mortified, she tried to ignore it, wondering if it might simply be a misread like darling, could you pass the jam? or even my favourite sausage, but curiosity pulled her back.
Yeah, darling, James wrote, unabashedly using his own photo on the site, of course well meet tomorrow as we planned. I keep replaying our last date in my mind. Youre pure fire!
and youre a beast, my little bear, replied a slender redhead, my whole body still aches.
When James rushed out, his texts turned frantic: Bear, are you there? Im bored! Where are you?
Blythe set the cleaning rag aside and sank onto the sofa. James had warned her that tomorrow their company was holding a mandatory conference that could not be skipped, and she had spent the afternoon pressing her trousers, aligning the creases, choosing a tie to match his suit, and ironing his shirt carefully so no unsightly folds marred the sleeves. Now it made sense why she had been polishing every detail for that particular event.
James returned, fuming about a group of teenage hooligans who had kicked a football into his car. He shouted, swore, waved his arms, while Blythe listened and nodded in the right places, though her mind felt miles away.
Fortunately James wasnt in a romantic mood that night, and they both went to bed. Ill think about it tomorrow, Blythe muttered, echoing a famous heroine, yet she tossed and turned all night, unable to find sleep.
At dawn James left for work and Blythe turned to the housework. Her mother was due to bring little Stanley, who had been staying with his grandmother for a week. Blythe scrubbed floors, polished the bathroom tiles and the sink, while the relentless refrain what now? looped in her head.
She hadnt yet fully grasped the reality, but memory kept throwing fresh fragments of Jamess words and deeds at her, each gaining a new, painful meaning. Her familiar world was crumbling, and she had to sift through the debris.
One thing was crystal clear: she could never forgive James. Not even if he begged, claimed it was a mistake, or swore it would never happen again. The sting would soften with time, but the betrayal would never truly vanish.
At the same time, she knew Stanley was only two and a half. The nursery wouldnt have a spot until autumn, meaning she couldnt return to work any time soon. She couldnt lean on her elderly parents, nor fight a bitter battle over child support. Initiating a divorce in the heat of the moment, still raw from shock, seemed impossible; she doubted she had the strength to endure the inevitable pleading think it over, dont rush, understand, forgive that James would employ. The answer was firm: a divorce, but not today.
Blythe kept tending the home, ironing Jamess shirts, selecting ties for him, and even chuckling at his jokes in the rare moments when he remembered she was more than a mop. The only feeling she couldnt shake was an utter revulsion. She evaded certain chores with flimsy excuses, and James seemed to sigh with relief. Lately, however, he had blossomed smiling, humming under his breath, bringing her flowers for no reason, while she pretended to believe his stories about business trips, meetings and courses.
In October a nursery place finally opened. Blythe returned to work and, without hesitation, filed for divorce. James, taken aback, launched into a tirade, accusing her of greed and calling her a cheap, lowclass woman, a housewifeprostitute, and claiming shed only been waiting for the child to grow up before ditching him. Mutual friends rallied behind James, and even her mother looked at her with reproach: How could you? If you wanted a divorce, you should have done it straight away. Instead you lingered, plotted, kept a stone in your heart. I never imagined my daughter could be so petty and calculating.
Blythe answered everyone with a quiet, Im sorry I didnt meet your expectations, yet she never altered her decision.
Through the wreckage she learned that loyalty is fragile, but the power to choose forgivenessor to walk away with dignitylies within each of us. The true lesson is that we must own our choices, accept the consequences, and, above all, treat ourselves with the respect we deserve.
