13October
I watched the little matchsticks flare in the womans trembling hands, then sputter out, only to be lit again. She whispered the same things I already knew inside meabout the dull, unrelenting ache, the hopelessness, that endless yearning to howl like a wolf. Yet despite it all, I found the courage to go to the witch.
It feels as if the tragedy that tore my life apart happened just now. My husband, James, walked out on me, taking the two kids with him. He did come back after about four months, and for a while it seemed things were returning to the way they had been. In truth, a deep crack had already formed. James and I drifted farther apart with each passing day.
At first I wept because I wanted the old routine back: his caring texts, Hows your day? and Sleep well. Then my heart turned to vengeance. I imagined James suffering as badly as I had, even wishing a bus would run him over. Eventually I stopped caring about anythingabout myself, about James, where he was, who he might be with, when he would return. I even caught myself no longer caring about the children.
Then a heavy, gray blanket of pain settled over me, choking my thoughts. Despair after despair. I tried to push it away, to catch a breath, and it would subside for a while before crashing back with greater force. One illness after another followed. A cyst appeared under a tooth and had to be removed; the implant cost a hefty sum in pounds. My eyesight dropped sharply. While walking in the park on perfectly flat pavement I fell, breaking my arm in three places. In that moment I decided something had to change; I didnt want to drive myself into the dark early.
Nothing has cursed you, the witch said, handing me a box of candles and a tiny bottle of water. Dont even think about it. Its not the witch; its your husband. He only sees himself. Everything youre going through is of your own making. Hes stuck inside his own world, thinking only of himself. He wont go anywherehes a coward, and theres no place for him now.
What am I supposed to do? I asked.
Live. Live your own life, the way you want, for yourself.
I stood up, my head feeling like iron. Live is easy to say.
Take these, she said, light a candle and drink the water. Itll calm the nausea.
Thank you.
I stepped out onto the street, a lump tightening my throat. The same phrase echoed in my mind: its not the witch, its your husband. After twelve years of marriage, after everything wed been through.
That evening I opened my notebook. Live my own life. What do I want? What do I want? My pen stopped after the first question. I had always wanted the same things as the kids: a day at the seaside, an amusement park, a playroom, or at least a park near home. I also wanted what James wantedan apartment, a car, a visit to my mother in the neighbouring county, a balcony remodel, latenight movies, or a weekend camping trip.
What did *I* want, truly? What interested me beyond my husbands and the childrens interests? It struck me that I had dissolved into the family over the past few years; my own aims had vanished. After half an hour of staring at the blank page, I scribbled a few goals:
– Run in the mornings, find the time and energy to do it.
– Change jobs, become a manager and earn a decent salary, develop professionally.
– Lose seven pounds.
– Buy a nice coat.
– Own my own house.
– Build calm, healthy relationships with the children.
– Find a hobby that brings me joy.
I exhaled a long breath and closed the notebook. It wasnt simple to name my desires, but it was a start. I glanced over at James, slumped on the sofa, his eyes glued to his laptop.
Your husband, huh, my mind muttered.
I slammed the car door and headed back to the witch for another session. I needed advice on many fronts: how to set clear expectations at the new job so my team wouldnt be overloaded, how to finally treat my stubborn neck pain, whether to push my older son into a sport or let him just draw, and what to do about Jameswhether he was truly still part of our lives or already a ghost.
Why do you look so different? she asked, noticing something I hadnt yet.
Because nothings really changed, I replied. Id switched jobs, but that fact didnt feel like a lifechanging event yet.
So what brings you here today?
My back hurts, my neck hurts, work, my son, James.
She smiled. You came with your whole life. Your husbands grip on you is slowly loosening.
Soon it wont matter where James is, who hes with, whether he still texts an old flame. One day youll forget whether youre needed by him, or how to keep the family together. Youll have other priorities, other places to go, other people to turn to. But that isnt today.
The matches flickered again.
Let him draw.
And work?
Give concrete tasks, then youll get concrete answers. People dont read minds.
Your husband will keep trying to cling tighter. The more vibrant your own life becomes, the more hell circle like a shadow. A shadow only exists while theres light. The brighter the light, the clearer the shadow. Clear?
I nodded.
Thanks.
Not quite yet, she said, grab a tennis ball, place it between a wall and your spine, roll it while you squat. Itll help.
I laughed to myself. A tennis ball? The expensive manual therapist couldnt help, but a ball might. What else is there but to live my own life?
Days turned into weeks, monthswinter, spring, summer, and then golden autumn again.
At the start of the school year I enrolled Charlie in an art class. He began to paint, and I felt a sting of shame for never noticing his talent. His drawings soon appeared in local childrens exhibitions. He gave up the tablet and phone, spending every spare moment with brush and colour.
I set up a whiteboard in my office, writing tasks and deadlines each morning. Over time the discussions faded; the work kept moving forward, and that was what mattered.
Training sessions for staff started as a hobby, then grew into a professional role. The fees began to match my previous salary.
One afternoon a bouquet of red roses arrived, unsigned, no card. I guessed it was from James.
How do you like them?
After an hour of silence, I replied, Thank you.
Ive always loved chrysanthemums for their sharp, bitter scentright now its their season. James never remembered that; in his world every woman prefers roses.
The autumn sun blazed outside, turning the redandgold maple leaves into a whirl of colour along the lane by my office. I inhaled the fresh air through the open window, feeling the possibility of moving forward without doubt.
I finally accepted that I could do things on my own. Freedom settled over me like a warm blanket. And yes, the tennis ball worked.
