When our second child was born, Laura stopped caring about herself entirely. Back in the day, she’d change outfits half a dozen times before lunch, but after coming home from the maternity ward in Boston, it was as if she’d erased the memory of anything beyond a stretched-out sweatshirt and baggy joggers with sagging knees.
In this “glorious” getup, my wife didn’t just linger around the house—she practically lived in it, day and night, often collapsing into bed still dressed like that, as if it were her new skin. When I dared to ask why, she’d shrug and mutter that it was easier for the midnight treks to soothe the kids. Sure, there was some grim logic to it, but all those lofty ideals she used to preach—how “a woman must always be a woman, no matter the chaos”—vanished into thin air. Laura forgot a lot of things: her cherished nail salon in downtown Salem, the gym she once swore by, and—forgive the intimate detail—she even stopped bothering with a bra in the mornings, wandering around with her drooping chest like it was no big deal.
Naturally, her figure went to ruin. Everything crumpled—her waist, her stomach, her legs, even her neck. Her hair? A nightmare to behold: either a wild, tangled mess like she’d been caught in a storm, or a hastily twisted bun with strands jutting out like thorns. The worst part was that before the baby, Laura was a vision—a solid ten! Walking down the streets of Cambridge with her, I’d catch every guy stealing glances, their eyes lingering. It puffed me up with pride—look at this goddess by my side, all mine! And now… that goddess was gone, replaced by a shadow of her former self.
Our home mirrored her descent—a wretched mess of neglect. The one thing she still managed was cooking. Hand on heart, I’ll admit Laura was a wizard in the kitchen; complaining about the food would’ve been a sin. But everything else? Pure despair.
I tried to shake her out of it, pleading that she couldn’t let herself waste away like this, but she’d just flash a guilty half-smile and promise to turn things around. Time dragged on, and I grew sick of staring at this hollow shell of a woman every day. One fateful evening, I dropped the bombshell—I wanted a divorce. Laura made a feeble attempt to sway me, trotting out the same tired vows to change, but she didn’t scream or beg. When she saw my resolve was ironclad, she let out a defeated sigh:
– “Your call… I thought you loved me…”
I refused to get sucked into a pointless “love or no love” debate. I filed the papers, and soon enough, we were handed our divorce certificates at the local registry in Worcester.
I’m probably not winning any Father of the Year awards—beyond alimony, I didn’t lift a finger for my ex-family. The thought of facing her again, the woman who’d once dazzled me with her beauty, felt like a punch to the gut.
Two years passed. Strolling through the bustling streets of Portland one afternoon, I spotted a woman in the distance—her walk was so familiar, fluid, almost hypnotic. She was heading straight toward me. As she closed in, my heart stopped—it was Laura! But this Laura was a revelation, more breathtaking than even our starry-eyed early days—an embodiment of grace. High heels clicked against the pavement, her hair swept into an elegant updo, every detail perfect: the dress, the makeup, the manicure, the jewelry… And that scent—her signature perfume—hit me like a tidal wave, drowning me in nostalgia.
My face must’ve been a billboard of shock and regret because she let out a sharp, mocking laugh:
– “What, don’t recognize me? I told you I’d get it together—you just didn’t believe me!”
Laura graciously allowed me to walk her to the gym, tossing out casual updates about the kids—growing strong and happy, she said. She didn’t say much about herself, but she didn’t need to—her radiant confidence, her newfound poise, that unshakable chic aura screamed her transformation louder than words ever could.
Memories flooded back: the days when she’d shuffle around, broken by sleepless nights and endless diapers, cloaked in that cursed sweatshirt and those joggers, her sloppy bun a crown of defeat. How it infuriated me—the missing polish, the absent spark! This was the same woman I’d abandoned, and with her, I’d forsaken our children too, consumed by my own selfishness and fleeting frustration.
As we parted ways, I stammered out a request—could I call her? I admitted I’d seen the light and begged for a fresh start. But she just smirked, shook her head with icy finality, and said:
– “Too late, buddy. Goodbye!”
