**Monday, 12th June**
I never thought I’d write this, but here I am—aching with regret. It’s funny how life twists on you. Just a year ago, I was sure leaving her was the right choice. Now, all I feel is this hollow space where my old life used to be.
My ex-wife, Emily, was fire and fury. I won’t pretend I was perfect—far from it—but her constant nitpicking wore me down. Nothing I did was ever enough. Too tired after work? Lazy. Taking our son Oliver to football practice or the arcade? Spoiling him, while she played the disciplinarian. It was suffocating. One evening, after another pointless row, I packed a bag and left. Rented a flat nearby so Oliver could still see me whenever he wanted. Three months later, she filed for divorce. And honestly? At first, the silence was bliss—no shouting, no simmering resentment. Just peace.
Six months passed. Then, casually, Oliver mentioned a “bloke” visiting his mum. I brushed it off, but something nagged at me. Maybe it was time to move on. I dated—nothing serious—until I met Charlotte. Pretty, easygoing, no baggage. No shouting matches, no drama. We married quietly—no fuss, no lace doilies—and for a while, I convinced myself this was better. Simpler. Sometimes, shamefully, I even wanted Emily to see how happy I was without her.
Then Oliver took a football to the face during training. Emily called, and I rushed to A&E. Seeing her there—hair pulled back, that same sharp look in her eyes—stirred something. She was calm, focused, not a trace of the old bitterness. Later, in the car, her perfume lingered, and suddenly, my chest felt too tight.
Oliver needed surgery—deviated septum. That meant more calls with Emily, more meetings. Once, out of habit, I walked into their house, kicked off my shoes, put the kettle on. It wasn’t until I couldn’t find my old mug that it hit me: this wasn’t home anymore.
Charlotte was everything Emily wasn’t. Tidy, measured, brilliant at Sunday roasts. We never rowed. But her coolness was a chasm. My jokes landed flat; my favourite films bored her. Our flat felt like one of those show homes—spotless, soulless.
And then—another visit to Oliver, another man answering the door. Older, greying, polite. I nodded, but inside? Roaring. That stranger in my house, sleeping in my bed. I lost it. Screamed at Emily—how dare she bring him around our son?
*”What, should I drag Oliver to his place instead?”* she snapped. *”Or send him to you so he can sleep between you and Charlotte? Buy him a proper bed first, then lecture me!”*
We shouted like the old days—Oliver fled upstairs—and then, God help me, I grabbed her. Pulled her close, lips against her neck. She shoved me off, furious. *”Go home to your wife.”*
I did. And there was Charlotte—perfect, untouchable, and utterly foreign. She’s done nothing wrong. But I can’t shake the truth: I miss Emily. The chaos, the way she’d steal my shirts in the morning, the way we’d bicker over rubbish telly. I left thinking I needed calm. Now all I want is the storm.
But how do I go back? There’s a wife who doesn’t deserve this, and an ex who might never forgive me. And Oliver—caught in the middle. I’m lost, but my heart knows where home is. It just might be too late to return.
