No one has ever wounded me more deeply than my former husband.
Its been three long months since our paths last crossed. The previous time, I dropped our daughter off at his flat for a weekend visit. Twelve weeks slipped by, and somehow, he was no longer the same man I remembered.
Years had passed with me gently urging him to lose weight, but he always shrugged me off, content with greasy takeaways and sugary fizzy drinks. He would sprawl across the settee during every spare minute, impossible to coax outside, let alone to the gym. But now, hes rolled out an exercise mata bright, almost magical green thingright in the middle of his cramped living room, like it sprouted there overnight. His hair is trimmed smartly, his clothes suddenly pressed and neat, though theres no one there to keep him tidy. Once, ages ago, I tried to show him how to use the washing machine, but he couldnt even be bothered to press a button. Now, out of nowhere, he seems to manage it all effortlessly.
So, we spoke.
He barely let me finish my thoughts. He said Id underestimated him all throughout the years of our marriage, and thats why he had been cold, but now hes not like that anymore. He told me, quite dreamlike, that my daughter and I were no longer part of his story. Hes found a new relationship, one that fills him with happiness. Hes working on his body, building his character, aiming for higher wageshe even named a sum in pounds that had no shape but glimmered in the air. That comment stung hardest of all: for me and for our daughter, he never lifted a finger, yet now he was transforming entirely for another woman.
People say, you get out what you put in, but my husband was never one for giving as much as he received. I loved him, respected him, only gently nudged him when something truly needed to change. But I got nothing from him in return, not really, not even a ghost of gratitude.
Even when our marriage was done, his own reflection mattered more to him than the little girl he hadn’t seen in months. I almost laughed at the thoughtif only he could have traded roles with me, even for a short while, put in the effort, and received in return what he always gave me: nothing at all. But dreams work in riddles, and who on earth can say how any of it is meant to play out…
