It must be twenty years ago now, but I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Two years had passed since the last time Id seen her, and suddenly there she was again, walking along Piccadilly, her poise catching the attention of more than just myself. My heart seemed to stop. It was my former wife, Catherine, who had always made men pause in admiration.
After our wedding in London, it was as if Catherine became a different person altogether. She no longer resembled the vivacious woman I had courted. Instead, she became one of those wives who let her hair become greasy, living in oversized jumpers and old leggings. I never saw her in a dress that showed her silhouette anymore, nor in the fine lingerie she once wore.
After we wed, Catherine took to wearing what looked like sacksbig, old shirts she must have inherited from someone else, as they hung on her. Shed forgotten to care for herself. She didnt bother with a manicure, never wore a lick of makeup, and any thoughts of exercise vanished entirely. The slight paunch left after the twins arrived stayed put, and cellulite made itself at home.
In the two years we muddled through together, she became a ghost of her former self. She got plumper, her clothes even more unflattering. If, God forbid, I mentioned perhaps she should look in the mirror, shed take offence and wouldnt speak to me for days.
At some point, I realised I was in love with the Catherine I knew before marriage. The old Catherine who was passionate, witty, and stunningmy friends envied me for finding her, always questioning how Id managed it. Now, when I looked at her, I felt only sadness. She no longer inspired me, as a woman or otherwise.
The last memory I have of her at home was vivid: she wore a baggy, stained grey t-shirt, oversized shorts that revealed the dimples on her legs, and her hair was messily pinned up, coming loose in untidy directions. She hadnt shaved her legs, and a constant shadow of exhaustion hung beneath her eyes. Her face held a permanent look of melancholy.
That very evening, I told Catherine I could no longer be with her, that all I felt was sorrow and pity, not love anymore.
Two years on from that heartless confession, I encountered her again. Walking down the street, she looked radiant; her golden hair loose and curly, her figure hugged by a tastefully simple dress. She had slimmed down, transformed herself from what I had cruelly seen as an ugly duckling back into a queena queen, no less, who was the mother to our two children.
Only then did I grasp that Catherine had never really had time to look after herself while raising our twins. She had poured every ounce of energy into making our house a home and nurturing our children. I had lost interest in her, completely unaware of the sheer dedication she gave daily. I never understood why she seemed to neglect herself.
On rare occasions when I watched the twins by myself, they wore me out within two hours. Meanwhile, she spent from sunrise to sunset juggling them, managing the household, preparing the meals, and somehow waiting to welcome me home. Naturally, with so much on her plate, there was little room for manicures or gym sessions. I should have realised that her body needed time to recover after childbirth, and it was wrong of me to expect her to bounce back instantly.
Truth be told, we went nowhere fancythere was never an occasion for Catherine to wear her lovely jewellery or dresses. Wearing finery at home would have felt absurd. Im ashamed to say I never once suggested we go out, giving her an opportunity to shine.
Only after two years, standing there on that London street, could I look at our marriage with clarity. Only then did I see how she bore the weight of our family on her back, never once complaining, always greeting me with warmth when I came home. She created a place worth returning to, and I realised my mistake, far too late. All she ever needed was a bit of help from me, just enough to allow her to take care of herself too.
I was a fool to let such a treasure slip away while I remained oblivious.
So sure was I of my own righteousness that I ignored her struggles, ignored the lives of my own children, and in doing so, I ruined everything that once could have been.
Now, I see her and I want her backI crave a second chancebut doubt she could ever forgive the hurt I caused. At the very least, I hope to speak with her, to try and mend things as best I can, especially for our children. Already, Ive missed two years of their growing up.
Catherine has many admirers now, yet she keeps everyone at a distance, likely because my betrayal wounded her so deeply. Now, shame and regret weigh heavily on me, and I wonder what to do with these burdens, now that I finally understand the gravity of what I have done.
