I cant do this anymore. Goodbye, Nicholas, I wrote in that note without a single exclamation mark, perfectly calm. Nicholas would never read it. After a moments thought, I burned it.
Years ago, Nick and I fell into a whirlwind romancescorching, relentless, and utterly reckless. We were careening toward disaster without a second thought.
Nicholas had a wife and three young children. I had two sons and a husband. Everyone we knew thought wed lost the plot. Are you mad? theyd say. Snap out of it! Your families are suffering! But Nick and I noticed nothing and no one. On Earth, it was just us. No obstacles, no interruptions.
When I came to my senses after our passionate escapades, Id catch myself thinking: Id never want children with Nicholas. Never.
Nicks take on his kids?
Im not exactly father of the year. The wife always wanted more. What do I care?
Frankly, that attitude raised an eyebrow. But I wasnt planning to marry him! Let them breed, I thought. Their business, not mine.
Three years later, Nicholas and I got married. Life was cosy and quiet with him. My boys, of course, stayed with me.
Then his children grew up, and the never-ending circus began. Calls in the dead of night, surprise visits to his office, urgent pleas for him to rush overalways over one thing: money. Or, more accurately, the lack of it. All three needed handouts. Nick helped where he could, drowning in guilt, never daring to refuse. I understood. So did his kids. They milked their guilty dad for all he was worth, every whim indulged. I pitied them, toothough I knew full well I was public enemy number one in their eyes.
Years rattled by. Grandchildren arrivedfive so far, but whos counting? The eldest daughter fled her tyrant husband in slippers, desperate for support with her three little ones. The youngest lived on benefits, perpetually skint but allergic to budgeting, breezing through life without a care. The middle son? A hopeless drunk, perpetually soused, paying child support to his exor rather, Nicholas was paying it for him, straight from our household budget. That granddaughter, thoughspitting image of her granddad. Nick dotes on her more than the others, smitten with the fatherless girl.
Quite the bouquet, isnt it?
Nicholas himself was up to his ears in debt, though his children hadnt a clue. Only me and my sons knew, nudging me to leave the side-hustle sponsor. Once, I dared ask Nick for perfume. He blinked, baffled:
Sweetheart, you know my nose is useless. I wouldnt even smell it. Why waste the money? But fine, Ill get it soon.
Right. By the next decade, I muttered.
Truthfully, Id stopped asking. The excuses were predictable: VIP maternity suite for little Marigold (why not NHS?); a designer winter coat for the granddaughter (wouldnt a puffer jacket do?); new shoes for the thirty-year-old son (his old ones had *holes*).
Our rows? Always about Nicks grown-up kids. Every time, Id end it with: If we ever divorce, Nicholas, thank *them*! And yet, hed swear he couldnt live without me.
But *me*? Im exhausted. I want to live *my* life, not fund his childrens. Their names echo through our home like church bells on Sunday.
Theres a line from a film I keep thinking about: Well, Ive got family too, thank God! Ive got my own children and grandchildren who need love and attention. Lord, why couldnt I have stopped this twenty years ago?
The devils a cunning scriptwriter, tailoring each of our tragedies. I wouldnt wish his sticky fingers on anyone. My fault, really. Sow wild oats, reap a field of weeds. The fiery nights fizzled out. What felt like bottomless love? Turns out, Ive hit the bottom. Living with stolen misery.
My son moved awayfamily, job, the lot. Hes been begging me to join him.
So Im leaving. For good. Wrote Nicholas a farewell note. Burned it. Hell understand. Or he wont. A note wont change that.
P.S. Saw the kids, the grandkids. Even stayed with my other son in Frankfurtmarried to a German woman from Düsseldorf. Painfully precise, that one. Their *Kinder*? None speak a word of Russian. What he sees in her, Ill never know. But loves funny like thatnever logical.
Alls quiet and loving in their worlds. And for me? A balm for the soul.
A month later, I was back with Nicholas. Pretty sure he never realised Id left for good. But he *did* buy me that expensive French perfume.
