My husband. The man I shared eighteen years of my life with. Eighteen years, and yet, I never really knew him, never truly figured him out. In our youth, grievances melted away swiftly, like splashing well water on weary handsbefore you knew it, life felt bright again. But as time marched on, I spotted the greed, the laziness, the unhealthy devotion to ale. Still, none of that would have pushed me to end it. It was the lies that didthinly masked, cold, twisted lies.
Scene one. December thirty-first. My husband had to work that day. I was at home, resting. Our son and I waited for him until six. We laid the table, flicked on the telly… Seven, eight… Eleven… Midnight… The chimes rang in the New Year… Dawn arrived… My husband still hadnt come home. Starting from six, I called him thirty times.
The first call, he answered: Im on my way, darling. Then, nothingthe line went dead. After a glass of champagne and watching New Years greetings on television, I rang every friend we had, even hospitals and the mortuary, desperate for news. My mobile was burning hot. My son muttered, Normal people wouldnt do this, Mum, and slumped in front of his computer. New Years Eve was ruined.
On the evening of January second, he finally appeared. He claimed hed been held overnight by the police. A month later, the real story found me: hed spent New Year’s with strangers. One of those girls took him home, and together they celebratedfor almost two days.
Scene two. A quiet family evening. We lived in a small two-storey cottage outside Manchester. Downstairs was an airy kitchen and lounge. Upstairs, two bedrooms. We spent most evenings downstairs, eating and watching television. One night, quite late, I climbed the stairs to bed. He told me hed join me soon. I drifted off before he came up. I woke to the sound of our car pulling awayhim leaving, into the night. Where, at such an hour? I rang his numberit was off. The same song… Again, sleep wouldnt come… My heart gripped tight with dread. Why? What went on inside that mans mind? At seven, he slipped quietly back into the house…
Scene three. The second phone. My son told me, by chance, I saw Dad with a fancy mobile. He hides it in the garage. Just happened to spot it. I lookedit was true, the phone was expensive.
Weeks earlier, I’d asked for money for shoeshe refused, claiming we couldnt afford it. I sat on the cold concrete of the garage floor and wept. When the tears dried, clarity cameI would never live with him again. Never.
I wont detail how I threw him out, how he pleaded, how he haunted me with visits and calls, how we divorced, how people begged him to change. He is out of my life now. He lives in my sons world, but not mine. I cast him aside as one tosses a broken thing.
Now, it is just me and my son. I sleep peacefully; my heart is no longer squeezed tight. Do I ever wish to remarry? Absolutely not. Not in this lifetime.
