April 12
I came home for supper, the meal that my wife, Margaret, had been preparing all afternoon. I knew we had a difficult conversation ahead, so I started with, Theres something I need to tell you. She didnt answer; she just turned back to the stove, and I caught the familiar ache in her eyes.
I had to keep the dialogue going, so I blurted out that I wanted a divorce. She asked, Why? I couldnt meet the question, and I sidestepped it. That sent her into a fit of anger. She started hurling anything she could find at me, shouting, Youre no man! There was nothing more to say.
I trudged to bed, but sleep eluded me; I could hear her sobbing in the next room. It was hard to explain to her why the marriage had fallen apart. I didnt know how to tell her that my heart no longer belonged to her, that only pity remained, and that I had given it to Jane.
The next morning I drafted all the paperwork for the divorce and the division of assets. I offered Margaret the house, the car, and thirty per cent of my companys shares. She smiled, tore the documents up, and declared she wanted nothing from me, then broke down in tears again. Ten years together did stir a pang of regret, but her reaction only cemented my resolve.
That evening I arrived late, skipped dinner and went straight to bed. Margaret was at the kitchen table, scribbling something. In the middle of the night I woke to find her still writing, seated at her desk. I felt no connection left between us.
In the morning she laid out her conditions for the split. She wanted us to keep a decent relationship for as long as we could, arguing that our son, Tom, had his GCSEs coming up and would be rattled by any further turmoil. That seemed reasonable. Her second demand was oddly nostalgic: for a month she wanted me each morning to carry her out of the bedroom in my arms and set her down at the front door, as a reminder of the day I first brought her into my home after the wedding.
I didnt argue; I was indifferent. At work I mentioned the request to Jane, who laughed cynically, calling it a pitiful ploy by my wife to rope me back into the family.
When I first lifted Margaret that morning, I felt awkward. We were strangers now. Tom saw us, bounced over with glee and shouted, Dads carrying Mum! Margaret whispered, Dont say anything to him I set her down by the front door, and she shuffled off to the bus stop.
The second day felt less forced. I noticed, for the first time, the fine lines around her eyes and a few silver strands in her hair. All the warmth shed poured into the marriage seemed repaid with nothing but my own neglect.
Soon a small spark ignited between us, growing a little each day. I began to find that carrying her grew easier, though I never mentioned it to Jane.
On the final day, I went to fetch her from the wardrobe and found her weeping, upset over the weight she had lost. She had truly become very thin. Tom peeked in and asked when Papa would carry Mum again, treating it like a family tradition. I hoisted her, feeling exactly as I had on our wedding day. She rested a gentle hand on my neck, and the only thing that nagged at me was her frailty.
I set her down, grabbed the car keys and drove to the office. I ran into Jane and told her I didnt want the divorce after all; I blamed the cooling of our feelings on a lack of attention. She slapped me and fled, tears streaming.
All the while I realised I wanted to see Margaret more than anything. I burst out of the office, bought the loveliest bouquet at the florist, and when the clerk asked what to write on the card, I answered, It would be my joy to carry you in my arms till the end of my days.
I rushed home, heart light, smile on my lips, and raced up the stairs to the bedroom. Margaret lay in the bedstill.
Later I learned she had been fighting cancer bravely for months. She never told me, and I never saw it, caught up as I was in my mess with Jane. Margaret had been a remarkably wise woman; she concoced those absurd divorce conditions so that I wouldnt become a monster in Toms eyes after the split.
I hope my tale reminds anyone that perseverance and a little compassion can keep a family together, even when the road looks hopeless. The lesson I carry forward is that love needs constant effort; without it, even the strongest bonds can crumble.
