As we walked into the living room, cake ablaze, my daughters and I began singing Happy Birthday in chorus, while I carefully tiptoed toward the delighted birthday boy in question.
My daughters, ages 14, 12 and 10, run up to their father and give him a group hug. I look into his eyes and we smile at each other as he leans forward and blows out the number 50 candle.
An hour later, after opening presents, I say goodbye. No one notices me leaving, not even my weak “goodbye.” You see, this isn’t my house. The girls are staying with their father tonight to continue the celebrations. It’s their house, not mine.
Not for the first time, while driving home that night, I end up stopping and breaking down in tears as I beat myself up, over and over, for ending my marriage five years ago, when I was 44.
Lawrence was not unfaithful, he did not treat me cruelly, he is a fantastic father and he did not have any strange preferences either (photo posed by models)
I bitterly regret having acted in such haste, not only because I now see that it was stupid and impulsive, but because I still love my ex-husband.
Lawrence didn’t cheat on me, he didn’t treat me cruelly, he’s a fantastic father, and he didn’t have any weird preferences either.
My impulse to hit the self-destruct button on my 15-year marriage was much more mundane than that. I was dissatisfied, insecure, and exhausted by what I perceived to be the worst part of my life and I lost my temper with him once again.
Honestly, it’s not like I haven’t built a life for myself since we split up; I’ve been dating my partner, Tom, for two years now. He idolizes me, but even though I love him, every time I compare the two, I fear that Tom pales in comparison to my ex. If Lawrence asked me to try again, I’d dump Tom in a heartbeat.
But five years ago, with three daughters under ten and chronically ill parents, life was relentless. There were times in my early 40s when I wondered what on earth I had done to deserve this life.
As a stay-at-home mom, my life was a constant cycle of taking the kids to school, doing chores, seeing my parents, taking the kids to school, going to clubs, cooking, showering, and sleeping, over and over again. Occasionally, I was able to go to the gym, and more rarely, grab a coffee with my friends.
Meanwhile, Lawrence went to work and then saw his friends if it suited him, he only helped with chores and games on the weekends, and the only thing that really offended me was that he had created a man cave at home, just for himself.
That 10-by-13-foot space, filled with his books, computer games, and children’s toys, came to represent everything I resented about the “injustice” in our relationship. Why did he have a sanctuary from the responsibilities of parenting and running our home when I was the one shouldering most of the burden?
Over the years, what began as a private joke between my friends turned into a simmering, ongoing resentment, fueled further by their own stories of husbands who didn’t pull their weight. Yet I never talked about it with him, something I now bitterly regret.
Should I have also sought professional psychological support during this difficult period?
All I remember is that I felt constantly tired, stressed, guilty and resentful. I was abrupt with girls and even more abrupt with Lawrence.
One cold Sunday morning in January, when she left her mug near the dishwasher instead of putting it in the machine, I was furious.
It all came out: what a selfish father he was, how he spent hours locked away in his man cave; how he never lifted a finger in the kitchen; how disappointing he was in bed. Not really. If anything, I was the one who wasn’t up to par, who always found excuses not to be intimate, and when we were, I wished it would be over so I could get some sleep.
I saw him wince, but as I blushed, I continued to scream that we weren’t even husband and wife, we were just partners raising our children. Then I uttered the words I really wish I hadn’t said: “We should end this. I want someone better than you!”
All I remember is that I felt constantly tired, stressed, guilty and resentful. I was abrupt with the girls and even more abrupt with Lawrence (photo of the model)
When I finished my terrible rant, I collapsed on the floor, where I immediately burst into tears. I assumed that, like the other times I had a monumental meltdown, Lawrence would kneel down and give me a comforting hug. Not so this time. He left the room.
That night he went to stay at his mom’s house and after calling him all night with no answer, the next day I got an email telling me that I was right, that we should end it.
Apparently life was too short to be walking on eggshells around me. He could never predict when I would explode, burning everything around me and expecting everything to be forgiven in the blink of an eye.
Although Lawrence considered me a great mother, his assessment of me as a wife was pretty low and he had had enough. That was a low blow.
The world stopped spinning. I couldn’t believe things had come to this. When I said those horrible words in the heat of the moment, I never meant that we should actually break up.
We had started out with high hopes. Lawrence and I met when we were working at the same bank and we were very close from the start.
After a year of dating, I got pregnant and he proposed. When our first daughter was born, I took an extended maternity leave and never went back. I love being a mother and have always operated from the position that mom knows best, and I became a bit of a perfectionist and a tyrant.
Lawrence tried to help, but if things weren’t done my way, then it wasn’t the right way. Today I admit that I sound like a total witch, but when you’re not sleeping and you’re always catching up on chores, I just didn’t have the time or patience to notice.
I didn’t appreciate what we had. Lawrence was a programmer (hence the man cave!) and earned a decent five-figure salary.
Living in the Midlands meant we could afford a family summer holiday every year, have movie nights at home and the occasional date night. I never doubted that he loved me.
I thought the email saying “it’s over” was a knee-jerk reaction, so I left it to cool off for a few days. I told the girls that Dad needed to spend some time with their mom because she wasn’t feeling well. But after a week, it was pretty clear he wasn’t coming back.
Nine months later, I was officially divorced. During negotiations, prompted by friends who were going through similar relationship problems, I reluctantly accepted that it was the right decision after all.
My lawyer even helped me get back on track with divorce whenever I had any doubts.
I got everything I asked for: custody of the children, the house, and support. Lawrence found a smaller property with enough room for the girls.
But plagued by doubt, I tried to cancel on more than one occasion. Once, in a rare face-to-face encounter during child drop-off, I begged for another chance to see a relationship therapist together.
It was no use; every time I asked Lawrence if we should reconsider, he denied everything.
In a last desperate attempt, just before the divorce was finalized, after securing a nanny, I showed up unannounced and begged to talk to him. He coldly asked me to leave.
Even a month after the divorce was finalized, I was undaunted and tried again. This time, he let me in. Since we were already “officially” divorced, I begged him that we could at least be friends. I saw the Lawrence I fell in love with that night: funny, charming, and as one glass of wine led to another, we ended up in bed together.
Before I left, while he was still sleeping, I wrote a heartfelt note telling him how much I loved him and that I hoped this would be the beginning of a new us. The next day I received a short text message informing me that it had been a mistake.
The two years following the divorce were a whirlwind of dropping off the kids every other weekend and on Wednesday nights. I hated doing the “walk of shame” when I dropped the girls off with him, convinced that the neighbors were watching me, judging me as the woman who had the perfect family and had thrown it away.
In my social circle, opinions were divided into two camps: my family thought I had lost my mind, but my friends told me I had done the right thing. I now understand that their advice was influenced by their own marital problems and I wish I had not been so influenced by their (bitter) opinions.
On days when the girls weren’t with me, I dove into online dating. There were more failures than successes. This only made me realize even more how foolish I had been to lose control of Lawrence; I compared every new man I met to him and they always ended up coming up short.
My eldest son, who is now 14, is very aware of how deeply I regret what has happened.
Although she was initially very keen on us getting back together, everyone has now adapted quite a bit to our circumstances.
She tells me about the strange date Lawrence has. Listening to her describe each woman is like a stab in the heart, but I can’t help but ask her which of the neighbors are interested in Dad and which woman he has seen on more than one occasion.
One Christmas, after receiving a rather thoughtful gift from his father, I asked him if he thought we could ever get back together and his answer was a resounding “no.”
She even went on to explain what she thinks about everything from my new yoga-perfected figure to the change in my life path (I’ve retrained as a life coach).
Apparently he prefers my curves and laughed out loud at my new career direction.
I met Tom on a dating app two years ago, after a few on-and-off relationships with other guys. By then, I had reluctantly acknowledged that the chances of Lawrence and I ever meeting again were slim to none and that I needed to move on, at least as far as others were concerned.
But while Tom ticks all the boxes (he makes me laugh, is a good cook, perfectly adequate in bed and is great with my kids), he’s just not Lawrence.
So here I am, in my late 40s, a divorcee who can’t help but look back. I still make a big deal out of birthdays, Father’s Day and Christmas, because it’s on those precious days when we all get together that I can fool myself into thinking we’re a family again.
And I know I will love Lawrence until the day I die.
Names have been changed.
As told to Samantha Brick
(tags to translate)dailymail