**A Letter to My Now Former Wife**
Today, at half past one in the afternoon, it all ended. Twenty years of marriage dissolved in the cold silence of the courtroom. I stood there, papers in hand, struggling to make sense of how we got here. And the worst part? I still can’t quite believe it’s real.
When we decided months ago to go our separate ways, it felt like the ground had vanished beneath my feet. We didn’t shout, didn’t fight, didn’t smash plates. We just knew—we couldn’t keep going as we were. Not like before. Not together. And yet, I was terrified. Terrified of losing you.
You were never just my wife. You were my anchor. My light. The one I always came back to, no matter how far I wandered. Only God knows how much you put up with over the years, and in all that time, I never told you what truly mattered.
You deserve a medal. For patience. For kindness. For loving a man who wasn’t always easy to love—too emotional, too restless, forever chasing some new idea or adventure. I was always running after something, forgetting that you stood there at the door, waiting, exhausted and silent. Then came another late night, another round of me wired with energy, you folding shirts without a word. I dragged more than a few storms into our home. But you—you stayed. Picked up the pieces, doused the fires, held the kids and told them it’d be alright. Even when you’d stopped believing it yourself.
They say half of marriages end in divorce. The other half, in death. We chose the first path. But sometimes, that’s the braver thing—letting go so both can remain whole. And I’m glad we walked away not with hate, but with respect. With understanding.
You’re an incredible mother. I don’t know how else to say it. Our children—they’re your doing. Kind, honest, brave. Because they have you. You taught them to love, to be true to themselves. And in that, you’ve always been stronger than me.
Now you’re free. It sounds harsh, but I mean it—I’m glad you’re free. Free of me. Free of my *later*, my *not now*, my *just wait a bit longer*. No more carrying someone else’s weight. No more waiting for me to grow up. I hope, truly, that you find the life you deserve. A quiet one. A warm one. A happy one.
If someone had told me twenty years ago that this was how it’d end, I’d have married you anyway. Even knowing. Even if we’d never had the kids. Because you were the best choice I ever made.
I tried to hate you. Honestly. I picked at flaws, simmered in anger. But it didn’t work. Because you’re good. You’re real. The kind of person who stays with you long after they’ve gone. You’re still beautiful when you laugh. And even if it’s not for me anymore—that still matters.
I’m glad we stayed friends. That we can talk about the kids’ grades or the latest telly dramas. That you’ll ring to ask how to update your phone, and I’ll tell you about my day. I’m glad we’re not enemies. And I’ll always be here if you need me. Because you’re part of me. Always will be.
It might sound odd, but I need you to know—I’m on your side. Wholly. Even if you love again. Even if you remarry. I won’t resent it. I’ll just tell him to be gentle. Because you’re something rare. I may not have protected that, but I know its worth now.
It was an honour—twenty years as your husband. An honour to be father to our children. And your friend, for all the years left. You were the best thing in my life.
Take care of yourself.
Your ex-husband.
