The Pause That Became the End
“I’m tired. Tired of you, of family, of domesticity. I need space. Time to figure myself out,” he said, cold as a judge’s gavel, his eyes avoiding mine. “You bore me. It’s been so long since I was alone. I’m taking a break.”
The words lashed like sleet against skin. We’d been married ten years, both thirty-five. Our son was barely three. Six agonising years we’d fought for a child—tests, treatments, hope, heartbreak. Then, two lines on a stick, and he’d wept on his knees. The day I came home from hospital, the house drowned in roses. Now—a pause.
He packed in silence, hurried, grabbing only winter clothes. Occasionally, he’d duck into the kitchen to down a shot of whisky as if Dutch courage could steady him. Our son babbled, reached for him, but he turned away, deaf, blind. Thirty minutes later, the door slammed. He was gone. I stayed—with the child, the quiet, the hollow air.
We lived in my grandmother’s flat, at least spared the worry of rent. But money tightened. I’d quit my job at his insistence when our boy was eighteen months.
“We waited so long for this,” Edward had said. “He’s not for nurseries. Stay home, raise him. I’ll provide.”
And he had. Generously, without complaint. I thought I’d found the perfect formula—cosy, cared for, a shared future. All the while, he’d counted days until the “pause.”
“He’s found someone else, mark my words,” my friend Lucy insisted. “Tired, my foot. Men always say that. File for child support, even if you’re not divorced. How’ll you live while he ‘finds himself’?”
So I did. Filed for support, scrambled for work. Luck struck—my old position had just opened. But with no nursery spots (I’d never queued), childcare vanished.
My mum, weary on her £800 pension, sighed, “Bring him. It’ll wear me out, but we’ll manage. Just bring his food.”
I borrowed from Lucy—for groceries, bus fare. Edward? Not a call. No asking what our son ate, how bills were paid. He wasn’t gone. He’d erased himself.
Then I saw him. Sat in a café near my office, a striking brunette of twenty-five across the table. Laughing, her hand in his, utterly at ease. I snapped a photo—for proof, not scenes—and walked on. No theatrics.
Life began to mend. The flat grew calmer. Tidy. No clutter in corners. No more beetroot soup he loved and I loathed. No shouts over unwashed mugs, no blaring football matches. And then it hit me—I breathed easier without him.
I remembered myself. Turned out, I adored ice hockey, not football. Hated the perfume he gifted yearly. Long hair drowned me; a pixie cut was pure joy. Jeans and trainers fit—not floral frocks I’d worn for him.
Piece by piece, I returned. Three months in, a promotion, a raise. I revamped my wardrobe, repainted the walls in childhood hues, and filed for divorce.
Eight months since he’d left. Not one text, not one call. Then, two days before court, he reappeared. Flowers, fancy fruit in hand.
“I’ve thought it over,” he said. “I’ll come back. Only… these walls are ghastly. And that haircut—it’s all wrong.”
“Funny, I’ve thought too,” I replied. “Decided I don’t need you. The colour’s my favourite. So’s the cut. By the way—what’s your ‘thinking companion’ called?”
I showed the photo. He paled.
“I’m divorcing you,” I said, calm as stone. “We’re done. Real love doesn’t take breaks.”
I shut the door. For good. No regrets. Because at last, I was myself again—and I rather liked her.
