Maxim Broods Over His Regret for Rushing Into Divorce: Wise Men Turn Lovers Into Lifelong Celebratio…

I’m still haunted by the regret of how quickly I rushed into divorce. Clever men turn affairs into a festive escape, but Ifool that I ammade mine into a wife.

My spirits vanished the moment I parked the car and stepped into the flats entrance. All I found at home was predictability: slippers at the door for me to step into, the enticing aroma of supper in the air, clean surfaces, fresh flowers in a vase.

It moved me not at all: my wife was always homewhat else is there for an elderly English woman to do but bake pies and knit socks? Well, I exaggerated about the socks, of course, but the point stands.

Sarah greeted me with her usual smile.

Long day? she asked. Ive baked piescabbage and apples, just how you like She fell silent under my weary, heavy stare. There she stood, in her comfy trousers and top, hair tidied away under a scarfshe always dressed like that for cooking.

Old habits from her years as a chef. Her eyes modestly lined, a touch of gloss on her lips. Another habit, but now, suddenly, it seemed garish to me. Why dress up old age?

I probably shouldnt have been so blunt, but the words came out cold:

Make-up at your age is absurd. It just doesnt suit you.

Sarahs mouth trembled, but she said nothing and didnt bother laying the table for me. Just as well the pies waited under a towel, the tea brewed. I could manage myself.

After a shower and dinner, my good humour slowly returned, along with the memories of the day. Settled into my favourite dressing gown in my well-worn armchairreserved just for meI feigned reading the paper. What had the new woman at work said?

Youre quite an attractive man, and intriguing too.

I was 56, head of the legal department at a big London firm. Under me, a fresh law graduate and three women over forty. Another colleague was on maternity leaveher spot had just gone to a newcomer, Emily.

Id been away on business while HR sorted things, so today was my first time meeting her.

I invited her into my office for introductions; along with her came a faint whiff of elegant perfume and an air of youthful freshness. Her delicate oval face framed with pale curls, bold blue eyes meeting mine. Lively lips, a freckle on her cheek. Thirty, she claimed? Id barely have given her twenty-five.

Divorced, mother of an eight-year-old son. Somehowthat fact just felt right to me.

While talking to Emily, I flirted a little, mentioning that shed have to put up with an old boss now. She fluttered her long lashes and replied with a gracious comment that still lingered with me.

Sarah, having recovered from my earlier sting, appeared beside the chair with her nightly chamomile tea. I frownedalways at the wrong moment.

Still, I drank it with a kind of satisfaction. Suddenly, I wondered what Emily, young and lovely, might be doing just now. A prick of long-lost jealousy tugged at my heart.

*
Emily popped into Sainsburys after workcheddar, sliced bread, a bottle of kefir to drink later. She returned home expressionless, no smile in sight. More out of habit than tenderness, she hugged her son, Harry, as he came running.

Her father pottered about the balcony, where he’d set up his little workshop, while her mother busied herself with dinner. Unpacking the groceries, she immediately declared a headache and asked not to be bothered. Truthfully, she was just weary.

Since divorcing Harrys dad several years ago, Emily had struggled to become someones chosen main woman, but each man she met was already marriedafter fun, not commitment.

Her last one, a colleague, seemed head-over-heels for two intense years. He even rented her a flat (mostly for his own needs), but as soon as things got complicated, he dumped herinsisting she resign as well.

He even found her a new job himself. Now, Emily lived back with her parents and son. Mum sympathised with her; Dad insisted a child needed at least his mother and not just grandparents.

Sarah had sensed for a long while that I was in the midst of a midlife crisis. We had everything, yet something essential was missing. She dreaded the idea of what I might deem essential. Sarah tried her bestmade the food I loved, kept herself put together, avoided deep conversations even though she longed for them.

She kept busy with her grandson, with the garden, but I was restless, irritable.

Perhaps thats why, with both of us longing for change, my romance with Emily sparked so quickly. Within two weeks of her arrival at the firm, Id invited her to lunch and offered her a lift home.

Touching her hand, she turned to me, cheeks flushed.

I dont want to say goodbye. Come to my cottage? I whispered. Emily nodded, and we sped off.

By Friday, I usually finished work early. Still, it was nine before Sarah received a text: Well talk tomorrow.

I had no idea then how, unwittingly, Id summed up the whole unnecessary conversation ahead. Sarah knew you couldnt burn with passion after thirty-two years of marriage.

But I was so deeply familiar, such a part of herlosing me would be like losing herself. Even if I sulked and mumbled, acted up, I was still right there, in my favourite chair, sharing supper, breathing beside her.

Sarah searched for words to stop her world from collapsing (really, just her world), and slept not a wink that night.

Perhaps out of desperation, she dug out our wedding albumall youth, promise, and beauty staring back. Many men had dreamt of dating her. I ought to remember that. Perhaps if I saw those snapshots of our happiness, Id realise not everything is disposable.

But I didnt return until Sunday, and she understood: it was over. In front of her stood a changed man. It was as if adrenaline had filled me to the brimawkwardness and shame had vanished.

Unlike Sarah, averse to change, I craved it and embraced it, plans already made. My voice left no room for debate.

From now on, Sarah could consider herself free. Id file for divorce tomorrow. Id arrange for my sons family to move into Sarahs place. All perfectly legalthe two-bedroom flat my sons family lived in was mine by inheritance.

The move into Sarahs three-bedroom wouldnt worsen their living conditions, and shed have someone to care for. The car, naturally, stayed with me. As for the cottageI reserved the right to visit whenever I pleased.

Sarah knew she seemed pathetic, but tears overcame her. Words stumbled outpleas to pause, to remember, to think about health, at least her own. That last prompt made me furious. I came closer, hissed in a half-shout:

Dont drag me into your old age!

It would be naive to claim that Emily loved me, or that her quick acceptance of my proposal at the cottage was proof of that. Marriage itself attracted herrevenge on the lover whod cast her aside also warmed her.

She was tired of living where her father ruled with stern views. She longed for stability, and I could offer it. Not the golden ticket, perhaps, but better than most.

For a man nearing sixty, I didnt look a grandfatherstill sharp, fit, a respected boss. Intelligent, good company, and generous in bednot selfish. No more rented flats, no more penny-pinching or stolen moments. All positivesexcept perhaps the age disparity.

Within a year, Emilys disappointment began to grow. She still felt like a young woman, craving excitementregularly, not once a year and respectful in tone. She dreamt of concerts, days at water parks, sunbathing in bold swimsuits, evenings out with friends.

Her energy meant she could juggle all this with home and family, even with Harry now living with us.

Yet I was flagging. At work, I was quick-minded as ever, but Emily met only a tired man at homeseeking peace, clinging to routine. I could tolerate guests, theatre, even the beachbut only in moderation.

I wouldnt object to intimacy, but then it was straight to bed, even at nine.

She had to factor in the whims of my aging stomachno fried food, sausages, or supermarket ready meals. Sarah had spoilt me.

At times, I even missed her healthy steamed dishes. Emily cooked for Harry, unable to grasp how pork chops could upset me.

She wouldnt keep track of my daily pills, believing a grown man should handle his own medicine. Our lives were beginning to take divergent paths.

She took Harry on adventures, made plans with her friends. Oddly, my age seemed only to make her want to live faster.

We no longer worked togetherthe directors found it inappropriate, so Emily moved to a solicitors office. She even felt relief, no longer spending every day watched by a man who reminded her of her father.

Respectthat was what Emily felt for me. Was that enough, or too little, for a happy couple?

My sixtieth loomed. She wanted a grand celebration. But I booked a table at a modest restaurant Id frequented for yearsa comfortable place for a man my age. Emily didnt mind.

My colleagues toasted me. The married friends Sarah and I once dined with werent invitedawkward fit now, and my family, scattered and distant, never understood my choice to marry a younger woman.

Id all but lost my sonhed distanced himself. But surely a man should have the right to decide his own life? Truth is, I thought things would turn out differently.

The first year with Emily was like a honeymoon. I liked showing her off, encouraging her spending (she wasnt extravagant), her fitness clubs, her circle of friends.

Id survive loud concerts and wild films. Eventually, I gave Emily and Harry joint ownership of my flat, and, after some months, signed over the rest of the cottage Id shared with Sarah.

Behind my back, Emily pressed Sarah for her share, threatening to sell hers off to strangers. Sarah, reluctantly, soldEmily paid with my money and registered it in her name. The riverside, woodlandgood for Harry, shed claimed.

The place bustled all summer with Emilys parents and Harry, and it did serve them wellI never felt much affection for her boisterous son. I married for love, not to raise another mans noisy child.

My old family was stung. With their proceeds, they sold their three-bed and went their separate ways. My son found a two-bed, Sarah moved into a studio. I never asked how they lived.

And so my birthday arrivedsixty. Wishes poured in about health, happiness, love. Yet inside, there was no spark. With each year, the same old dissatisfaction took precedence.

I did love my young wife, no question. I just couldnt keep pace with her. And I never could subdue or direct her as Id imagined. Shed smile and live as she pleasedno excess, nothing wrong, but it grated.

If only I could have transplanted Sarahs soul into Emily! Someone whod come to my chair with camomile tea, tuck me in if I dozed. Id happily stroll slowly through Hyde Park with her, or whisper late into the night at the kitchen tablebut Emily could never endure my long, meandering musings. She even seemed bored in bed now, leaving me edgy and restless.

Regret bloomed in mewhy was I so quick to divorce? Smart men make their lovers into special occasions, not spouses!

Emily, with her energy, will stay mischievous for at least another decadebut shell always be noticeably younger, even after forty. A chasm that will only deepen. If Im lucky, Ill slip out of life in an instant. If not?

These unbirthday thoughts drummed painfully at my temples, quickened my pulse. I looked for Emilyshe was among the dancers. Gorgeous, with sparkling eyes. Of course, its sweet to wake up and see her next to me.

Seizing my chance, I slipped out of the restaurant. I needed air; perhaps some escape from melancholy. But soon colleagues followed, and, not sure how to handle the swelling discomfort inside, I hurried to a waiting cab, asked the driver to move quickly. Id decide where to go later.

I longed for a place where only I mattered. Where, just by entering, Id be awaited. Where my time, my company, was valued, and I could relax without fear of appearing weakor, God forbid, old.

I rang my son, almost pleading for Sarahs new address. I listened as he gave me a well-earned telling off, but insisted it was a matter of life and death.

I mentioned, almost in passing, that today was my birthday. My son softened a touch, warning me Mum might have companynot a man, just a friend.

Mum says she knew him from school, he added. Names odd Bulkley, I think.

Bulkeley, I corrected, suddenly jealous. Hed fancied Sarah too, back then. She was a catchconfident, beautiful.

Shed been set to marry Bulkeley, but Id won her. Funny, after all these years, it felt no less real than my new life with Emily.

My son asked, Why this, Dad?

I quivered at the forgotten nameDadand realised how terribly I missed them all. I answered honestly:

I dont know, son.

He gave me the address. I asked the driver to stop, stepped outnot wanting to speak with Sarah in front of anyone else. Glancing at my watchalmost nine. She was a night owl, yet once, for me, shed been an early bird.

I buzzed her flat.

But a mans muffled voice answered, not my ex-wife. Said Sarah was busy.

Whats happened? Is she well? I pressed. The voice demanded to know who I was.

Im her husband, actually! Or you must be Mr Bulkeley? I shouted.

He coolly retorted I was her former husband, so had no right to bother herand refused to explain further, merely saying Sarah was taking a bath.

What, old flames never die? I asked, bracing for a spat.

No, he replied, They turn to silver.

The door never opened for me.