And here we have the aftermath of this disaster I've created...I do love angst, you've probably realised that by now!
Thank you all, over and over again for the amazing reviews, you all know who you are and you're such a great support. You restore my faith in the human race. Thank you.
D.A xx
Leo gives you some time off after that.
You presume he does the same for her.
You wouldn't know. You don't see her.
You fight through the days, like a war weary warrior, convinced she'll come round, come back to you.
It is of course your boss, who brings you crashing down to earth. The voice of reason. Reality.
"Have you any idea what you've done?"
The truth is no, you don't. At least not until he asked the question.
All my life I've thought I wanted to be like my father. But it's the last thing on earth anyone would want to be.
You see it now. In the mirror. In your voice. Even your dress sense. Blessing or curse, you have become him.
I think we always were our parents. We spend a few years trying to deny it, and then we give in.
Now you know exactly what you've done. All because you were witness to it before. A very long time ago. He would come in in the evening, face like thunder and not say a word. Your mother would ask about his day pleasantly and it was as if she hadn't spoken at all. It was like he was possessed, haunted almost.
Calmly, quietly, your mother would usher you from the room, half way through your homework, take you up to your room and the two of you would play, talk, read, anything to make you smile, take your mind off things. But you were never a naïve child. You quite clearly saw the apprehension in her eyes as she wished you sweet dreams and closed the door behind her.
Minutes later the shouting would start.
A scream.
A smack.
And silence.
It suddenly occurs to you that the two most influential women in your life have a lot more in common than they realise. Different men, or course, different decade but ultimately, the same, single priority:
Their child.
The memories of your father's illness are staggered and vague, even recent revelations didn't tarnish the confident, clever, inspirational man of your formative years, this is largely, you believe, down to your mother and the protection and shelter she gave to you in an attempt to keep your memories of your father - your hero - as wonderful as they are.
Were.
Your wife's decision to remove herself from your company now seems much more real. Much more believable, understandable.
How was she to be expected to bring up a child with a man who couldn't even keep a hold on his own emotions?
This realisation sends you further into the dark abyss, and it is a full week before you realise that if you continue on this road of woe and self-pity, you will end up just like your father.
Dead.
A day later, Nikki receives a text from you. Hesitant, she waits until darkness falls and she has retired to Janet's spare room before reading it, lips pressed tightly together, hands clammy.
House is yours. Found a flat. Move out Sunday. Take care, H x
You keep your word and by pure coincidence the two of you almost pass in the doorway of your marital home. As you are leaving, she is lifting a large box from the back of Janet's car. Janet, upon seeing you, sinks back into the driver's seat as if she wishes the ground would swallow her up.
"Let me take that."
Immediately, you take the box from her arms and carry it into the kitchen while she follows.
The house seems alien now, cold, dark, with the two of you so icy with each other. A far cry from the fresh faced couple who had walked in, hands entwined, to be greeted with space, light and a warm feeling in their hearts which had probed the decision.
This is it. This is the one.
"You're not carrying these boxes in yourself are you?"
It is a harmless question, but it holds more than it seems. With nine simple words everything comes to light. The love you still have for her, the fact that you are both now separate bodies and no longer a team, the child that is growing inside her as you speak. You don't realise she's crying until her voice croaks when she next speaks. You turn, gaze at her imploringly and realise just how devastated she looks.
Just about as devastated as you feel.
"Isn't it a bit late to start acting like you care?"
You bring the remainder of her boxes in without another word, before setting off to start again, alone.
Here's to my glorious bachelor existence.
