I tried to pull her back into the life we’d built together, but it felt like grabbing onto smoke.
Then, one afternoon, she looked me dead in the eye, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and said the words that shattered everything I thought we’d built.
“I’m leaving, Charlie.”
I paused mid-step, blinking like I hadn’t heard her right. “Leaving? What are you talking about?”
She didn’t flinch.
“I can’t live this life anymore. I’ve found myself… and I know what I want.
I’m not meant to be stuck here cooking and cleaning after you.”
I searched her face for a crack, some sign that she was joking. “Miranda… we have two kids.”
Her voice sharpened. “You’ll manage.
You’re a great dad. Better than I’ve ever been as a mom.”
“What about Sophie and Emily? They’re just babies, Miranda!” My voice cracked as tears gushed from my eyes.
But I didn’t care. Who said men can’t cry? The last time I cried was a moment of pure joy, holding my youngest newborn daughter in my arms.
But this… this was different. And painful.
She sighed.
She seemed bored. It was like this was a conversation she’d been forced to repeat. “I need freedom, Charlie.
I need to be happy. I can’t do this anymore.”
