**When a Pause Becomes the End**
*Diary Entry*
—I’m tired. Tired of you, of family, of the daily grind. I need space. I need to figure myself out.
He said it coldly, like a verdict, avoiding my eyes. *”We’ve grown apart. I need time to think.”*
Those words stung like sleet against my skin. We’d been married ten years. Both thirty-five. Our son just three. Six long years we’d struggled to have him—tests, treatments, hope, heartbreak. The day I showed him the positive test, he dropped to his knees, weeping. When we brought our baby home, the house was drowning in flowers. Now? Just… silence.
He packed in a daze, grabbing only winter things. Kept slipping into the kitchen for a quick shot of whiskey, as if liquid courage could numb the guilt. Our son babbled, reaching for him, but he barely glanced his way. Thirty minutes later, the door slammed. He was gone. And I was left—with a child, with silence, with empty air where he should’ve been.
We lived in my grandmother’s flat, so at least the roof over our heads was secure. Money, though? Tight. I’d quit my job when our son was eighteen months old—his idea.
*”We waited so long for this,”* Daniel had insisted. *”He’s not for daycares. Stay home. I’ll take care of you both.”*
And he had, without question. I’d thought we’d cracked the code—cosy, cared for, a future planned together. Turns out, he was counting down to his *break*.
*”He’s found someone else, I’m telling you,”* my friend Laura pushed. *”Men don’t take ‘breaks’, love. Get maintenance payments. What’re you supposed to live on while he’s off *finding himself*?”*
So I did. Filed for child support, scrambled for work. Lucked out—my old position was open. But no childcare spots. Mum, pension stretched thin, sighed: *”Bring him. He’s a handful, but we’ll manage. Just bring his food.”*
I borrowed from Laura—for groceries, for bus fare. Daniel? Not a call. Not a text. No *”How’s he eating?”* No *”How’s the rent?”* Gone. Not just in body—in every way that mattered.
Then I saw him. A café near my office. Laughing with some striking brunette, mid-twenties. His hand on hers, relaxed. Smug. I snapped a photo—for the records—and walked on. No scene. No drama.
Life… settled. The flat was calmer. Cleaner. No socks in corners. No forcing down stew I hated just to please him. No *”You missed a spot”* or blaring football matches. And I realised—I breathed easier without him.
I remembered who *I* was. That I loved rugby, not football. That the perfumes he gifted made me sneeze. That long hair swamped me, but a pixie cut? Perfect. That jeans and trainers were *me*—not the floral dresses I’d worn for *him*.
Piece by piece, I came back. Three months in, a promotion. A raise. I repainted the walls my childhood favourite colour. Filed for divorce.
Eight months of silence. Then, two days before court, he turned up. Flowers. Fruit. *”I’ve thought it over,”* he said. *”I’m ready to come home. But… the walls are ghastly now. And that haircut? Doesn’t suit you.”*
*”Funny,”* I said. *”I’ve thought too. Decided I’m better off without you. The colour’s my favourite. So’s the cut. By the way—what’s your *thinking partner’s* name?”*
I showed him the photo. He paled.
*”I’m divorcing you,”* I said flatly. *”Real relationships don’t take breaks.”*
I shut the door. For good. No regrets. Because finally? I came home—to myself. And I *like* her.
