Two years ago, when things were at their worst for me, my wife left me and our kids. I had a lot of hard times and finally got my family back together. Then I saw her alone and crying in a café. What she said next shocked me.
I had no idea what transpired that prompted Anna leave our apartment with only one suitcase and a cold, exhausted, “I can’t do this anymore.” She was my wife and the mother of our two four-year-old twins one minute. She was there one minute and gone the next, leaving her wedding ring on the table and two kids who were confused clutching on to my knees.
The door slammed shut, and we were the only ones there. Max and Lily looked at me with wide eyes. They were too little to understand what was happening, yet they could tell that something was very wrong.
At first, I waited for Lily to get back. One hour. One night. A week. I thought she needed a break, a walk, or some time alone. But she never came back, even after months. She didn’t get any phone calls. She didn’t leave a note. The youngsters didn’t even get birthday cards.
Yes, I was heartbroken, but I was also enraged. A controversy broke up the management team at a promising software company, and I lost my job there. In an instant, everything came apart. I was a well-known software developer with a steady career one day, and the next day I was out of work and saw our money go.
Anna has always been concerned about her safety. Show. Form. As a marketing manager, she was always well-organized and took the initiative. When she walked, her heels made a clicking sound. She was often ironing her jacket. She looked stunning even when she was in the hospital having Max and Lily. To be honest, I liked her. I loved her.
But when she left when things were really bad for both of us, I couldn’t believe it. I immediately became a full-time dad. I worked a variety of different jobs, such as delivering groceries and driving for ride-sharing firms. I also changed diapers, got my kids ready for preschool, and wiped their tears when they cried at night and asked, “Where’s Mommy?”
They didn’t get it. I could hardly grasp it. When I answered their inquiries, I tried to be as nice as I could. But on some nights, when they were finally asleep, I sat in the dark with my hands over my face, wondering if I was good enough for them, for myself, or for anyone.
My parents did everything they could to help. They came over at night, cooked us dinner, and played with Max and Lily. But they were old, didn’t have much money, and were already worried about how much everything was going to cost. I kept the help with my feelings. But I was the only one who had money.
Even though it was challenging, we made it through that first dreadful year. Things got better and better after that.
I got a freelance coding job with a small company that concentrates on keeping computers safe. The customer was really delighted with my work and invited me to work for them full-time. The pay was less than what I had before, but it was stable. I could work from home, start a new life, and be with my kids all at the same time. We got a smaller apartment, but it was ours. I made a plan. I made dinner. I worked out. I started shaving again on a regular basis. I even laughed.
We began to feel better.
I saw her again exactly two years after she departed.
It was just a normal weekday morning. I was working on a project at my favourite café near our new house while the twins were at preschool. The smell of fresh coffee and the quiet conversations around me helped me concentrate. It had become my own safe place.
I looked up from my laptop and stretched my neck. I saw her then.
Anna.
She was alone in the far corner, huddled over with her hands over her face. Her body shook a little, and then she started to cry. Difficult.
It took me a few seconds to remember who she was.
The woman I used to know who always looked great was no longer there. The coat she was wearing seemed like it had been around for a while. Her hair used to be shiny and sharp, but now it hangs about her face like a limp curtain. There were black circles around her eyes. She looked weak, which was the opposite of what I anticipated she would seem like: strong and calm.
I stopped.
I felt a lot of things at once: shock, perplexity, wrath, and pity. She seemed like she was hurting a lot. I wanted to ignore her, stay away from her, and act like she wasn’t there so I could finish my work. But I wasn’t able to.
She must have known I was looking at her because she looked up.
We gazed at one other and felt a connection without saying anything. There was a brief moment of consciousness, and then a wash of shame. It looked like her face was about to break down again.
I got up before I could think about it. My body moved without me telling it to. I walked over to her slowly and carefully, like I was attempting to help an animal that was hurt. I set my laptop down on the table.
“Anna,” I whispered softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
She was shocked when she glanced at me. “David,” she said, her voice scratchy. “I didn’t think I’d see you.”
“Clearly,” I said. I took the chair in front of her and sat down. “You went. There was no reason given. No farewell. I can see you now, crying in a coffee shop. Hey, what’s up?
She swallowed hard and looked down at her hands, which were shaking a little. She breathed in deeply.
“I lost everything,” she remarked in a low voice. “I felt like I could start again when I left. I moved in with someone I worked with. He put forth a lot of effort and lived in a nice apartment. I thought I was done with the mess. But the way he hurt her hurt him. Taking charge. He didn’t want to have kids. He hated that I had them, even when they weren’t there. He kicked me out in the end. I didn’t have anywhere to go. I hurt my relationships with family and friends. People didn’t want to hear from the mom who left her kids and spouse.
She stopped, and her voice broke.
“I really messed up, David. That was the worst thing I’ve ever done. And I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness yet… I had to say it. I had to apologize.
I looked at her for a long time. A reel of memories played in my head, showing me two years of agony, tiredness, and hard effort. I remembered the times I cried while my kids were sleeping, the pictures they drew for Mommy that I never sent, and the tears they poured.
But I also thought about how much progress we had made. How strong I had gotten. How happy, loved, and successful Max and Lily were now.
At first, I didn’t know what to say. I stared at her and spoke the first thing that came to me.
I told them, “You need to do more than say you’re sorry.” “You left them.”
She didn’t bother to hide the tears that were streaming down her face this time.
“I know,” she said in a low voice. “I want to do the right thing.” Let me give it a shot.
I didn’t say I would do anything. I didn’t make her feel better. But I didn’t go either. I understood that silence couldn’t heal some wounds, especially those of tiny kids, even though I had constructed a new life for us.
I wasn’t sure if she would come back into our lives. But the talk in the café led to something unexpected—maybe not forgiveness, but understanding.
And that’s when some individuals really start to heal.