**A Letter to My Now-Former Wife**
Today at half-past one, it was over. Twenty years of marriage dissolved in the quiet chill of the courtroom. I stood there, papers in hand, trying to piece together how we’d ended up here. The truth is, I still can’t believe it’s real.
When we decided months ago to part ways, it felt like the ground had vanished beneath me. We didn’t shout, didn’t throw things—we just knew we couldn’t go on as we were. Not like before. Not together. And yet, I was terrified. Terrified of losing you.
You weren’t just my wife. You were my anchor, my light. The one I always came back to, no matter how far I wandered. Only God knows how much you endured over the years—and through it all, I never said what mattered most.
You deserve a medal. For patience. For kindness. For loving a man who wasn’t always easy to love—restless, impulsive, forever chasing some new idea or adventure. I was always running, while you waited, tired and silent, by the door. Then came another late night, another mess I’d made, and there you were, ironing shirts in the quiet. I dragged storms into our home, but you stayed. Picked up the pieces, soothed the children, told them everything would be alright—even when you’d stopped believing it yourself.
They say half of marriages end in divorce, the other half in death. We chose the first. But sometimes, it’s the kinder choice. Sometimes letting go is the only way to stay true to yourself. And I’m glad we walked away not with bitterness, but with respect. With understanding.
You’re an extraordinary mother. There’s no other way to say it. Our children—kind, brave, honest—are who they are because of you. You taught them to love deeply, to be real. In that, you were always stronger than me.
Now you’re free. It sounds harsh, but I mean it: I’m glad you’re free of me. Free of my “later,” my “not now,” my “just wait.” You won’t have to carry us both anymore, won’t have to wonder if I’ll ever grow up. I hope—truly—that you find the life you deserve. Calm. Warm. Happy.
If someone had told me twenty years ago how it would end, I’d have married you anyway. Even knowing. Even if we’d never had the children. Because you were the best choice I ever made.
I tried to hate you, you know. Sought out flaws, nursed anger. But it was impossible. You’re too good. Too real. You’re still beautiful when you laugh, and though it’s not for me anymore, that still matters.
I’m glad we’re friends. That we can talk about the children’s school marks or the latest telly series. That you’ll ring to ask how to update your phone, and I’ll tell you about my day. I’m glad we’re not enemies. I’ll always be here if you need me. Because you’re part of me. Always will be.
This might sound odd, but I need to say it: I’m for you. Wholly. Even if you love again. Even if you remarry. I won’t resent it. I’ll just tell him to be gentle. You’re a fragile treasure. I didn’t protect you as I should have, but I know your worth now.
It was an honour to be yours for twenty years. To be father to our children. And to be your friend—for the rest of my days. You were the best thing in my life.
Take care of yourself.
Your former husband.