Dating a man with an ex wife
Dating a man with an ex wife - marcia clark dating christopher darden
I remember when I told my mother that my wife was moving out. Another time I was at a party not long after we separated and it was as if everyone was viewing me like a mentally ill patient, looking for any signs of an impending breakdown. If those early years in our 20s could be compared to skipping along on a neatly laid path, then by the time we reached our late 30s, it felt as though we were wheezing through the Gobi wilderness, parched and hopelessly lost with no clue how we got there. Somewhere in my mind’s eye, a little Facebook icon flashed up: ‘You and your wife are no longer friends.’We weren’t totally out of touch.
She fills me in with what old friends are up to, or her latest family drama and how her beautiful baby boy is doing.We never once rowed or tried to demean one another.In a way I felt proud of how well we were both getting along. Then one day, two years after we separated, came the moment I’d been dreading: After picking Lily up, I found a note she’d slipped on to the passenger seat under the dog’s paws.She’s even gone back to nagging me about my wardrobe.Dropping Lily off the other day, she whispered out of the corner of her mouth: ‘Maybe don’t wear that shirt again.’ She was right, of course.Later, she texted: ‘Love yourself a little.’ It’s amazing how comforting a small thing like that can be.
If that all sounds a little syrupy and nostalgic for the past, then it isn’t meant to. I’m just glad to have an old friend back; the one who, despite some of the unpleasantness we’ve been through, I still trust more than any other person in the world.
‘Gosh you’re so lucky,’ people would say when I conveyed this to them, much to my irritation. Nervously opening the note when I got home, it announced that my former wife was three months pregnant. Deep down I probably knew my ex wouldn’t be single long, but because of the distance I’d chosen to put between us, I had no idea that she was even seeing anyone.
For the past two years, I’d been carrying around a niggling sense of anxiety over how I’d digest this kind of news.
My ego could have done with him being more of an ugly sod, but no matter.
Fast forward 18 months, and my ex and I chat almost every day.
But while then it was full of hope, that day it was just a soon-to-be vacant shell, a deserted vessel of unfulfilled promise. Divorce is a miserable business, no two ways about it. We split the house and possessions accordingly, and found our own places to live. When you separate from someone you’ve been in daily contact with for nearly a third of your life, you have to cut the umbilical cord. One of the things I found most difficult was discovering a new TV series and resisting the urge to tell my ex, knowing how much she’d enjoy it.