A few days into lockdown I received a letter inviting me to legal mediation - instigated by my future ex-wife, who had mentioned nothing of this despite us being under the same roof. Photo /123RF
A few days into lockdown I received a letter inviting me to legal mediation - instigated by my future ex-wife, who had mentioned nothing of this despite us being under the same roof. Photo /123RF
On the evening of December 30, 2019, my wife and I had an extremely rare night out together, and got home to spend some time on the internet planning our family summer holiday to the South West. Researching potential locations, holiday parks, local attractions.
Fast forward just four months and not only has coronavirus put everyone's summer holidays in doubt, but my wife of 13 years, two little boys and I will never have a family holiday again.
Because on Monday, right in the middle of lockdown, she moved out.
According to new statistics from UK charity Relate, the couples' counselling service, one in eight have become worried for the health of their relationship since the measures began. More than a quarter of the 2000 adults surveyed said they had been arguing with their other half more, while the charity warned of a "post-lockdown reckoning" in which tensions would, by the time restrictions are lifted, be "boiling over".
It turns out we didn't need to wait that long. My wife had apparently made the decision to break up the family in mid-January, but told me only at the end of the following month that she no longer loved me — something I've sadly known for a few years. She wasn't happy, she said, and wanted her "life back".
I went through denial, extreme desperation, ill-placed hope, and finally got to acceptance by the time lockdown arrived, when we both found ourselves working from home under the same roof. Our boys, 8 and 4, were genuinely overjoyed to be home with us both — something they've always craved. This was great for them — for all of us, I thought, imagining that more family time might change our situation.
My wife had signed up to a rental property only two days before lockdown started, which meant we were now paying for a new home for her — which she couldn't move to, as restrictions prevented it. This new hurdle too, I thought, could work in our relationship's favour.
But a few days into lockdown I received a letter inviting me to legal mediation — instigated by my future ex-wife, who had mentioned nothing of this despite us being under the same roof. At that time I was deeply depressed, struggling to comprehend the enormity of her decision, searching for a reason to get up in the morning. Chronic insomnia. I wasn't ready to discuss bringing two young children up in separate homes and splitting finances, not least when trying to adjust to our new pandemic world.
Soon enough, items from the house started to disappear. I'd make a meal, but the serving dishes had gone. There were no longer plastic cups to give drinks to the nippers. All these items — some of them wedding gifts — were being quietly taken from the house without me knowing. Even the bathroom soap vanished.
Then began my wife's regular trips out in the car during lockdown — without warning there'd be a "I need to go out". Really? In lockdown? She'd never tell me where she was going, or why. Could she be meeting a paramour — was she jeopardising the health of our family with her trips?
I had to assume she was visiting her new rental home, wherever that is. Had she not read about high-profile people visiting their second homes, and it not being okay? These disappearances got more frequent and longer in duration as the weeks went on, leaving me simultaneously trying to work (I work for the UK's NHS, and things are pretty busy right now) and look after the boys on my own — sometimes for a whole day at a time. I started to feel like a childminding service while my wife did as she liked.
Then, late on Sunday evening, she said: "I'm moving out tomorrow." An untimely appearance of the eldest child meant I had no opportunity to respond. And that was that.
I'm a sentimental man, and so while intensely sad that 13 years of my commitment, compromise and love was now cast aside without discussion, there was a large part of me pleased that the current unpleasantness would be over. Lockdown had sped up our downward spiral; with her gone, the house would not be so tense. I could laugh with the boys again.
On Monday morning while on a video call for work, I heard her talking to the boys. "Two nights" was all I could make out. By the time my meeting ended, my wife had gone. No goodbye. No note. Nothing. Almost a decade and a half together and that was it. I had little chance to reflect on the enormity of it all as the eldest boy, clearly frustrated, then lashed out at the younger one, leaving me to address the fallout.
During the course of that day the boys told me "Mummy has gone to work at a friend's house" and then asked "how will mummy make sure she stays two metres away from her friend?" I had no answer.
My two boys don't yet know the truth about us: it's not the right time. The only people I've told are my parents and boss. However, they are due to be taken away by their mum tomorrow for a couple of nights, so very shortly their world will be changing, as will mine.
I'm really struggling. I'm sure family separation is hard for everyone, but separation in lockdown is especially cruel. Tomorrow I'll find myself alone in the family home – locked down. No prospect of seeing those close to me to help me though this awful time. Nobody to say good morning or good night to. There are lots of people around me who under other circumstances would be here in person to support, or would meet up for a talk.
I'd really benefit from a hug from someone who cares. But in this climate, who knows how long that wait will be?
