I demanded a divorce out of the blue. But five years later I’m still in love with my husband – and wish we could get back together

As we walk into the living room, where the cake is delicious, my daughters and I start shouting in unison: Happy Birthday. I carefully tiptoe towards the happy birthday girl.

My girls, ages 14, 12, and 10, run to their dad and embrace him in a group hug. I catch his eye and we smile at each other as he leans forward and blows out the candle with the number 50.

An hour later, after the presents are opened, I say goodbye. No one sees me leave, or even notices my feeble “goodbye.” You see, this is not my home. The girls are staying with their father tonight to continue the festivities. It’s his house, not mine.

It’s not the first time that evening, as I drive home, I pull over and burst into tears, blaming myself over and over again for ending my marriage five years ago, when I was 44.

I deeply regret my hasty action, not only because I now see that it was a stupid, impulsive decision, but also because I still love my ex-husband.

Lawrence wasn’t unfaithful, he wasn’t cruel to me, he’s a fantastic father, and he didn’t have any weird preferences.

My impulse to hit the self-destruct button on my 15-year marriage was much more mundane than that. I was dissatisfied, insecure, and exhausted by what I saw as the rut of my life, and I was losing my patience with him too often.

To be honest, it’s not like I haven’t built a life for myself since we split; I’ve been seeing my partner, Tom, for two years. He idolizes me, but I do love him, but when I compare them, I’m afraid Tom pales in comparison to my ex. If Lawrence asked me to give it another go, I’d dump Tom in a heartbeat.

But five years ago, with three daughters under the age of ten and chronically ill parents, life was unforgiving. There were times in my early 40s when I wondered what on earth I had done to deserve such a life.

As a stay-at-home mom, my life was a constant loop of running school, doing chores, seeing my parents, running school, clubs, cooking, bathing, and going to bed—repeat. Occasionally I got to go to the gym and, even more rarely, grab a coffee with my girlfriends.

Meanwhile, Lawrence went to work and saw his friends when it was convenient for him. He only helped out on the weekends with chores and playdates and – what really bothered me – he had created a man cave at home just for him.

That 10ft x 13ft space, filled with his books, computer games and boy toys, became everything I detested about the ‘unfairness’ in our relationship. Why was he given a haven from the responsibilities of parenting and running our home, when I was the one carrying most of the burden?

What started as a joke between my girlfriends grew over the years into an ongoing, simmering resentment, further fueled by their own stories of husbands who didn’t do their fair share. Yet I never brought it up with him – something I now bitterly regret.

Should I have also sought professional psychological help during this difficult period?

All I can remember is feeling tired, stressed, guilty and resentful all the time. I was short with the girls and even short with Lawrence.

On a cold Sunday morning in January, when he put his mug near the dishwasher instead of putting it in, I exploded in anger.

It all came out: what a selfish father he was, spending hours in his man cave; how he never lifted a finger in the kitchen; how disappointing he was in bed. In fact, he wasn’t. I was the underperformer, constantly making excuses not to get intimate and, when we did, wanting it to end so I could get some sleep.

I saw him cringe, but when I saw red, I went ahead and shouted that we weren’t even husband and wife, we were just partners raising our children. Then I said the words I really wish I hadn’t said: ‘We just have to stop this. I want someone better than you!’

By the time I was done spouting my horrible tirade, I collapsed to the floor, where I promptly burst into tears. I assumed that Lawrence, like the other times I’d had a monumental meltdown, would get down on his knees and give me a comforting hug. Not this time. He walked out of the room.

That night he went to stay with his mother. After calling him all night and still no response, I got an email the next day saying I was right and we had to stop.

Apparently life was too short to walk on eggshells around me. He could never predict when I would explode, scorch everything around me and expect it to all be forgiven in a heartbeat.

Although Lawrence thought I was a great mother, his assessment of me as a wife was pretty poor and he had had enough. That was a low blow.

The world stopped turning. I couldn’t believe it had come to this. When I said those awful words in the heat of the moment, I didn’t mean we had to actually break up.

We started with such high expectations. Lawrence and I met while we were both working at the same bank and we were inseparable from the start.

After a year of dating I got pregnant and he proposed. When our first daughter came along I took an extended maternity leave and never went back. I love being a mother and have always operated from the position that mommy knows best, and I became a bit of a perfectionist and tyrant.

Lawrence tried to help, but if things weren’t done my way, they were the wrong way. Today I realize I sound like a complete harridan, but when you’re sleep deprived and always doing chores, I just didn’t have the time or patience to see that.

I didn’t appreciate what we had. Lawrence was a programmer (hence the mancave!) and he made a decent five-figure salary.

Living in the Midlands meant we could afford a family summer holiday every year, we had movie nights at home and the occasional date night out as a couple. I never doubted that he loved me.

The “it’s over” email was, I thought, a knee jerk reaction, so I let him cool off for a few days. I told the girls that daddy needed to spend some time with his mom because she wasn’t feeling well. But after a week, it was pretty clear that he wasn’t coming back.

Nine months later I was officially divorced. During the negotiations, encouraged by friends who were struggling with similar relationship problems, I reluctantly assumed that it was the right decision after all.

Even my lawyer kept steering me back down the path of divorce whenever I was struggling with something.

I got everything I asked for: custody of the children, the house and maintenance. Lawrence found a smaller property with enough space for the girls.

Still, plagued by doubts, I tried to call it off more than once. Once, in a rare face-to-face conversation during the transfer of the child, I begged for another chance, to go to a relationship therapist together.

It didn’t help. Every time I asked Lawrence if we should reconsider, he stopped me.

In a last ditch effort just before the divorce was finalized, I arrived unannounced after arranging for a babysitter and begged him to talk things through. He coldly asked me to leave.

Even a month after the divorce was finalized, I was undeterred and tried again. This time he let me in. Since we were now “officially” divorced, I begged, could we at least be friends? I saw the Lawrence I fell in love with that night: funny, charming, and, as one glass of wine led to another, we ended up in bed together.

Before I left, while he was still asleep, I scribbled a heartfelt letter telling him how much I loved him and how I hoped this could be the beginning of a new us. The next day I got a short message saying it was a mistake.

The two years after the divorce passed in a blur of transfers every other weekend and on Wednesday nights. I hated doing the “walk of shame” where I left the girls with him, convinced that the neighbors were watching and judging me as the woman who had the perfect family and threw it away.

In my social circle, opinions fell into two camps: my family thought I had lost my mind, but my friends said I had done the right thing. I now understand that their advice was biased by their own marital problems, and I wish I had not been so influenced by their (bitter) perspectives.

On days when the girls weren’t around, I would throw myself into online dating. There were more misses than hits. This only made me realize more how stupid I had been in losing it with Lawrence; I compared every new guy I met to him and they always came up short.

My eldest, now 14, knows all too well how much I regret what happened.

Although she initially wanted us to get back together, they have all adapted quite well to the circumstances.

She reports to me about the strange date Lawrence has. It is like a stab in the heart as I hear her describe each woman, but I can’t help but ask her which neighbors are interested in Daddy and which woman he has seen more than once.

One day, when I received a very thoughtful gift from her father for Christmas, I asked her if she thought we could ever get back together. The answer was a big no.

She even told me what he thought about everything from my yoga-improved figure to the change in my life path (I retrained as a life coach).

Apparently he likes my curves better and was very impressed with my new professional direction.

I met Tom two years ago on a dating app after a few failed relationships with other guys. By then I had reluctantly accepted that the chances of Lawrence and I getting back together were slim to none and that I needed to move on – at least as far as everyone else was concerned.

But while Tom ticks all the boxes – he makes me laugh, is a good cook, is great in bed and is great with my kids – he’s just not Lawrence.

So here I am, in my late 40s, a divorced woman who can’t help but look back. I still make a big deal of birthdays, Father’s Day and Christmas because it’s on those precious days when we all get together that I can kid myself that we’re a family again.

And I know I’ll love Lawrence until I die.

Names have been changed.

As told to Samantha Brick