After a pint of beer (cider for me that time...) in an old pub in an unknown to me corner of London, we stared at each other, eyes full of tears. We knew. We decided to not cry. For "them".
Me, it's one thing. But her, she is IDEAL. She was an ideal wife. And with all certainty, I would not be civil should I face her former husband.
And while we returned together to an old English house, I asked: "Why can't they take the smallest thing onto themselves?"
No one had an answer.
