She never wanted anything to do with her. But ten years have now passed, and that is a good reason to have your say. The letter from an ex-wife to her successor.
First there was anger, only then came sadness. And then at some point it was okay. At least almost.
Dear Alexandra, this is the first letter I am writing to you and it will probably be the only one. You are the woman who ruined my marriage. To this day I don't feel the need to get to know you better. But ten years have passed now, and that makes me think more than usual about my life as a divorced woman and a mother of two. And about you, who clearly shaped the everyday life of girls on the edge of my field of vision.
"I couldn't bury everything that bound us in hatred."
When your affair was exposed, in the months before and after the breakup, I was always talking about you. But never said Alexandra, but always "the Xandi". Every time I uttered this cute nickname, I did it with malice and articles. "The Xandi" sounds like a problem that can be dealt with. Alexandra was too sublime for me. You probably know what your name means in the translation from the Greek: "The foreign men defending himself" – good joke. Sometimes the anger at you almost made me burst; it was initially much bigger than the sadness, easier to bear. Of course, Thomas ’betrayal also stunned me, but I loved him, I couldn't bury everything that bound us in hatred. I understood him, at least a tiny bit, we had shared this grueling routine between job and small children and constant overload, and the question "Where do I still take place in all this vortex?", We probably both asked ourselves. But you, how could you? A woman who raised a child herself, who divorced when her son was eight, and who knew what it meant to be alone. And then you give in to the advances of a man who – surprise – desperately needs a little admiration; because he's married and the father of two little girls? Love is not a heavenly power, it is a decision, and you have made yours knowing what it means for us all. Why? Because your son had just moved out and gone to the USA to study, and suddenly there was space in your life again? It wasn't difficult for me to target you. Facebook, mutual friends and the nicer Thomas ’teacher colleagues were solid sources: at school for a year, sports and math, ex-Bundesliga volleyball player, ambitious, good humor. Goes for a run every morning and listens to heavy metal.
What consoled me at the time: that you weren't younger and prettier or clearly more witty than me. And, more importantly, that there would be no more children with you. A new little family would have been devastating to me. The idea that our girls would forever be the children of the failed marriage, the two who came from the time before the beautiful, the true, the good started – almost unbearable. So the roles are cemented. The girls and I remain the family that Thomas once had. Now he's a man with two daughters and you're his girlfriend.
No encounter
Without the girls I wouldn't care about you for a long time. I would have hated you a little longer, and at some point I would have been over it. Because of the girls, I can't completely ignore you. We only met twice in the whole time, by chance while shopping on Saturday at the weekly market shortly after the separation and then last summer when I was lying on the Elbe beach with friends and the children. Twice palpitations and a short "Hello, you here too? Well, we have to move on …" That’s it.
You stayed away from all the occasions on which we could have met. The school enrollments, the confirmations, all the school concerts and theater performances by the girls – Thomas showed up every time without you. I don't know whether that was due to your empathy or your aversion to emotionally charged situations, but it saved me a lot of grief and stress. I don't believe in a patchwork idyll, and I wasn't interested in trying it out. My interest has always been in girls. That they survive the breakup reasonably well. And that they can feel comfortable with their father and his new girlfriend.
"Bonus mother"
What I've got to this day: It's going well. You don't interfere in upbringing. You take time for them and give them nice presents for their birthdays and Christmas. You are nice to them, they like you. Had it been different, I would probably have noticed by now. I firmly refuse to call you her stepmother. I consider myself exclusively responsible for everything that includes the term "mother". Nevertheless, I was concerned when at some point I stumbled across the word "bonus mother", which the Danish family therapist Jesper Juul invented for all the women who add something to the lives of children through their love affair with their father.
Bonus mother – the word came to mind when the girls immediately jumped up on the beach during the summer vacation before last after a couple of boys near us had set up a beach volleyball net. And both played naturally and confidently, had fun and scored points: I was amazed. And did you know: You are behind it. I hate all ball sports, and your music teacher father is a total athletic failure despite all his efforts. The two, on the other hand, can now do everything quite well, tennis and table tennis, soccer and volleyball, they even play water polo as if unleashed when you are on vacation together and a pool is nearby.
What I can now also appreciate: that you set an example for them what it means to have a relationship. For better or for worse, with strife and reconciliation. I know that it is important and formative when you experience this as a child, and I have nothing to offer the girls in this regard. My changeable love life is limited to the eight days a month on which they are with you.
A taboo?
Both talk little about it, neither about you and Thomas, and certainly not about your love, it's almost a taboo. I consider this to be our greatest failure. When we split up, Thomas and I had sworn not to speak ill of each other in front of the girls. We actually succeeded, but nothing more. Our relationship is cool, other than important agreements, virtually nonexistent. The girls see it as an unspoken mandate to keep these two lives as separate as possible.
But sometimes something seeps through. For example, I know that you are in a "poop mood" quite often on Sunday evenings. The little one told me recently at the dinner table. And the big one immediately to her sister: "What kind of shit are you talking about?" And to me: "You're missing one, right?" As if I would be happy as soon as I hear something negative about you. Which of course is perfectly true. But I tried not to let it show. And mimed understanding: it's clear, poor teachers, tough week, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah. Aside from my cheap little triumph, I actually have a big heart for stressed out working women in a bad mood.
I didn't find it so funny, however, when the big one explained to me over dinner that you really couldn't eat mayonnaise because there was so much fat in it – you would have said that to her. Well, thank you very much, dear head pedagogue, as if we both didn't know that pubescent girls should treat food as impartially as possible: Everything is allowed, the amount alone does it. I really hope that my normal figure is a sufficient role model for the girls. A low-fat superbody is a nice hobby for a 53-year-old PE teacher, but not one that I want for my daughters.
"I'm not jealous. Rather petty and envious."
Oh, I know I sound jealous. I am not at all, really. Rather jealous and petty and envious. Sometimes. Like after your winter holiday in northern Sweden in the hut with sauna. "And imagine, mom, it was so incredibly hot in there, and then we went out and had a snowball fight naked in boots, and Xandi soaped me up." The little one said that with great enthusiasm. I imagined you hugging my naked child to your bare chest and laughing and rubbing a portion of snow on his face. And could have puked. All naked. With touch! I should do that, the other way around with a naked man who goes on vacation with us, but then all hell would break loose. Oh, I was upset.
But that's all I can think of about you after ten years: a little mayonnaise and a little bare skin. I really have nothing to reproach you for except the man who was taken away, and he is now barred. What remains are two loving parents and first-class bonus material. No, that was nothing, again: What remains are three adults who show sufficient consideration for each other and genuinely strive to ensure that the children are well. For this, dear Alexandra, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.