Get back to where you once belonged.

It wasn't the gilt wearing off; she was weird. I never knew what I would come home to. She was Mother Earth when I left for work, and ignored the kids by the time I got home.

There was one constant in her behaviour. Flirting. Not the everyday but playing it for real. By now, she had a history. All denied and deflected. It was my jealousy, I was always working, and still we didn't have the things her friends had, we never go out, not enough clothes, too many kids.

And then the betrayal, the Christmas party mistletoe kiss that went too far, too long, too close, too eyes-closed-mouth-open.

And I was his boss.

And the Christmas kiss became a New Year affair. The corridor conversations cut short, the pitying looks, the laddish jokes.

So I was treated to the apologies and tears, to the foundation of it being my fault. So I found a new job, more money, more responsibility, a change of town, a fresh start.

The house didn't sell. She was there, and I was two hundred miles away, living in digs and out of a suitcase. Friday night, drive two hundred miles south and north on Sundays. The weeks rolled on, and she fell pregnant, and I wasn't sure of paternity, trust and sanity.

I find a flat over a butcher's shop by a seaside amusement park. Rhyl, fucking Rhyl. Our rows now orchestrated to a juke box endlessly playing the Beatles 'Get Back'.

And she does it again. Same formula, same players, same shame. I can't leave the kids with her and can't look after them alone.

Same trap, and I quietly break.