My name is Natalie Orlov, and I live in the town of Henley-on-Thames, nestled in the Oxfordshire countryside along the River Thames. I often hear men accusing us women of using them, cheating, being this and that. But why don’t they take a good look in the mirror? What are they themselves—miserable, insignificant beings? That’s why I’m writing, to pour out this anguish burning in my soul like a searing coal.
My husband Andrew and I spent 27 happy years together. We built our home, raised two sons, and now have grandchildren. We always understood each other, shared joys and sorrows, and treated each other with respect. But when he turned 53, it was like he became someone else. He stayed out late after work, spent hours preening in front of the mirror, and I barely saw him on weekends. Soon, everything was out in the open: he’d lost his head over a much younger lover. I was ready to forgive him if he came to his senses and returned to us. But no—he threw it in my face that I had aged, unlike him. He said I didn’t understand him, that he was in love with her, craving her youth and passion. And her? What does she want with his sagging body, wrinkled skin? She couldn’t care less about him—it’s his money she’s after. When the money runs dry, she’ll toss him aside like garbage onto the street.
Our sons, Alex and Dylan, tried to talk sense into their father. They told him directly that he was embarrassing them, that they were ashamed of him in front of others. But he wouldn’t listen to them either—he looked at them like they were strangers, with empty eyes. I reached the breaking point—I threatened divorce, hoping this would wake him up. Instead, he agreed, as if he had been waiting for it. In old age, we parted ways. Now he’s living with that girl, feeding her child, instead of playing with our grandchildren and delighting in their laughter. I’m alone in our home, every wall steeped in memories of the past, while he’s over there with her, in the delusion of a new life.
I don’t blame her, that young woman. She cleverly wove her web to grab the biggest piece she could. And my ex-husband? Just a fool, blinded by a midlife crisis. Does he seriously think he can build a new family at his age? That this young doll will bear him children, take care of him? Let him delude himself with fairy tales! I’m not looking for another man—enough of their lies and betrayals. I don’t need your pity, nor the tears of strangers. Don’t write to me with advice or reproach—I won’t read them. Yes, I went through hell: despair burned me, anger at him choked me like a noose. He shattered my life when I least expected a blow. But I survived it, stood firm, and let go of the pain.
Now I have my children and grandchildren—my light, my support. And what does he have? Soon he’ll realize how gravely he erred. That woman won’t ask if he’s taken his blood pressure pills or wash his socks or cook a hot meal for his return. She’s living for herself, while he’s just a walking wallet to her. And when he knocks at my door again—and I know that day will come—he’ll be met with a cold reception. Neither I nor our sons will forgive his betrayal. He abandoned us for a fleeting thrill, for cheap passion, but we remain a family—without him. He can go to hell with his lover!
I see him in my dreams—the young man he used to be, with a smile that warmed my heart. And then I wake up and remember who he has become: a selfish man who traded his family for an illusion. It’s painful, but I haven’t broken. Every day, I look at my grandchildren and think: they are the reason to keep living. And him? He will reap the fruits of his folly—loneliness, emptiness, scorn from those who loved him. He thought he could buy youth, but love isn’t for sale. When she drains him of every last penny, he’ll be left with nothing—a pathetic, abandoned old man, waiting for no one. We will continue living, without him, but together. And that’s my revenge—strength instead of bitterness, which he couldn’t take from me.
