My name is Natalie Green, and I live in Stratford-upon-Avon, nestled along the River Avon in Warwickshire. I often hear men accuse us women of using them, cheating, of being one way or another. But why don’t they look in the mirror? Who are they—pitiful, worthless creatures? That’s why I’m writing this, to pour out the pain that burns in my soul like a blazing ember.
I shared 27 happy years with my husband, Andrew. We built our home together, raised our two sons, and now we have grandchildren. We always communicated well, respected each other, and shared both joys and challenges. But when he turned 53, something changed. He started coming home late, spent hours in front of the mirror, and I wouldn’t see him on weekends. Soon enough, it became clear—he had lost his mind over a young lover. I was willing to forgive if he had come to his senses, repented, and returned to us. But no—he threw it in my face that, unlike him, I had aged and didn’t understand him. He declared his love for her, craving her youth and passion. And her? What does she want from him—his sagging skin, his wrinkles? She doesn’t care about him; it’s only his money that attracts her. Once that’s gone, she’ll toss him aside like rubbish.
Our sons, Alex and James, tried to talk some sense into their father. They told him to his face that he embarrassed them and they were ashamed of him. But he didn’t listen to them either—he looked at them like strangers, emptiness in his eyes. I reached my limit and threatened him with divorce, thinking it might wake him up. Instead, he agreed right away, as if he had been waiting for it. In our later years, we parted ways. Now, he’s living with this girl, providing for her child instead of enjoying our grandchildren’s laughter. I’m alone in our home, filled with memories of the past, while he’s out there in the illusion of a new life.
I don’t blame her, this woman. She’s cunningly woven her web for survival, to get the biggest piece she can. 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 have his children, take care of him? Let him be entertained by fairy tales! I’m not looking for a new man—I’ve had enough of their lies and betrayals. I don’t need your sympathy, nor the tears of strangers. And don’t send me advice or reproaches—I won’t read them. Yes, I went through hell: despair burned me, anger choked me like a noose. He wrecked my life when I least expected the blow. But I survived, stood firm, and let go of the pain.
Now I have my children and grandchildren—my light, my strength. And what does he have? Soon he’ll realize how brutally wrong he was. That girl won’t care if he takes his blood pressure pills, won’t wash his socks or make him a hot meal when he gets home. She lives for herself, and for her, he’s just a walking wallet. And when he comes knocking back at my door—and I know that day will come—he’ll find a cold reception. Neither I nor the boys will forgive this betrayal. He left us for a fleeting thrill, for cheap passion, and we remain a family—without him. Let him go to hell with his lover!
I see him in my dreams—young, as he once was, with a smile that warmed my heart. Then I wake up and remember who he’s become: a selfish man who traded his family for an illusion. It hurts, but I’m not broken. Every day I look at my grandchildren and think: they’re the reason to live. And him? He’ll reap the fruits of his folly—loneliness, emptiness, and the disdain of those who once loved him. He thought youth could be bought, but love is not for sale. And when she’s drained every penny, he’ll be left with nothing—a pathetic, abandoned old man that no one waits for. We’ll go on living, without him, but together. And that’s my revenge—not bitterness, but strength he couldn’t take from me.
