My name is Natalie Owen, and I live in Kingston, a town where Surrey meets the River Thames. I often hear men accusing us women of using them, being unfaithful, and labeling us with various harsh terms. But why don’t they take a look in the mirror? What about themselves—are they not pitiful, insignificant creatures? That’s why I’m writing this, to pour out the pain that burns in my soul like a piece of red-hot coal.
I spent 27 happy years with my husband Andrew. Together, we built our home and raised our two sons. Now, we have grandchildren. We always understood each other, respected one another, and shared in life’s joys and sorrows. But everything changed when he turned 53. Suddenly, he was like a different person. He started staying late at work, spent ages grooming in front of the mirror, and I wouldn’t see him at all on weekends. Eventually, the truth came out: a younger woman had turned his head. I was ready to forgive him if he would come to his senses, repent, and return to us. But he threw it in my face, telling me that unlike him, I’ve aged, and that I don’t understand him. He claimed to be in love with her, captivated by her youth and passion. But what does she want from him—his tired, aging body? No, she’s only interested in his money. And when that’s gone, she’ll toss him aside like rubbish.
Our sons, Alex and James, tried to talk sense into their father. They told him that his actions shamed them, that they felt embarrassed by him. But he didn’t listen—he looked at them with blank eyes as if they were strangers. I was at my wit’s end and threatened him with divorce, thinking that might wake him up. But he just agreed as if he’d been waiting for it. In our later years, we parted ways. Now he lives with that girl, tending to her child instead of enjoying our grandchildren’s laughter. I am alone in our house, where every wall is soaked with memories, while he chases the illusion of a new life.
I don’t blame her, this young woman. She’s cunning, trying to secure her own future. My ex-husband is just a fool blinded by a midlife crisis. Does he truly think he can start a new family at his age? That this young woman will have kids with him and care for him? Let him indulge in his fantasies! I’m not looking for another man—I’ve had enough of their lies and betrayals. I don’t need your sympathy, nor tears from strangers. And don’t send me advice or scoldings—I won’t read them. Yes, I went through hell: despair consumed me, rage against him strangled me like a noose. He shattered my life when I least expected it. But I survived, endured, and released the pain.
Now I have my children and grandchildren—they are my light, my support. What does he have? Soon he will realize how gravely he’s mistaken. This young girl won’t ask if he’s taken his blood pressure pills, won’t wash his socks, or have a hot meal waiting for him. She lives for herself, and he is just a walking wallet. When he comes knocking at my door again—which I know will happen—he’ll find a cold reception. Neither I nor our sons will forgive his betrayal. He left us for a fleeting whim, a cheap thrill, while we remained a family—without him. Let him roll away with his lover to wherever he pleases!
I see him in my dreams—young, as he once was, with a smile that warmed my soul. But then I wake up and remember who he has become: a selfish man who traded his loved ones for an illusion. It hurts, but I am not broken. Every day I look at my grandchildren and think: they give me reason to live. And him? He’ll reap the results of his folly—loneliness, emptiness, contempt from those who once loved him. He thought he could buy youth, but love can’t be bought. And when she’s drained him of every pound, he’ll be left with nothing—a pathetic, abandoned old man whom no one waits for. Meanwhile, we’ll keep living, without him, but together. And that is my revenge—not in anger, but in strength that he couldn’t take from me.
