My name is Natalie Smith, and I live in Henley-on-Thames, where Oxfordshire embraces the River Thames. I often hear men criticize us, women, saying we’ve used them, cheated, been this or that. Why don’t they take a good look in the mirror? What are they themselves but pitiful, insignificant creatures? That’s why I’m writing this—to pour out the pain burning in my soul like hot coals.
Andrew and I spent 27 happy years together. We built our home, raised our children—two sons—and now have grandchildren. We always understood each other, shared respect, joys, and sorrows. But when he turned 53, he seemed to change entirely. He started staying late at work, spent hours preening in front of the mirror, and I barely saw him on weekends. It all soon came to light: he had lost his head over a young woman. I was ready to forgive if he came to his senses, confessed, and returned to us. But no—he threw in my face that I had aged, unlike him, that I didn’t understand him. He said he was in love with her, longing for her youth and passion. But what does she want with him? His sagging body, wrinkled skin? She couldn’t care less about him—it’s only his money that attracts her. Once that’s gone, she’ll throw him out like yesterday’s news.
Our sons, Alex and James, tried to reason with their father. They told him directly that he was embarrassing them, that they were ashamed in front of others. But he didn’t hear them either—looked right through them with an empty stare. I reached my limit and threatened divorce, hoping it would wake him up. Instead, he agreed, almost as if he had been waiting for it. In our later years, we separated. Now he lives with this young girl, attending to her child, instead of enjoying our grandchildren, their laughter. I’m alone in our home, where every wall is steeped in memories, while he lives there in the illusion of a new life.
I don’t blame the young woman. She’s cleverly ensnared him to secure her future. My ex-husband is just a fool, blinded by a midlife crisis. Does he seriously believe at his age he can start a family again? That this young doll will give him children, care for him? Let him comfort himself with fairy tales! I’m not looking for another man—I’ve had enough of their lies and betrayals. I don’t need your sympathy or the tears of strangers. Don’t write to me with advice or reproaches—I won’t read them. Yes, I’ve been through hell: despair burned me, anger choked me like a noose. He shattered my life when I least expected the blow. But I survived, I stood my ground, and I let go of the pain.
Now, I have children and grandchildren—my light, my support. And what does he have? Soon, he’ll realise his grave mistake. This young woman won’t ask if he’s taken his blood pressure pills, won’t wash his socks, won’t make hot soup for his return. She lives for herself, and he is nothing but a walking wallet to her. When he comes knocking at my door again—and I know that day will come—he’ll find a cold reception. Neither I nor our sons will forgive this betrayal. He left us for a fleeting thrill, for cheap passion, while we remain a family—without him. Let him 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. Then I wake up and remember what he’s become: a selfish man who traded his loved ones for an illusion. It’s painful, but I’m not broken. Every day, I look at my grandchildren and think: they are worth living for. And him? He will reap the fruits of his folly—loneliness, emptiness, the scorn of those who once loved him. He thought he could buy youth, but love isn’t for sale. When she’s bled him dry of every pound, he’ll be left with nothing—a pathetic, abandoned old man, welcomed by no one. We will continue living, without him, but together. And that’s my vengeance—not bitterness, but strength he couldn’t take from me.
