I dreamed of happiness, made plans for the future, and received only insults!
My name is Emma Clark, and I live in the quaint town of Lymington, nestled in Hampshire’s serene embrace of oaks. I saw him again at our high school reunion — 20 years later. David stood before me, a bit broader in the shoulders, his hair still that delightful mess, and his eyes — large and deep with the same melancholy — burned right through me, just as they had in our youth. He invited me to dance, just like in the old days when we were a couple. I felt his warmth, his breath, his strength — and it was as if time had rolled back. That night he returned to my dreams, and I realized that old love hadn’t died.
Why did we part ways? I can’t remember. For three years, we lived like husband and wife, making plans: a little house with a garden, a small shop selling flowers and candles, dreaming up names for our children — Alice, Oliver… Then he vanished — without a word, without a trace, leaving me in emptiness. At the reunion, after a couple of glasses of wine and dancing, we both knew: this was a chance to start over. Six months later, I moved in with him in Winchester, into his home. His wife had passed away, and I had never found anyone with whom I could build a nest. At first, everything was great, but the dreams of happiness turned into a nightmare.
I wanted love, but received only humiliation. David had two sons — 16 and 18 years old, Aaron and Matthew. I didn’t try to become a mother to them — that would’ve been silly. I only wanted friendship and understanding, to be accepted into their lives. I tried my best: surrounded them with care, cooked for them, bought gifts, made sacrifices for the sake of peace in the home. But instead of warmth, I got the cold shoulder. Things worsened when the grandparents of their late mother would visit. I respected them as much as I could — they were part of the family. But every visit was a trial: they looked at me as an outsider, and I felt like a shadow.
I was 38 and not used to the new town, new people, their home. Constantly trying to please everyone wore me out. I was suffocated by the disorder the boys left, by their indifference. Aaron, the eldest, started bringing his girlfriend home while I was at work. They lounged in our bedroom, in our bed, soiling the sheets. She used my lotions, my hairbrush, slippers, trashed the kitchen which I spent hours cleaning. Matthew, the younger one, constantly whined: either the clothes I bought were wrong, or the food wasn’t like his mum’s. “You’re just a housewife, sitting at home doing nothing,” he would throw in my face. I endured as long as I could. But when I tried to talk to David, he brushed me off, as if my words meant nothing.
I longed to befriend the neighbors — they say they’re closer than family. But there was disappointment there too: everyone only talked about how perfect his late wife had been. And me? I’m alive, I loved him all those years, I left everything — my job, my city, my life — for him and his family. I decided: if I had a child, everything would change, they would respect me. But when I brought it up, David flatly said, “I have children, I don’t want more.” And me? I was left empty-handed, with my dream of motherhood crushed.
Everything spiraled downhill after that. David changed — he was no longer that boy from my youth. Life had drained the warmth from him, and he looked at me with irritation. He found flaws in me, nitpicked like his sons. I tried with all my might, but it was all in vain. My patience snapped when I returned from work and saw Aaron’s girlfriend in my dressing gown. She strutted around like she owned the place, and it was mine — personal, like underwear, something she could wear behind my back! I held my tongue, quietly asked, “Please don’t touch my things.” She laughed in my face: “Relax, it’s no big deal!” Why did she treat me like that? I fed her, cleaned up after her, like my own, and she spat in my soul.
I lost it, ran out of the room. David stormed out of the kitchen, red with anger, shouting at me. I stood there, dumbfounded, not believing my ears. He called me lazy, yelled for me to get out of his house, throwing things at me — a cup, a book, whatever was handy. Tears blinded me, I grabbed my bag and ran out in what I was wearing. I caught the first train back to Lymington, to my parents. The next morning, he sent my belongings via courier — coldly, without a note, like garbage.
Time heals, they say. I try not to dwell on it. The pain recedes, but the scar remains. I believe I will find someone who loves me — the real me, with my dreams and scars. David was my first love, but not my destiny. I wanted happiness, but got shards. Now I’m back at home in Lymington, among familiar streets, learning to breathe anew, hoping for a future filled with light rather than new wounds.
