I dreamed of happiness, made plans for the future, but faced only insults!
My name is Helen Kravitz, and I live in Totnes, where the quiet streets of Devon are hidden in the shade of pine trees. I met him again at our high school reunion — twenty years later. Steven stood in front of me, a bit broader in the shoulders, with his hair all ruffled, but his eyes — large, deep, and filled with the same longing — pierced through me just like when we were young. He asked me for a dance, just like when we were a couple. I felt his warmth, his breath, his strength — and my body trembled, as if time had rolled back. That night he entered my dreams again, and I realized that my old love hadn’t died.
Why did we break up? I can’t remember. For three years, we lived like husband and wife, made plans: a cottage with a garden, a small shop selling flowers and candles, and we even thought of names for our children — Mary, Elijah… Then he vanished — without a word, without a trace, leaving me in emptiness. At the reunion, after a few glasses of wine and dancing, we both understood: this was a chance to start over. Six months later, I moved to his place in Carlisle. His wife had passed away, and I had never found anyone to build a home with. Initially, everything seemed fine, but my hopes for happiness turned into a nightmare.
I yearned for love, but received only humiliation. Steven had two sons — 16 and 18, Adam and Chris. I didn’t try to become their mother — that would have been silly. I just wanted friendship and understanding, for them to accept me into their lives. I tried my hardest: showered them with care, cooked, bought gifts, and compromised for the sake of peace at home. But instead of warmth, I got coldness. Things grew worse when their late mother’s parents visited. I respected them as much as I could — they were family, after all. But every visit turned into a trial: they looked at me like I was an outsider, and I felt like a shadow.
I was 38, unaccustomed to the new city, its people, and their home. Constantly trying to please everyone drained me. I suffocated from the disorder the boys left behind, from their indifference. The older one, Adam, started bringing his girlfriend over while I was at work. They lounged in our bedroom, in our bed, leaving stains on the sheets. She used my creams, my brush, my slippers, destroyed the kitchen so that I spent hours cleaning up her chaos. The younger one, Chris, constantly complained: the clothes I bought him weren’t right, the food wasn’t like his mother’s. “You’re just a housewife, sitting at home doing nothing,” he’d throw at my face. I endured as long as I could. When I tried talking to Steven, he brushed aside my words as if they were meaningless.
I wanted to befriend the neighbors — they say they’re closer than relatives. But there too I faced disappointment: everyone talked about how perfect his late wife was. And me? I’m alive, I loved him all these years, gave up everything — work, city, familiar life — for him and his family. I thought: if I had a child, everything would change, I’d gain respect. But when I brought it up, Steven cut me off: “I have kids, I don’t want more.” And me? I was left empty-handed, with my dream of motherhood shattered.
After that, everything went downhill. Steven changed — he was no longer the boy from my youth. Life had burned away his warmth, and he looked at me with irritation. He found faults in me, picked at me, just like his sons. I gave it my all, but it was in vain. The final straw was when I came home from work to find Adam’s girlfriend in my robe. She paraded around the house like she owned it, and it was mine — personal, like underwear she could wear behind my back! I held back, quietly said, “Please don’t touch my things.” And she laughed in my face: “Oh, come on, don’t freak out!” Why did she treat me like that? I fed her, cleaned up after her like she was my own, and she spat in my soul.
I snapped and ran out of the room. Steven stormed out of the kitchen, red with anger, and yelled at me. I stood there, speechless, not believing my ears. He called me lazy, shouted for me to get out of his house, threw things — a cup, a book, anything he could grab. Tears blurred my vision as I grabbed my bag and rushed out in what I had on. I took the first train back to Totnes, to my parents. The next morning, he sent my belongings by courier — coldly, without a note, like trash.
They say time heals. I try not to dwell on it. The pain subsides, but the scar remains. I believe I’ll find someone who will love me — the real me, with my dreams and scars. Steven was my first love, but not my fate. I wanted happiness, yet ended up with shattered pieces. Now, back in my familiar Totnes, among familiar streets, I’m learning to breathe again, hoping that the future holds light, and not more heartache.
