The man I had dreamed of left his wife for me, but I had no idea what it would lead to.
I had been infatuated with him since my university days, living in a small town near Reading. It was a blind, crazy love that blew my mind and made me forget everything else. When he finally noticed me, I lost what was left of my senses. We met years after graduating, working in the same law firm. Same profession, shared interests—I thought it was fate, my fairytale about to come true.
He seemed like the perfect man from my dreams. That he was married didn’t bother me in my youth—I didn’t understand the anguish hidden beneath broken marriages. I felt no shame when Richard left his wife for me. Who could have imagined this choice would bring me such sorrow? There’s truth in the saying: you can’t build happiness on someone else’s pain.
When he chose me, I was on cloud nine, ready to forgive anything. But in everyday life, he turned out far from a prince. His scattered belongings filled the flat, and he adamantly refused to do the dishes, leaving all the chores to me as if they were a heavy burden. I turned a blind eye then—love made me soft, pliable, nearly powerless.
He soon erased his past marriage from memory. They had no children, and he confessed the wedding was more her parents’ wish than his. “With you, it’s different; you’re my destiny,” he whispered, and I melted. My happiness was bright yet fleeting, like a flash of lightning. Everything changed when I became pregnant.
At first, Richard was overjoyed—a child, his child! We held a big family celebration, inviting relatives and friends. Toasts, wishes of happiness, health to the baby—that evening remains a warm memory amid an encroaching darkness. I don’t regret it, but after that night, my blind love began to flicker like a candle in the wind.
As my belly grew, I saw less of Richard at home. I went on maternity leave, and our encounters dwindled to late evenings. He was working late, attending office parties. I tried to endure, but it soon became unbearable. Domestic life turned into a nightmare: I struggled to move while pregnant, and his socks and shirts lay scattered everywhere, silent reminders of my naïveté. I asked myself if we rushed into having a child. Love fades over time, I knew, but I didn’t expect it to vanish so quickly.
He still brought flowers, chocolates, but I needed something else—I wanted him beside me for support and warmth. Then the truth came out. A casual chat with colleagues over coffee opened my eyes: a new employee had joined the office, young and spirited. Our team was already stretched thin, and my absence on maternity leave made things critical. Was it coincidence? I didn’t know if she was the one, but Richard definitely had someone new. His life now involved “work,” “meetings,” and “urgent events.” One day, I found a note with unknown initials in his coat pocket. My heart tightened, but I silently placed it back, deciding to play blind. The fear of being alone at seven months pregnant paralyzed me.
He complained I was “always on edge,” and every quarrel ended with his weary sigh, as if I were a burden. I feared bringing up the main issue—I knew it was the end. And it came. The most terrifying words I ever heard were: “I’m not ready for kids. I have someone else.” How he said it, I don’t remember—there was a ringing in my ears, the world was collapsing. I thought the pain and humiliation would drive me insane.
But I found strength. I filed for divorce, though every letter in the application felt like a blow to my heart. He didn’t expect me to act, to throw his things out the next day. Thankfully, the flat was rented, so splitting it wasn’t necessary.
“And the child? Think of the child! How will you support him?” he snapped as he left.
“I’ll manage. I’ll work from home. My parents will help. Mum always said you were a playboy, I should have listened,” I said, slamming the door.
Responsibility for my son gave me a backbone I never knew I had. Alone, I would have stayed, but for him—I could leave. Richard’s betrayal was so deep that I erased him from my life, as if he had never been. My eyes opened, and I saw his true self.
The first months post-divorce, including childbirth, were hell. I moved back with my parents in a nearby village—they welcomed me with open arms, especially delighted by their grandson. I missed Richard, but pushed those thoughts away. Deep down, I knew I’d done the right thing and would give my son everything I could.
As soon as I regained my strength, I began working—translating legal documents from home. There were months without income, but my parents supported me until I found clients. My son grew, the years passed swiftly. It hit me when I realized he needed his own space. My parents didn’t want us to leave, but I longed for independence—my own office, his own room for studying. By then, I could afford to rent a flat.
Life fell into place. Nursery became school, first year turned into fifth, and for the first time in years, I felt free and at peace. But then he reappeared. Our town is small, and everyone in the legal field knows each other. Richard found my office easily. How I regretted not moving further away! He claimed he’d “wised up,” regretted the past, and that he was “young and foolish.” He begged to meet the son he had never seen.
Legally, he has rights to visitation, and if he insists, he’ll get it. But the very thought chills me. It’s been weeks since that conversation. I said I’d think about it, but my mind is in turmoil—I don’t trust him and don’t want him near my son. Is this my penance? Payback for taking him from his first wife? I’m seriously considering moving to another city, to save us from a past that’s knocking on my door again.
