She left me and our daughters for a wealthy man… And then I saw her again in the supermarket.
Life sometimes wounds the heart as sharply as a knife. It’s painful, burning, and you find yourself wondering why. What did I do to deserve this?
I was married to Jane for ten years. We met as students in Manchester and later moved to London, where our adult lives took root. We had two daughters, Emily and Lucy, only a year apart. I worked for a construction company and earned a stable income. We didn’t live in luxury, but we had enough. We went on family holidays a couple of times a year, rented a spacious flat, could afford childcare, and even allowed ourselves small indulgences like new dresses or toys.
Jane stayed at home, working remotely, writing texts and running a few online shops. I always did my part: I washed dishes, took the girls out for walks, crafted with them, and helped with educational games.
I thought everything was fine with us. But then, one day, she just said:
“I’m leaving.”
At first, I didn’t understand. I thought she meant a holiday, a business trip, a temporary departure. But then she clarified:
“I’ve found myself. I want something different. More.”
She didn’t just leave me. She left her daughters. She left Emily and Lucy—four and five years old—with me. Without a second thought, no tears. A week later, I saw her Instagram account: a diamond ring, a yacht trip around Greece, champagne in a luxury hotel suite, designer gowns, with a caption—”a new life begins here.”
I couldn’t comprehend it for a long time. She chose this? The glitter, the luxury—and not a single call to the girls?
The hardest part was when the girls would ask every day:
“Dad, is Mum coming back?”
I didn’t know what to say. How do you explain to a child that their mum left not just you, but chose money over their tiny hands?
Two years passed. I managed. It was tough—very tough. Sometimes at night, I felt defeated; sometimes, I had to take sick days because I stayed home with the girls when they were ill. But we persevered. Emily started Year 1, and Lucy joined her in Reception. We became a team. I was their support, and they were my reason to keep going.
Then one ordinary weekday evening, I popped into the nearest supermarket for some milk and bread. I was standing at the checkout and froze. In front of me stood Jane.
The dazzling woman from Instagram was gone. In her place was a worn-out figure in a tattered coat, with weary eyes and trembling hands. Her purse held only change, and her basket contained bread, a packet of pasta, and the cheapest sausage.
Our eyes met. She went pale, as if she’d seen a ghost.
“It’s you…” she whispered.
I remained silent. Because I couldn’t tell what was stronger in me: anger, bitterness, or emptiness.
“How are the girls?” her voice trembled.
I clenched my fists.
“They’re wonderful. Because they have me.”
She looked away. Her lips quivered.
“I… I would like to see them.”
“After two years?” I felt my blood boil. “Have you ever once asked about them? Sent a postcard, even?”
She lowered her gaze.
“I made a mistake…”
I chuckled bitterly:
“A mistake is forgetting your umbrella when it rains. You left your children for a life of glamour. Did you really think yachts and gowns would ease your conscience?”
“He left me…” she murmured. “When he realized I was no longer what he needed. I was left with nothing. No home, no money. Not even rights to my child, because I renounced them myself.”
I looked at her hands—there was no ring on her finger anymore.
“And the girls? Were they just a temporary obstacle for you?”
“No…” she started to cry. “I know I don’t deserve forgiveness. But please… let me at least see them.”
I took a deep breath. The woman standing before me was not the one who left our home with her head held high. She was a broken person, an empty shadow of the one who once swore to love forever.
“They don’t remember you, Jane. They’ve long since stopped asking when you’ll come back. They’ve learned to live without you.”
“I don’t want anything… Just to see them. To hear their voices…”
I turned away, my heart aching. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to forgive.
But I knew one thing: Emily and Lucy were everything to me. And no one had the right to hurt them again.
“I’ll think about it,” I said and walked away.
And she was left there—amidst the supermarket, surrounded by strangers, with tears in her eyes and emptiness in her soul.
I don’t know how this will end. Perhaps, one day, I’ll let her talk to the girls. But I’ll never let them feel abandoned again.
