Emily and I sat in the kitchen, clinging to each other in silence. Tears streamed down our cheeks, unstoppable. We’d both been abandoned—a mother and daughter, almost at the same time. Me by my husband, and Emily by her boyfriend. The only difference was her nineteen years to my forty. But the pain? The same. The bitterness? Identical.
Neither of them had the decency to say it to our faces. Emily got a blunt message online: *”Sorry, there’s someone else. Don’t look for me.”* Mine was a text: *”We need a divorce. I’ve fallen for someone else.”* After twenty years of marriage. After shared routines, holidays, raising our daughter, tending to him, forgiving his temper, enduring his absence. And all I deserved was a line on a screen.
Two hours later, he arrived like it was just another errand. No words, no shame. He packed his things swiftly, avoiding my gaze. Only Emily rushed out of her room, staring at him like he was a stranger. He didn’t say a word. Just walked out and shut the door behind him.
Two days earlier, her boyfriend had vanished too. No explanation. While we were at the shops, he’d taken his things and left. The house became unbearably quiet. We sobbed. Then came the numbness. Then, the anger.
*”Mum, let’s change the locks,”* Emily suddenly said.
I nodded. We changed them. Then we changed more. We gathered everything that reminded us of them—clothes, trinkets, photos—and stuffed them into black bin bags. Tossed them out. Kept only what we truly needed. Sold his tools. Gave the extra dishes to the neighbours—no use for two. Fixed the leaky loo, scrubbed the house clean, bought flowers for the windowsill. We started living, just the two of us. No men. No shouting. No resentment.
*”Mum, can we get a cat?”* Emily asked one evening.
*”What about your dad’s allergy?”*
*”Exactly why it’s perfect he’s gone.”*
So we adopted a kitten. Black. Cunning. With eyes like a panther’s. He became our solace.
I filed for divorce. My ex agreed to take his name off the flat so I wouldn’t have to split the car. A week later, he was posting photos with his new *”love”*—a girl barely twenty-three. Three years older than our daughter.
And you know what? I didn’t lose my mind. Didn’t collapse. I joined a gym. Changed my hair. Picked up extra shifts at work. My boss praised my drive. Emily started smiling again. Six months later, she went on her first post-breakup date. We lived. We breathed. We began anew.
It would’ve been fine—if he hadn’t turned up one evening. No knock. Just stood on the doorstep with a suitcase and a stupid look.
*”She left me,”* he said. *”I want to come home.”*
*”There’s no home here for you,”* I replied calmly, blocking the doorway.
Emily stepped beside me. *”Mum, don’t let him in. Please.”*
So I didn’t. Shut the door. He stood there, muttering:
*”This is your fault. You didn’t hold on. You grew cold. You—”*
I stood there thinking: After twenty years, you couldn’t even look me in the eye to say you were leaving. You sent a text. And now you blame me for not taking you back?
Everyone expected me to reconsider.
*”You can’t manage alone,”* my mother said.
*”Don’t throw away your chance,”* my ex-mother-in-law urged.
*”At forty, no one else will want you,”* my sister whispered.
Even colleagues at work shook their heads:
*”He came back. He made a mistake. Forgiveness is possible—”*
No. I didn’t forgive. And I won’t.
Because some things can’t be forgiven. Not out of spite. Out of self-respect. Because you’re not a thing to be discarded and reclaimed. Not an old jumper. Not a backup plan.
*”You’d erase twenty years over one mistake?”* he asked later, calling again.
*”I’d erase them for your cowardice,”* I said. *”You could’ve left like a man. Instead, you ran like a boy. And only came back because it didn’t work out with her. That’s not love. That’s fear of being alone.”*
Now I know: No ex-husband defines your worth. No nostalgia is worth reopening old wounds.
Emily and I? We live. In peace. In quiet. With a cat. And a new lock on the door.
