Me and my daughter were sitting there crying—after twenty years of marriage, my husband left me… with just a text message.
We were in the kitchen, me and Lily, holding each other, completely silent. Tears rolled down our cheeks—we couldn’t stop them. Abandoned, the two of us. Mother and daughter, at the same time. Me by my husband, Lily by her boyfriend. The only difference? She’s nineteen. I’m forty. But the hurt? Just the same. The bitterness? Identical.
Neither of them had the guts to say it to our faces. Lily got a quick message from him online: *“Sorry, I’m with someone else. Don’t look for me.”* And me? A text: *“We need a divorce. I’ve fallen for someone else.”* After twenty years. After shared bills, holidays, trips, after I raised our girl, looked after him, put up with his moods, endured his absences. And all I got? One line on a screen.
Two hours later, he turned up like it was just another errand. No shame, no conversation. Packed his things in silence. Didn’t even glance my way. Lily ran out of her room, staring at him like he was a stranger. He didn’t say a word. Just walked out. Shut the door behind him.
Her boyfriend had vanished two days before, same story. While we were at the shops, he cleared his things and left. The house went dead quiet. We sobbed. Then came the numbness. Then the anger.
*“Mum… let’s change the locks,”* Lily suddenly said.
I nodded. And we did. We sorted through everything that reminded us of them—clothes, bits and bobs, photos. Bagged it. Bin day couldn’t come fast enough. Kept only what we needed. Sold his tools. Gave the spare plates to the neighbours—who needs that many for just two? Fixed the loo, scrubbed the place, picked up flowers for the windowsill. Just us now. No shouting. No sulking.
*“Mum… d’you think we could get a cat?”* Lily asked one evening.
*“But what about your dad’s allergies?”*
*“Exactly. Good riddance.”*
So we got one. A sleek little black cat, with eyes like a panther’s. Oozing mischief. Became our little joy.
I filed for divorce. The ex agreed to sign the flat over if I didn’t fight him for the car. A week later, he was posting pictures of his new fling—some girl barely twenty-three. Just three years older than our daughter.
And y’know what? I didn’t lose it. Signed up at the gym. Changed my hair. Took on extra shifts. Bosses noticed—started praising me. Lily smiled again. Dated someone new six months later. We just… lived. Breathed. Started over.
Would’ve been fine, if he hadn’t turned up one night. No call. Just there, on the doorstep, suitcase in hand, looking like a lost puppy.
*“She left me,”* he said. *“I want to come home.”*
*“This isn’t your home anymore,”* I told him, calm as anything, blocking the door.
Lily stepped up beside me. *“Mum, don’t let him in. Please.”*
So I didn’t. Shut the door. And there he was on the other side, mumbling:
*“It’s your fault. You pushed me away. You were cold. You—”*
And all I could think was: eighteen years, and you couldn’t even tell me to my face you were leaving. A bloody *text*. And now you blame *me* for not taking you back?
Everyone expected me to cave.
*“You can’t manage alone,”* my mum said.
*“Don’t waste your chance,”* his mother nagged.
*“At forty, no one else will want you,”* my sister whispered.
Even at work, colleagues sighed: *“He came back, though. Made a mistake. You could forgive…”*
No. I didn’t. And I won’t.
Because some things, you don’t forgive. Not out of spite. Out of self-respect. You’re not some toy to be tossed aside and picked up later. Not a spare tyre. Not a backup plan.
*“You’d really throw away twenty years over one slip-up?”* he asked later, when he tried calling.
*“I’m throwing them away because you were a coward,”* I said. *“You could’ve left like a man. Instead, you snuck off like a boy. And only crawled back because she ditched you. That’s not love. That’s fear of being alone.”*
Now I know: no ex can erase your worth. No memory is worth letting them hurt you twice.
Me and Lily? We’re good. Quiet. Peaceful. With our cat. And a brand-new lock on the door.
