June 12th
Annie and I sat in the kitchen, clinging to each other in silence. Tears streaked down our cheeks, unstoppable. Abandoned together—mother and daughter, almost simultaneously. Me by my husband, her by her boyfriend. The only difference? She’s nineteen; I’m forty. But the pain? The same. The bitterness? Identical.
Neither of them had the decency to say it to our faces. Annie got a blunt message on social media: *”Excuse, I’ve moved on. Don’t look for me.”* Mine was a text: *”We should divorce. I’ve fallen for someone else.”* Twenty years of marriage, down to a single sentence. Twenty years of shared routines, holidays, raising our girl, tolerating his moods, his absences. And all I deserved was a line on a screen.
Two hours later, he showed up like it was just another errand. No words, no shame. He packed his things swiftly, avoiding my gaze. When Annie stepped out of her room, staring at him like he was a stranger, he didn’t even speak. Just walked out and shut the door.
Two days before, her boyfriend had vanished too—no explanation. While we were out, he’d cleared his things and left. The house turned unbearably quiet. We sobbed. Then came numbness. Then anger.
*”Mum, let’s change the locks,”* Annie suddenly said.
I nodded. We did. We purged everything that reminded us of them—clothes, trinkets, photos—bagged it all in black sacks and binned it. Kept only what mattered. Sold his tools. Gave the extra plates to neighbors—no need for two sets. Fixed the leaky loo, scrubbed the house clean, bought flowers for the windowsill. Just the two of us now. No men. No shouting. No tension.
*”Mum, can we get a cat?”* Annie asked one evening.
*”What about your father’s allergies?”*
*”Exactly why it’s perfect he’s gone.”*
So we adopted a kitten. Black. Clever. Eyes like a panther’s. He became our little joy.
I filed for divorce. My ex agreed to remove himself from the deed 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.
But I didn’t break. I joined a gym. Chopped my hair. Picked up extra shifts at work. They praised me for my drive. Annie started smiling again. Six months on, she went on her first post-breakup date. We lived. We breathed. We rebuilt.
Then, one evening, he came back. Knocked. Stood on the doorstep with a suitcase and a pitiful look.
*”She left me,”* he said. *”I want to come home.”*
*”There’s no home here for you,”* I replied, steady in the doorway.
Annie stepped beside me. *”Mum, don’t let him in. Please.”*
So I didn’t. Shut the door. He stood there, muttering: *”This is on you. You didn’t fight for me. You went cold. You—”*
And I thought: After twenty years, you couldn’t even look me in the eye to say you were leaving. A text. That’s all I got. And now you blame *me* for not taking you back?
Everyone expected me to fold.
*”You can’t manage alone,”* Mum said.
*”Don’t waste this chance,”* his mother insisted.
*”At forty, you’re past your prime,”* my sister whispered.
Even colleagues clucked: *”He came back. People make mistakes. Forgiveness is—”*
No. I didn’t forgive. And I won’t.
Some things aren’t meant to be forgiven. Not out of spite, but self-respect. You’re not a discarded toy to be picked up when convenient. Not a spare tire.
*”You’d really throw away twenty years over one mistake?”* he asked later, calling again.
*”I’d throw them away over 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.”*
I know now: No failed marriage erases your worth. No nostalgia is worth reopening old wounds.
Annie and I? We’re living. In peace. With our cat. And a new lock on the door.
Lesson learned: Never let someone treat your heart like a revolving door.
