**Diary Entry**
I first met Daniel at a party hosted by a mutual friend—charismatic, charming, and smiling, he seemed to glow from within. It was the first time I’d ever truly been in love. Before him, I’d had no romances—I grew up in a small town, raised with strict rules, focus solely on studies. My parents wouldn’t even let me think about boys. I envied friends who had relationships, but I stuck to my path: first came the degree, then, perhaps, a family.
But Daniel changed everything. We grew close quickly—he was everything I’d unknowingly waited for. I bloomed beside him, and he, it seemed, did too. Even my strict parents approved of our union, and soon we had a quiet wedding. A year later, we welcomed twins—Oliver and William. It was bliss, but also a trial. I wasn’t ready for double the responsibility, but Daniel was there—helping, learning to be a father. We bathed them, fed them, took turns at night. He was patient, he tried. I believed we were lucky.
Then everything changed as the boys grew older. He became distant. Came home late, tired, snapping. I started to wonder—was he cheating? The truth came on its own: once, while he showered, a woman called his phone. She introduced herself as Abigail. And admitted she’d been seeing my husband for over a year. My world shattered. Then came Sophia. Then Emily. Followed by Charlotte and Grace. I forgave. For the boys. For the family.
I feared that if we split, my sons would grow up without a proper model of love. So I endured. Turned a blind eye. Scraped the betrayal from my soul. But when the boys grew up and left, the truth was plain: nothing remained between Daniel and me. We were like neighbours. No love, no respect. We divorced. He left. I stayed. Learned the quiet. The loneliness. Tried to fill the gap—with friends, hobbies, books. Lived. Without complaint. Without bitterness.
Twelve years passed. One autumn evening, a knock at the door. There he stood. Daniel. Grey, hunched, a stranger. He asked to come in. Wanted to talk. Over tea, he confessed: he’d never found happiness. Women came and went, jobs never lasted, his health faltered. He had nothing left. Alone. Miserable. Now he begged forgiveness. A fresh start.
And I sat there, lost for words. Twelve years—not a word, not a call, not even a birthday card. And now—forgiveness? A second chance? My heart ached. Yet it still raced—because some part of me still felt something. I’d never loved anyone else. Never let anyone in. He’s the father of my boys. Not a stranger. But not the man he was.
I didn’t answer. Sat, thinking. Searching for the strength to forgive. Or the strength to finally let go.
*Sometimes, the hardest choice isn’t between right and wrong—it’s between what was and what could be.*
