He betrayed us, and now he wants to come back—but I don’t need that kind of happiness.
I met Alex at my first job in a little office in Manchester. Fresh out of university, I was young, naive, and greener than grass. Alex took me under his wing straight away—showed me the ropes, explained the tricky bits, even cheered me up when I messed up. I was endlessly grateful, and my heart melted under all that attention.
Before long, he was taking me out for lunch, giving me lifts home. The older colleagues whispered, “Watch yourself, Emily, that Alex is a right charmer.” But I brushed them off. Surely they were just jealous. To me, he was perfect—kind, thoughtful, the best man alive. I fell hard, and by the way he looked at me, I reckoned he felt the same. A year later, Alex proposed. I said yes without a second thought. We married and moved into my flat—a gift from my parents before the wedding.
At first, it was like a fairy tale. Then I got pregnant, went on maternity leave, and soon after—another baby. Two kids, sleepless nights, endless nappies. I changed—gained weight, swapped heels for slippers, traded pretty dresses for comfy pajamas. Who was going to see me at home, anyway? Alex hardly lifted a finger with the kids. I didn’t want to bother him—he worked hard, came home knackered. So I soldiered on, doing my best.
Then he started staying late at work, disappearing on weekends, always with excuses: business trips, “urgent errands.” Said it was all for us, and I believed him—until my best mate told me she’d spotted Alex in a posh restaurant with some young brunette, his new colleague. Daddy’s girl, with a swanky flat in Chelsea and a flash car. Alex didn’t even deny it. Admitted they’d been carrying on for six months and he was leaving me for her. “It’s your fault,” he said. “You stopped being a woman. All you care about is nappies, baby food, and gossip from the neighbours. She’s the real deal.”
I was shattered. “And what about me being the mother of your children? Carrying this house on my back, staying up all night when they’re ill?” I screamed. But he didn’t care. She hadn’t ruined her figure with childbirth, slept in silk masks while I rocked the pram. Alex packed his bags and walked out, leaving me with two babies and a broken heart.
It was a betrayal that nearly broke me. I barely ate, barely slept, barely wanted to live. Thank goodness for my mum—she took the kids while I pulled myself together. I realised: for my sons, I had to stand up. Alex wasn’t worth my tears.
Time passed. I got the boys into nursery, started a new job—couldn’t face the old one, haunted by memories. Lost weight, found my spark again, rebuilt my life. Then, out of the blue, like a bolt from the heavens—Alex reappeared.
Not once had he called, asked about the kids. Sent the bare minimum in child support, that was it. His mum, Margaret, wasn’t exactly knocking down the door to see her grandsons either—just the odd check-in call. My parents were my rock. Without them, I’d have drowned. And now, just as my life finally settled, he came crawling back.
I thought: fine, let him see the kids, he’s their father. But on his very first visit, it was obvious they weren’t his priority. He asked about *me*—was I seeing anyone, how was I getting on. Then he turned on the charm full blast. I was gobsmacked. “If you want to see your sons, that’s fine,” I cut in. “But I don’t need your kind of ‘happiness.’” I lied and said I had a bloke now, that life was brilliant. And guess what? Alex vanished again, like he’d never been there. The kids were once more an afterthought.
Now his mum’s ringing non-stop, lecturing me: “He’s had a change of heart, wanted to save the family, and *you* wrecked it, robbed your boys of their dad!” Turns out, his “love” kicked him to the kerb when she found someone wealthier. Nowhere else to go. Margaret doesn’t want him back—she’s got “her own life.” So suddenly, we’re his Plan B.
But I’m not daft. I don’t need that kind of “happiness.” I’ve already stepped on that rake—no need to do it twice. My boys deserve better than a father who only remembers them when he’s got no other options. What would you do? Forgive him for the kids’ sake? Or agree that sometimes, no dad’s better than a bad one?
