When William and I married, I was but twenty, and he barely eighteen. We hadn’t planned a family so soon, yet two lines on the test decided for us. Nine months later, I gave birth to twins—two beautiful girls. There were three of us then, with a whole life stretching ahead. Young and naive, yet brimming with hope.
We lived modestly, always short of money. William worked tirelessly—days at the factory, nights at the warehouse, taking odd jobs as a mover, a furniture assembler, whatever paid. Even with infants, I scraped by, knitting, sewing, writing for hire. It was hard. Some days I nearly gave up, but we endured. When the girls grew older, started nursery, I found proper work. Within a year, I was promoted. We cleared our debts, even managed a holiday. Life eased at last.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years together. Raising our daughters, sharing burdens and joys. But something broke. Slowly, I noticed William changing. Pulling away. Once, he rushed home; now, he lingered—”working late,” though he’d long since changed jobs, and the hours were steady. Duty, emergencies, helping a mate, he’d say. And I believed him, certain we were still a team.
Then one day, my gut wailed like a fire alarm. I checked his phone. Calls, messages, locations—everything fell into place. My husband was cheating. Coldly. Regularly. Without remorse.
I confronted him, laid it bare. Hoped I’d misunderstood. But he met my gaze and… confessed. Said he’d met his first love—Eleanor, from school. That he’d never forgotten her. That now, at last, he knew where his heart truly lay.
I threw him out. No hesitation. He lingered at first, moved in with his mother. She pleaded with me, insisting he was confused. I wouldn’t hear it. Filed for divorce. Fury and grief burned in me. He hadn’t just betrayed me—he’d betrayed our family. Our children.
Time passed. He began creeping back. Said he missed us, wanted to be near. Wary though I was, the girls clung to him. They didn’t grasp the truth, and I wouldn’t burden them. Bit by bit, we mended. Park visits, cinema trips, even a small family outing to the countryside. It almost felt whole again. He returned home, unofficially. We were a family once more.
Then—another twist. I learned I was pregnant. Two months along. My hands trembled. Would he flee again? William claimed he stood by me, yet… he often slept at his mother’s. And Eleanor—that schoolyard sweetheart—never left his ear. I met her once, hoping reason might prevail, to explain the children, the coming baby. She only shrugged. “This isn’t my doing. Let him choose.”
He chose. Left for her. Left me, pregnant and alone. Disowned the child. Saw his son once. Just once. Then vanished.
Nearly two years now. I raise my boy alone. My parents help. The girls understand, though they pretend otherwise. And William? As if we were never part of his life. I don’t call. Don’t write. I’ve learned to live without him. But the void remains. The pain of a husband’s betrayal is one thing. The pain of a father abandoning his children for some long-lost mirage—that’s another tale entirely. One I’d wish on no one.
