He abandoned me with three children and ageing parents to run off with his mistress.
He left me with three children and frail eldersgone to Italy with another woman.
I couldnt stop him.
It all began on my birthday.
Back then, I lived in a tiny village, with barely a penny to my name. The shop windows in town glittered with beautiful thingsmy eyes didnt know where to rest.
A pair of sandals caught my fancy.
I stood there, staring, imagining myself wearing them, strolling down the high street, heads turning in my wake
Then someone nudged me lightly.
I turned to find a man smiling at me.
“Lovely, arent they?” He nodded at the sandals.
“Yes” I murmured, still fixated.
“Fancy a coffee? If I buy them for you, will you let me take you out?”
I must have seemed painfully naïve to him, but at that moment, I didnt care.
“Alright,” I said.
I wanted that gift. I wanted to feel special, even if just for an evening.
We sat in a café. He ordered me cake, and I spilled my story.
I told him my parents were dead.
It was half true.
My father *was* buried, but my mother
Id buried her in my mind long agoshed left me as a babe.
I spun it all to stir his pity.
And it worked.
Thats how it started.
I came to town more often, and we met.
His name was Lawrence. He took me in, showered me with attention.
First the sandals, then dresses, jewellery, fine perfumes.
But no, I didnt become his mistress for the trinkets.
I loved him.
I thought he loved me too.
But I was a fool.
I made a mistakeI fell pregnant.
I braced for the worst:
*”Were through.”
“Sort it yourself.”
“Get rid of it.”*
Yet he said something else:
“Youll move in with me. Well raise this child together.”
I couldnt believe my luck.
We married.
I thought fate had finally smiled on me.
Then, one day, a knock came at the door.
I opened itand nearly fainted.
There stood my mother.
Holding a bag of pickled cabbage, as if wed parted yesterday.
A neighbour had told her where I lived.
She wanted to make amends.
And Lawrence learned the truth.
He learned Id lied.
His love vanished in an instant.
He shouted, called me a deceitful country girl, asked if my father would rise from the grave next, since I erased people so easily.
Then he threw us out.
Me, my mother, and her wretched cabbage.
I went back to my grandparents.
Sent my mother away.
And there I was, alone with my child.
But Lawrence returned.
“Come back,” he said. “We have a son.”
And I believed him.
Foolishly, I thought love conquered all.
Yet he didnt take me to his flat.
We moved into his parents old homeelderly folk needing care.
I agreed.
I did everything for him, his family, our boy.
Then I fell pregnant again.
Once, in anger, he snapped:
“Never forgetyoure only a guest here!”
Those words cut deep.
Still, I stayed.
I thought love could weather anything.
When the second babe came, he claimed money was tight, his business ruined.
Now we were equal: both penniless.
Then the third arrived.
I thought nothing could part us now.
He worked longer hours, left early, returned late.
I thought he was striving for us.
I didnt see it crumbling.
A ticket to Italya new life but not for me.
One day, he announced:
“I cant go on like this. Theres no future here. Im leaving England.”
I believed him.
He looked worn, defeated.
I even agreedlet him go, try his luck abroad.
But then, by chance, I uncovered the truth.
At the airport, two tickets to Italy.
One in his name.
The other for a woman hed been seeing for years.
I understood.
Yet I couldnt stop him.
He left.
And I remained.
With three children.
With his parents, who were no longer strangers.
In an empty house and a heart full of pain.
I dont know how to go on.
I only hope, one day, it hurts less.
