He left for another. Twelve years later, he returned and spoke only a few words
He left for his mistress. And after 12 years, he came back and said only a few words
Emily and William married right after university. It felt like nothing could tear us apartyouth, dreams, shared plans, and a love that seemed eternal back then. I bore him two sons, Oliver and Henry. Now grown, each with families of their own, responsibilities, lives. But when they were young, I lived for them. For the family that, deep down, was already crumblingthough I stubbornly pretended not to see.
William began changing even then. First, stolen glances at the young checkout girls in Tesco or women on the street. Then, the mobile phone he took into the loo, switched off at night. I knew, but I stayed silent. Told myself that for the children, I had to endure. That any man could slip. That this would pass.
But it didnt.
When the boys grew up and moved on, the house emptied. And then I knew: between William and me, only memories remained. I could no longer lie to myself that it was all for the family. And when another woman entered his lifeyounger, prettier, freerhe simply packed his things and walked out. No shouting, no explanations. Just the door slamming shut. Then, silence.
I didnt stop him. I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the tea going cold. Life split into “before” and “after.” The “before” held 28 years of marriage, holidays in Cornwall, nights in the childrens rooms when they were ill, kitchen renovations, petty rows over the telly remote. The “after” was just hollow space.
Slowly, I adjusted. Learned to be alone. Lived in peace: no resentment, no arguments, no dread of finding another womans texts on his phone. Sometimes, I missed him. Sometimes, I remembered him sipping morning coffee, grumbling about me buying “the wrong yoghurt.” But as time passed, I missed the quiet more than the pastwhere I was never enough.
William vanished from my life completely. Not a call, not a text. He surfaced only in conversations with the boys. They visited him, but rarely spoke of it. We were like parallel lines in the same city, never crossing. Twelve years.
And then, he appeared.
An ordinary day. I was making supper when the doorbell rang. I opened it and barely recognised the man before me. William looked differentshoulders slumped, eyes lifeless, a strange hesitation in his stance. Hed aged. Hair gone grey. Thinner. And there he stood, silent, as if he didnt even know why hed come.
“Can I come in?” he finally asked. The voice was the same. But there was a pain so deep my fingers trembled on the doorknob.
I let him in. Silence stretched between us. Words wouldnt come. Too much to sayyet nothing worth saying. I made tea. He turned the cup in his hands. Then, sighed:
“Ive no home left. That woman It fell apart. I left. Now Im just drifting. Healths not what it was. Everythings gone wrong”
I listened. And didnt know how to reply.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I made a mistake. You were always the one. I just realised too late. Maybe we could try again? Even just to see”
My chest ached. Here was a man Id shared half my life with. Father of my children. The first, and in truth, the only man Id ever loved. Wed dreamt of a cottage in Devon, bickered over living room paint, weathered the mortgage and Olivers graduation.
But hed been silent for 12 years. No birthday wishes. No asking how I was. And now he returned because he had nowhere else to go. Because he was alone.
I didnt answer right away. Only said:
“I need to think.”
Days have passed since. He hasnt come back, hasnt called. And I Im still thinking. Weighing pros and cons. Reliving memories. Listening to my heart. Its broken, but still beats. And now, its quiet.
I dont know if Ill forgive him. Dont know if starting over is worth it. But one thing I do know: love isnt always the cure. Sometimes, its the scar. And before you reopen an old door, youd better be certain the same pain you once fled isnt still waiting behind it.
