He left for another woman. Twelve years later he returned and said only a few words
I married Sérgio shortly after college. It seemed nothing could pull us apart: youth, shared dreams, common plans, and a love that felt eternal at the time. We had two sons, Tiago and Rodrigo. Theyre now adults with their own families, children, and responsibilities. Yet when they were small, I lived for them, for a family that was already crumbling insidebut I stubbornly pretended I didnt see it.
Sérgio began to change around then. First, fleeting glances at young cashiers in the supermarket or women on the street. Then the phone he took into the bathroom and turned off at night. I knew, but stayed silent. I told myself I had to endure for the kids, that any man could slip, that this would pass.
It didnt pass.
When the children grew up and left, the house emptied. I realized that between Sérgio and me only memories remained. I could no longer convince myself that everything was for the family. When another woman entered his lifeyounger, prettier, freerhe simply gathered his things and left. No shouting, no explanations. Just the door slamming shut and then silence.
I didnt stop him. I sat in the kitchen watching the tea grow cold. Life split into before and after. In the before there were 28 years of marriage, holidays in the Algarve, nights nursing sick children, kitchen renovations, and arguments over the TV remote. In the after, only a void lingered.
Gradually I adjusted. I learned to be alone. I lived peacefully: no resentment, no fights, no fear of finding another womans messages on his phone. Sometimes I missed him. Sometimes I recalled him sipping morning coffee and complaining about my wrong yogurt. Over time, I missed the calm more than the past, where I never seemed enough.
Sérgio vanished from my life entirelyno calls, no texts. He only appeared in conversations with the kids. They visited him, but rarely mentioned it to me. We were like two parallel lines in the same city, never intersecting. Twelve years.
Then he showed up.
It was an ordinary day. I was preparing dinner when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and barely recognized the man standing there. Sérgio looked different: hunched shoulders, a lifeless gaze, an odd hesitation in his posture. Hed aged, his hair now grey, his frame thinner. He stood silently, as if unsure why he was there.
May I come in? he finally asked. His voice was the same, but a deep pain made my fingers tremble on the knob.
I let him in. We sat in silence. Words wouldnt come. There was too much to sayand nothing that would help. I made tea; he turned the cup in his hands, then sighed:
I have nowhere to go. That woman it didnt work out. I left. Now I live wherever I can. My health isnt what it used to be. Everything is falling apart
I listened, unsure how to reply.
Forgive me, he whispered. I made a mistake. You were always the only one. I realized it too late. Maybe we could try again? Even if just to see
My chest ached. Here was the man with whom Id shared half my life, the father of my children, my first and, deep down, my only love. We had dreamed of a little house in Alentejo, argued about the livingroom wall colour, gone through the mortgage and Tiagos graduation.
But he had been silent for twelve years. He never wished me a happy birthday. He never asked how I was. And now he returned because he had nowhere else to go. Because he was alone.
I didnt answer immediately. I only said:
I need to think.
Since then days have passed. He hasnt returned, hasnt called. I keep thinking, weighing pros and cons, reliving memories, listening to my heart. He is broken, yet his heart still beats, though now in silence.
I dont know whether Ill forgive him. I dont know if its worth starting over. One thing I do know: love isnt always a cure. Sometimes its a scar. And before opening an old door, you must be sure that inside it isnt the same pain you once fled.
