Since childhood, I was raised like a girl from a crystal palace. Only the best for me—the finest schools, tutors, trips abroad. Mum used to say, “You deserve nothing less than the best, don’t settle for anything ordinary.” Dad just sighed and nodded—his only daughter. But when it came to love, things didn’t go at all as I’d dreamed.
I didn’t meet my “prince” straight away. There were disappointments, fleeting romances, empty promises. Then Oliver appeared, and I thought this must be what love was supposed to feel like. He was courteous, attentive to every little thing, bringing flowers for no reason, reading poetry aloud, touching my fingers like they were something sacred. My friends were jealous—all except Sophie.
“Are you sure he loves *you* and not your father’s bank accounts?” she’d ask doubtfully.
I’d laugh. I trusted Oliver completely. Loved him—shivers, goosebumps, tears and all. We married quietly, for love, no grand reception. My parents gifted us a flat on the 25th floor of a new building. The view took your breath away. And Oliver, thanks to Dad, quickly became deputy director at the family firm. To his credit, he worked hard, no laziness. Dad even said he’d hand the business over to him one day.
We were the perfect couple. Or so it seemed. Years later, we talked about children. My parents wanted grandchildren. Oliver and I decided it was time. But pregnancy never came. Months of waiting, disappointment, tears. Tests revealed the issue was with me. I went through treatment, hormone therapy, tried to stay hopeful. Then we tried IVF. A few failed attempts crushed me. I became bitter, exhausted, withdrawn. But Oliver was there. Or so I thought.
My thirtieth birthday approached. My parents insisted on a party—music, guests, a warm gathering. They wanted to bring back my smile. I played along, though inside, everything was shattered. Mid-celebration, my phone rang. I stepped into another room to answer. Laughter echoed from the living room, but the voice on the line was cold. Steady.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she began. “I know this is hard, but as a woman, you’ll understand. Oliver and I have been involved for a while. And I’m carrying his child. He mentioned your struggles. Please let him go. He needs a son. My child needs a father.”
I listened without breathing. The room spun. I wanted to scream, hide, vanish. Suddenly, all those evenings he’d claimed to be at a friend’s, his mother’s, meetings—they made sense. So did his distance, his sharpness, his silence.
I wiped my face, steadied myself, and returned to the table. Smiled. Laughter caught in my throat, my eyes burned, but I held it together. After the guests left, only my parents remained. Then I said,
“Mum, Dad… Oliver’s been unfaithful. That woman is having his baby.”
The room went tomb-silent. Dad stood, walked slowly to my husband, and said lowly,
“You’re no son of mine anymore. Get out of my house.”
Mum took me home. She wanted to stay, but I asked her to leave. I needed to be alone. That night, Oliver returned. Stood in the hallway like a beaten dog. Begged forgiveness. Said he didn’t love her. That it was a mistake. That maybe she’d bewitched him. I stayed silent. Let him sleep there—not out of pity, but because I was too hollow to throw him out.
By morning, he was pleading again. Wanted me to smooth things over with Dad. Pretend all was well. I looked at him and saw a stranger. The love was gone. So was the trust.
He left. The woman, he said, was due soon. I didn’t know if it was true or manipulation. But I knew this—the child I’d longed for still wasn’t mine. And his would be. Just not with me.
Now I stand at a crossroads: let go or fight? But what’s left to fight for when he’s already betrayed me? A life without him terrifies me. But living with him? That’s no life at all.
