**Diary Entry – 12th March**
She left me for another man after ten years of marriage. And a year later, there she stood on my doorstep—pregnant, broken…
I first met my wife, Emily, nearly twelve years ago. Back then, I was still studying at a construction college in Manchester, living in student halls. Emily had just moved from a small town in Yorkshire—frightened, lonely, out of place in this noisy world. We didn’t grow close straight away. I barely noticed her at first—she was so quiet. Always with her books, never speaking much to anyone.
But time worked its magic. After a few months, we started talking—cautiously at first, then late into every evening, never running out of things to say. She shared her fears; I shared my plans. Soon, we were moved into a family room—the warden saw how serious we were. And so, our life began.
I always knew what I wanted. To be a reliable man, a provider—someone who could build walls and keep warmth inside them. I told Emily early on: *”You won’t have to work. A woman’s place is at home, raising children. And if a man can’t support his family, he’s no man at all.”* She never argued. She cooked, cleaned, waited for me after work—we were a proper family.
In time, I climbed the ladder. Worked my way up from a site foreman to running my own construction firm. Bought a house in the suburbs, two cars—one for her. We lived the dream. Only one thing was missing: children. Years passed, and the house stayed quiet. We saw countless doctors, spent thousands of pounds, but nothing changed. I tried not to show my hurt. She stayed silent too, though her eyes were hollow. Eventually, we gave up. *If fate won’t allow it, so be it.*
Then, without warning—everything shattered.
I came home half an hour early to beat the traffic. Emily’s car wasn’t in the drive, the gate wide open. Odd. I waited. The evening dragged. Then—a text from an unknown number:
*”Forgive me. I can’t live this lie anymore. There’s someone else. He’s going home, and I’m going with him. I lied to you, but maybe one day you’ll forgive me…”*
The world dissolved. I sat on the floor in the house I’d built for two, now empty. Only my mate from work pulled me out—stopped me from drinking myself into oblivion or disappearing altogether.
Time passed. I learned to breathe again. Saw Emily in photos online—somewhere in the Highlands. And I couldn’t shake her from my mind. Everything here reminded me of her. I prayed she’d come back. The universe listened.
A year to the day—the doorbell rang. I opened it… and nearly collapsed. There she stood. Thin, gaunt, in dirty, torn clothes. And pregnant. Very pregnant.
Emily fell to her knees, sobbing, begging forgiveness. The man she left me for had thrown her out—she’d cheated on him too. She had nothing: no money, no home, no hope. No one to take her in—except me.
You might call me a fool. Say I should’ve slammed the door. But I couldn’t. Because despite everything, I still loved her. Because even through the pain, I wanted her back. Because everyone makes mistakes. And if I didn’t forgive her, I’d lose what little of myself remained.
Years have passed. We have a son now—the one I thought we’d never have. I love him as my own, because he *is* mine—by choice, by love. And I love Emily too, though the scar on my heart will never fade.
I’ve never thrown it back at her. Never reminded her. Because real love isn’t loving someone *for* something—it’s loving them *despite* everything.
