I dreamed of happiness, made plans for the future, and all I got were insults!
My name is Helen Crawford, and I live in the town of Thornley, where the county of Surrey hides its quiet lanes among the oaks. I saw him again at the reunion—20 years had passed. James stood before me, a bit broader in the shoulders, with tousled hair, but his eyes—large, deep, filled with the same longing—pierced right through me, just like in our youth. He asked me to dance, just like when we were a couple. I felt his warmth, his breath, his strength—and my body trembled as if time had rolled back. That night, he invaded my dreams once more, and I realized that old love hadn’t died.
Why did we part ways? I can’t recall. For three years, we lived as husband and wife, making plans: a cottage with a garden, a little shop selling flowers and candles, picking out names for our future kids—Molly, Ian… Then, without a word, he vanished, leaving me in emptiness. At the reunion, after a few glasses of wine and dancing, we both knew: this was a chance to start fresh. Six months later, I moved to York, to his home. His wife had passed, and I never found someone to nest with. At first, everything was fine, but dreams of happiness turned into a nightmare.
I wanted love, but all I got was humiliation. James had two sons—ages 16 and 18, Adam and Kevin. I didn’t try to be their mother—that would have been foolish. I just wanted friendship, understanding, for them to accept me into their lives. I gave my best: showered them with care, cooked for them, bought gifts, always yielding for peace at home. But instead of warmth, I faced coldness. It got worse when their late mother’s parents visited. I respected them as much as I could—they were part of the family, after all. But every visit was a trial: they looked at me like an outsider, and I felt like a shadow.
I was 38, unaccustomed to the new town, new people, their home. Constantly trying to please everyone was exhausting. I suffocated from the mess the boys left, from their indifference. The older one, Adam, started bringing his girlfriend over when I was at work. They lounged in our bedroom, in our bed, left the sheets dirty. She used my creams, my hairbrush, my slippers, wrecked the kitchen so much that I spent hours cleaning her mess. The younger one, Kevin, always complained: the clothes I bought weren’t right, the food wasn’t like his mum’s. “You’re just a housewife, sitting at home doing nothing,” he barked at me. I endured until I couldn’t. And when I tried to talk to James, he dismissed me as if my words were empty.
I wanted to befriend the neighbors— they say they’re closer than relatives. But disappointment awaited me there too: everyone only talked about how perfect his late wife was. And me? I was alive, I loved him all these years, left everything—my job, my city, my familiar life— for him and his family. I decided: if I had a child, everything would change, I’d gain respect. But when I brought it up, James cut me off: “I have kids, I don’t want more.” And me? I was left with empty hands, with a shattered dream of motherhood.
After that, it all fell apart. James changed—he was no longer the boy from my youth. Life burned out his warmth, and he looked at me with irritation. He picked on my flaws, nagged me just like his sons. I tried my hardest, but it was all in vain. My patience snapped when I came home from work and saw Adam’s girlfriend in my robe. She walked around like she owned the place, and it was mine—personal, like underwear she might wear behind my back! I held it in, quietly said, “Please don’t touch my things.” She laughed in my face: “Oh, come on, don’t be so uptight!” Why did she treat me this way? I fed her, cleaned up after her like my own, and she spat on my soul.
I broke down, ran out of the room. James stormed out of the kitchen, red with fury, and jumped at me, yelling. I stood there, speechless, unbelieving. He called me lazy, shouted at me to get out of his house, threw things at me—a mug, a book, whatever was at hand. Tears blinded me, I grabbed my bag and fled to the street in what I was wearing. I took the first train back to Thornley, to my parents. The next morning, he sent my things via courier—coldly, without a note, like trash.
Time heals, they say. I try not to think about it. The pain softens, but the wound remains. I believe I will find someone who loves me—for who I truly am, with my dreams and scars. James was my first love, but not my destiny. I sought happiness and ended up with shards. Now I’m back in Thornley, among familiar streets, learning to breathe anew, hoping that light, not new slanders, awaits me ahead.
