I dreamed of happiness, planned for the future, and was met with nothing but insults!
My name is Helen Collins, and I live in the quiet town of Cotswold, where the English countryside embraces its serene streets. I met him again at our high school reunion—20 years later. There he was, James, standing in front of me, broader in the shoulders, his hair tousled, but those same deep, soulful eyes looked right through me, just like they did 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 the old love hadn’t died.
Why did we break up? I don’t remember. We lived like husband and wife for three years, making plans: a cottage with a garden, a small flower and candle shop, coming up with names for our children—Emma, Oliver… Then he vanished—without a word, without a trace, leaving me in a void. At the reunion, after a few glasses of wine and some dances, we both knew: it was a chance to start anew. Six months later, I moved to his place in Canterbury. His wife had passed away, and I hadn’t found anyone with whom to build a nest. At first, everything was fine, but the dream of happiness turned into a nightmare.
I yearned for love and found nothing but degradation. James had two sons—16 and 18, Alex and William. I didn’t try to be their mother—it would have been foolish. I just wanted friendship, understanding, for them to accept me into their lives. I tried my best: surrounded them with care, cooked, bought gifts, conceded everything for peace in the house. But instead of warmth, I received coldness. It got worse when the parents of their late mother visited. I respected them as much as I could—they were part of the family. But each visit turned into a test: they looked at me as if I were an outsider, and I felt like a shadow.
At 38, I wasn’t accustomed to a new city, unfamiliar people, or their home. Constantly trying to appease everyone was draining me. I was suffocating from the mess left by those boys, from their indifference. The eldest, Alex, started bringing his girlfriend over while I was at work. They lounged around in our bedroom, in our bed, dirtying the sheets. She used my creams, my hairbrush, my slippers, wreaked havoc in the kitchen so much that I’d spend hours cleaning up after her chaos. The younger one, William, constantly complained: the clothes I bought for him weren’t right, the food wasn’t like his mother’s. “You’re just a housewife, sitting around doing nothing,” he’d throw in my face. I endured as long as I could. When I tried discussing it with James, he brushed it off, as if my words were empty.
I dreamed of befriending neighbors—they say they’re closer than family. But there too, I faced disappointment: everyone only talked about how perfect his late wife was. And me? I was alive, had loved him all these years, had given everything up—my job, my city, my familiar life—for him and his family. I decided: if I had a child, everything would change, and I’d earn respect. But when I broached the subject, James cut me off, “I have kids, I don’t want more.” And me? I was left empty-handed, with my dreams of motherhood crushed.
Everything fell apart after that. James changed—he was no longer the boy from my youth. Life had burned away his warmth, and he looked at me with irritation. He found faults in me, nitpicked, like his sons. I tried my hardest, but it was all in vain. The last straw was when I came home from work and saw Alex’s girlfriend in my robe. She paraded around the house as if she owned it, and this was mine—personal, like underwear she could wear behind my back! I held back, quietly said, “Please don’t touch my things.” And she laughed in my face: “Oh, don’t freak out!” Why did she treat me like this? I fed her, cleaned up after her like she was my own, and she spat in my soul.
I snapped, ran out of the room. James stormed out of the kitchen, red with anger, and attacked me with shouts. I stood there, dumbfounded, not believing my ears. He called me lazy, screamed for me to get out of his house, throwing things at me—a cup, a book, whatever was handy. Tears blurred my vision, and I grabbed my bag and fled outside as I was. I got on the first train back to Cotswold, to my parents. The next morning, he sent my things by courier—coldly, without a note, like trash.
Time heals, they say. I try not to dwell on it. The pain recedes, but the scar remains. I believe I will find someone who loves me—for who I truly am, with my dreams and my scars. James was my first love, but not my destiny. I wanted happiness, and ended up with shards. Now, I’m back in familiar Cotswold, surrounded by familiar streets, learning to breathe again, hoping that light awaits me ahead, not more insults.
