Everything has a way of coming back around… My husband filed for divorce and went back to his ex!
I used to think I was a master in the game of love. Yet life taught me a harsh lesson: every action has consequences, and sooner or later, the bill arrives.
I got married at 25—not too early, but not late either. The desire to avoid going back to my small hometown, where everyone knows everyone else’s business, pushed me to stay in London. There, I could enjoy the anonymity I’d always dreamed of.
My friend’s boyfriend…
Let me tell you about Alex, a tall, brown-eyed guy who was dating my old school friend Lisa. This only fueled my thrill to win him over. Alex also seemed open to flirting behind Lisa’s back.
Casually, we began seeing each other even while he was still with Lisa. I wasn’t hiding my other encounters; Alex was aware he wasn’t the only one in my life. And he wasn’t free either, right?
One day, Alex saw me getting out of another man’s car. After the car drove away, Alex approached me, saying we needed to talk. He declared he didn’t want to share me with anyone else and couldn’t imagine being with another woman. He offered to leave Lisa and start a life with me. The idea appealed to me, especially since it solved my housing issue and might annoy haughty Lisa.
We moved in together, but within weeks, I got bored, craving variety and excitement. I realized this when I bumped into Liam, an old flame with whom I’d once had a lot of fun. We went for coffee, relaxed, and ended up at his place. It was fun and invigorating. A fortnight later, we did it again and started meeting up for fun, without strings attached.
Gradually, I reverted to my old ways, seeing different men. Eventually, I left Alex a note: “I don’t want to live together anymore.” Plain and simple, without explanation.
An unexpected twist…
A month later, I found out I was pregnant. Panicking, I went back to Alex. Once he learned about the baby, he proposed marriage. I accepted—not out of mad love, but because it seemed the right and easy thing to do. Plus, it meant I didn’t have to return to that dreary little town.
A year after our son was born, I was pregnant again, another little boy. Caring for two young children and managing the household took up all my energy. Alex worked long hours, driven and often home late. Perhaps he wasn’t in a rush to come home to a tired wife and noisy kids. I wasn’t great company: exhausted, irritable, without a spare moment. I waited for Alex to get home so I could start complaining.
But… I had to pay the price.
You might wonder about the father of my eldest son. Was it Alex or someone else? I considered it irrelevant. It could have been Alex, could have been not. I told myself, “People make mistakes; I was young, it wasn’t intentional…”
I still don’t know who my oldest son’s father is, and it’s unlikely I ever will. Everyone believes it’s Alex—himself, our son, our family.
But does it matter, seeing as Alex stopped caring about the kids anyway? Not because of any doubts over paternity. One evening, when the kids were 4 and 2, I came home to find a note: “I’m filing for divorce. It’s not working between us.”
We got divorced. Now I’m raising the children alone. Alex pays child support, barely enough. At least he left us the flat—enough to live in until the kids reach adulthood.
And Alex did remarry… to Lisa. Now they’re expecting their first child.
