**Diary Entry**
When Oliver and I got married, I was twenty, and he was just eighteen. We hadn’t planned on starting a family so soon, but two lines on the test made the decision for us. Nine months later, I gave birth to twins—two beautiful girls. The three of us had a whole life ahead. We were young, naïve, but full of hope.
Money was always tight. Oliver worked himself to the bone—days at the factory, nights at the warehouse, picking up shifts as a mover, a furniture assembler, whatever he could find. Even with newborns, I took on odd jobs from home—knitting, sewing, writing articles for clients. It was exhausting, and some days it felt impossible, but we pushed through. When the girls started nursery, I landed a proper job and got promoted within a year. We cleared our debts, even took a holiday. Life finally felt lighter.
Fifteen years. That’s how long we were together. Raising our daughters, juggling chores, sharing every high and low. But then something shifted. I noticed Oliver pulling away. He used to rush home—now he was always “working late,” though he’d changed jobs ages ago, and his hours were fixed. He’d insist it was overtime, emergencies, helping a mate. I believed him, because I trusted us.
Then, one day, my gut screamed at me. I checked his phone. Calls, texts, location history. The truth hit me like a train: he’d been cheating. For ages. Coldly, deliberately.
I confronted him. Maybe I hoped I’d misunderstood. But he just looked at me and admitted it. Said he’d reconnected with his first love—Louise, from secondary school. That he’d never stopped thinking about her. That he finally knew who he *really* loved.
I threw him out. No hesitation. He lingered at his mum’s for a while. She rang, begging me to forgive him, saying he was confused. I wouldn’t hear it. Filed for divorce. The hurt was suffocating. He hadn’t just betrayed me—he’d abandoned our family.
Time passed. He started coming around again. Said he missed us, wanted to be close. I was wary, but the girls missed him too. They didn’t understand, and I refused to drag them into our mess. Slowly, we rebuilt something—trips to the park, cinema outings, even a weekend in the Lake District. It almost felt normal again. He moved back in, unofficially. We were a family once more.
Then—another twist. I found out I was pregnant. Eight weeks along. My hands shook. Would he leave again? Oliver *said* he’d stay, but he spent more nights at his mum’s. And Louise—she never stopped calling. I even met her once, hoping to talk sense into her. But she just shrugged. “Not my problem. Let him decide.”
He decided. Moved in with her. Left me, pregnant, alone. Refused to acknowledge the baby. Saw our son once. *Once.* Then vanished.
Nearly two years now. I’m raising our boy by myself. My parents help. The girls are older—they pretend not to understand, but they do. As for Oliver? He’s erased us. No calls, no texts. I’ve learned to live without him. But the wound never quite closes. The pain of a husband’s betrayal is one thing. But a father walking away from his children for some ghost from the past? That’s a different kind of heartbreak. One I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
