He left his children for his first love—and never looked back.
When Oliver and I married, I was twenty, and he was barely eighteen. We hadn’t planned a family so soon, but two lines on the test made the choice for us. Nine months later, I gave birth to twins, two beautiful girls. There were three of us now—and a whole life ahead. We were young, naive, but brimming with hope.
Money was always tight. Oliver worked himself ragged—days at the factory, nights loading lorries, extra shifts assembling furniture, whatever he could find. I, despite nursing twins, scraped by at home—knitting, sewing, writing articles for hire. It was hard, sometimes too hard, but we kept going. When the girls started nursery, I took a proper job, and within a year, I was promoted. We cleared our debts, even managed a holiday. Things were finally easing.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years together. Raising our daughters, grinding through life’s dull routines, sharing its little joys. But something cracked. I noticed Oliver pulling away. Before, he rushed home—now he was always “working late,” even though he’d long since left that job, and his shifts were steady. He’d say it was a favour for a mate, an emergency. And I believed him. Because I trusted we were still a team.
Then, one day, my gut screamed like a klaxon. I checked his phone—calls, messages, locations—and the truth was there. My husband was cheating. Coldly, methodically, for months.
I confronted him. Maybe I’d misunderstood? But he met my eyes and… admitted it. Said he’d found his first love, Margaret, the one from secondary school. That he’d never forgotten her. That now, finally, he knew who he truly loved.
I kicked him out. No hesitation. He waffled, stayed with his mum awhile. She called, begged me to forgive him, said he was lost. I didn’t listen. Filed for divorce. The betrayal burned—not just of me, but of our family. Our children.
Time passed. He drifted back. Said he missed us, wanted to be near. I didn’t trust it, but the girls missed him. I shielded them from our mess as best I could. Slowly, we rebuilt—trips to the park, cinema outings, even a weekend in the countryside. It almost felt whole again. He moved back in, unofficially. We were a family.
Then—another twist. I was pregnant. Eight weeks along. My hands shook. Would he run again? Oliver said the right things, but in reality… he kept “visiting” his mum. And Margaret—that schoolyard flame—never stopped ringing. I met her once, hoping to reason. To say, “We have children. I’m carrying another.” She just shrugged. “Not my problem. Let him choose.”
He chose. Left for her. Left me, pregnant. Never acknowledged the baby. Saw our son once. Once. Then vanished.
Nearly two years now. I raise my boy alone. My parents help. The girls pretend not to understand, but they do. And Oliver? Erased us. I don’t call, don’t write. I’ve learnt to live without him. But the hole remains. A husband’s betrayal is one pain. A father abandoning his children for some ghost from the past—that’s another story altogether. One I’d wish on no one.
