He betrayed us, and now he wants to come back—but I don’t need that kind of happiness.
I met Alexander during my first job out of university, fresh-faced and hopelessly naive, at a small accounting firm in Manchester. He took me under his wing straight away—explaining procedures, smoothing over my mistakes, even staying late to help me catch up. I was endlessly grateful, and my heart melted under his attention.
Soon, he was taking me out for lunch, offering lifts home. The older women in the office whispered warnings: “Watch yourself, Emily—Alex is a proper charmer.” But I brushed them off. To me, he was perfect—kind, attentive, the sort of man who made my chest tighten just by looking at me. A year later, he proposed. I said yes without hesitation. We married and moved into my flat—a gift from my parents long before the wedding.
At first, it was like a dream. Then came the first pregnancy, then maternity leave, then the second. Two babies, sleepless nights, endless nappies. I changed—swapped heels for slippers, dresses for pyjamas. Who was going to see me at home, anyway? Alex barely lifted a finger with the kids. I didn’t push—he worked hard, came home exhausted. I managed alone.
Then the late nights started. Weekends away—business trips, urgent meetings. “It’s all for us,” he swore, and I believed him. Until my friend spotted him at a posh restaurant in London with a sleek brunette—his new colleague. Some CEO’s daughter, with a penthouse in Mayfair and a shiny Range Rover. Alex didn’t deny it. “It’s been six months,” he admitted. “I’m leaving. You let yourself go—nothing but baby food and gossip. She’s the real deal.”
I was shattered. “And what about me raising your children? Carrying this house on my back while you swan about?” I screamed. He didn’t flinch. She hadn’t ruined her figure with childbirth, hadn’t traded facials for night feeds. He packed his bags and left—just like that.
The betrayal nearly broke me. I barely ate, barely slept. My mum saved me, taking the boys while I pulled myself together. For them, I had to stand. Alex wasn’t worth my tears.
Time passed. I enrolled the boys in nursery, found a new job—I couldn’t bear the old office, haunted by memories. I lost weight, found my spark again. Then, like a bolt from the blue, Alex reappeared.
Not once had he called. Not once asked about his sons. Sent the bare minimum in child support—that was it. His mother, Margaret, barely checked in. My parents were my rock. And now, just as my life steadied, he turned up.
I agreed—for the boys’ sake. But his first visit said everything. He barely glanced at them, just pestered me—was I seeing someone? How was I managing? Then the charm offensive began. I shut him down. “If you want to see your children, fine. But I don’t want your ‘happiness’.” I lied, said I was seeing someone, that life was good. And just like that—he vanished again.
Now Margaret calls daily. “He’s changed!” she whines. “He wanted to fix things, and you threw it away!” I found out the truth—his “love” dumped him for a wealthier man. Nowhere to go. Margaret doesn’t want him cramping her newfound freedom. So suddenly, we’re his fallback plan.
But I’m not a fool. That’s not happiness—that’s a trap. My boys deserve better than a father who only remembers them when he’s desperate. Would you take him back? Or would you say some scars don’t heal?
