**Diary Entry – 12th October**
He left me for another woman. Then, after twelve long years, he turned up on my doorstep and said just a few words…
James and I married right after university. Back then, it felt like nothing could break us—youth, dreams, shared plans, and a love that seemed unshakable. I gave him two sons, William and Thomas. Now they’re grown men with their own families, their own worries. But when they were little, they were my whole world. I lived for them. For our family, even as it quietly crumbled—though I pretended not to see.
James started changing long ago. At first, it was just harmless flirting—lingering glances at shop assistants, at women in the street. Then came the phone calls taken in the bathroom, the device switched off at night. I knew. But I stayed quiet. Told myself I had to endure it for the children. That any man could slip. That it would pass.
It didn’t pass.
Once the boys grew up and moved on, the house felt hollow. And suddenly, it was clear—between James and me, there was nothing left but memories. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore, couldn’t pretend it was all for the sake of the family. And when another woman appeared in his life—younger, brighter, freer—he simply packed his things and left. No shouting, no explanations. Just the click of the door. Then silence.
I didn’t stop him. Just sat at the kitchen table, staring at my cold tea. Life split into *before* and *after*. Before was twenty-eight years of marriage: holidays in Cornwall, sleepless nights with feverish children, redecorating the living room, bickering over the telly remote. After was emptiness.
I adjusted. Learned to be alone. Life grew quiet—no resentment, no arguments, no dread of finding another woman’s lips in my husband’s messages. Sometimes I missed him. Sometimes I’d remember him grumbling over his morning coffee because I’d bought the wrong brand of butter. But more often than not, I found peace. This solitude, however lonely, was easier than the past—where I was never enough.
James vanished completely. No calls, no messages. The boys saw him now and then, though we never spoke of it. Like two parallel lines, we lived in the same city yet never crossed paths. Twelve years.
Then he showed up.
An ordinary evening. I was fixing supper when the doorbell rang. I answered—and barely recognised the man standing there. He looked haggard, shoulders hunched, eyes dull. His hair had greyed, his frame thinned. And he just stood there, mute, as if he didn’t quite know why he’d come.
*”May I come in?”* he finally said. His voice was the same. But the pain in it made my fingers tighten on the door.
I let him in. Silence settled between us. Too many words, none of them the right ones. I made tea. He turned the cup in his hands. Then, suddenly, he spoke.
*”I’ve got nowhere left to go. That woman—it didn’t work out. My health’s gone downhill. Everything… just fell apart.”*
I listened. Didn’t know what to say.
*”I’m sorry,”* he added softly. *”I was wrong. You were the only one. I realised too late. Maybe… maybe we could try again?”*
My chest ached. Here was the man I’d shared half my life with. The father of my children. My first and only love. We’d dreamt of a cottage by the sea, argued over wallpaper, weathered the mortgage, celebrated William’s graduation.
But he’d stayed silent for twelve years. Not a birthday wish. Not a single *”How are you?”* And now he was back—because he had nowhere else.
I didn’t answer straight away. Just whispered, *”I need time.”*
Days have passed since then. He hasn’t called. And I’ve been thinking. Weighing it all. Turning memories over, listening to my heart. It’s been broken, but it still beats. And for now—it’s silent.
I don’t know if I can forgive him. Don’t know if I should open that door again. But I do know this: love isn’t always the cure. Sometimes, it’s the scar. And before you unlock the past, you’d better be sure the same pain isn’t waiting behind it.
