He left for another woman. Twelve years later, he returned and only spoke a few words
He left for his mistress. And after twelve years, he came back and said just a few words
James and I married right after university. Back then, nothing seemed capable of tearing us apartyouth, dreams, shared plans, and a love that felt eternal. We had two children together, Thomas and Oliver. Now grown, they have families, responsibilities, lives of their own. But when they were small, I lived for them. For the family that, deep down, was already crumblingthough I stubbornly pretended not to see it.
James began to change even then. First, fleeting glances at the young shop assistants or women on the street. Then, his phone always in the bathroom, switched off at night. I knew, but I stayed silent. I told myself that, for the childrens sake, I had to endure. That any man might slip. That it would pass.
But it didnt.
When the boys grew up and moved on, the house felt hollow. And then I realisedbetween James and me, only memories remained. I could no longer lie to myself that I stayed for the family. When another woman entered his lifeyounger, prettier, freerhe simply packed his things and walked out. No shouting, no explanations. Just the door slamming shut. And then, silence.
I didnt stop him. I sat in the kitchen, watching my tea go cold. Life split into before and after. Before: twenty-eight years of marriage, holidays in Cornwall, nights spent nursing fevers, kitchen renovations, and bickering over the TV remote. After: nothing but emptiness.
Slowly, I adjusted. I learned to live alone. There was peaceno bitterness, no arguments, no fear of finding another womans messages on his phone. Sometimes, I missed him. Sometimes, I remembered him grumbling over breakfast about me buying the wrong yoghurt. But in time, I missed the quiet more than the pastwhere I was never enough.
James vanished completely. No calls, no messages. He only surfaced in conversations with the boys. They visited him, but rarely spoke of it. We were like parallel lines in the same city, never crossing. Twelve years passed.
Then, he appeared.
It was an ordinary evening. I was preparing dinner when the doorbell rang. I opened itand barely recognised the man in front of me. James looked different: shoulders hunched, eyes dull, an unfamiliar hesitation in his stance. He had aged. His hair was greying. He was thinner. And there he stood, silent, as if unsure why hed come.
Can I come in? he finally said. His voice was the same. But the pain in it made my fingers tremble on the doorknob.
I let him in. We sat in silence. Words wouldnt come. There was too much to sayand nothing worth saying. I made tea. He turned the cup in his hands, then sighed.
Ive got no home now. That woman It didnt work. I left. Ive been staying wherever I can. My health isnt what it was. Everythings fallen apart
I listened. And I didnt know what to say.
Forgive me, he whispered. I made a mistake. You were always the one. I just realised too late. Maybe we could try again? Even just to see
My chest ached. Here was the man Id shared half my life with. The father of my children. The firstand, deep down, the onlyman Id ever loved. Wed dreamed of a cottage in the Cotswolds, argued over paint colours, weathered the mortgage and Thomas graduation.
But he left me in silence for twelve years. No birthday wishes. No checking in. And now he was back because he had nowhere else to go. Because he was alone.
I didnt answer right away. I only said, I need to think.
Days have passed since then. He hasnt returned, hasnt called. And I Im still thinking. Weighing the pros and cons. Reliving memories. Listening to my heart. Its broken, but it still beats. And now, its quiet.
I dont know if Ill forgive him. I dont know if starting over is worth it. But one thing I do know: love isnt always the cure. Sometimes, its the scar. And before you reopen an old door, you must be certain the same pain you once fled isnt waiting inside.
