**Diary Entry – 14th October**
He left me for another woman. Then, twelve years later, he came back and spoke just a few words…
Edward and I married right after university. Back then, nothing could break us—youth, dreams, shared plans, and a love that felt endless. I gave him two sons, Oliver and James. They’re grown now, each with families of their own. But when they were little, I lived for them. For a home that was quietly crumbling—though I stubbornly pretended not to notice.
Edward began changing long ago. At first, it was harmless: fleeting glances at shop assistants, idle flirting. Then, his phone became a secret—taken to the loo, switched off at night. I understood but stayed silent. Told myself to endure it for the children. That any man might falter. That it would pass.
It didn’t.
When the boys grew up and moved away, the house grew quiet. And I could no longer lie—there was nothing left between Edward and me but memories. I couldn’t pretend it was all for the family anymore. So when *she* came along—younger, brighter, freer—he simply packed his things and left. No shouting, no explanations. Just the click of the door. And silence.
I didn’t stop him. Just sat at the kitchen table, staring at cold tea. Life split into *before* and *after*. *Before* held 28 years of marriage: seaside holidays, nights spent nursing a feverish child, redecorating the lounge, bickering over the telly remote. *After* was hollow.
I adjusted. Learned to be alone. Lived quietly—no resentment, no shouting matches, no dread of finding another woman’s name in his messages. Sometimes I missed him. Sometimes I remembered how he’d grumble over his morning coffee, insisting I’d bought the “wrong” brand of biscuits. But mostly, I found peace. The present, though lonely, was lighter than a past where I was never *enough*.
Edward vanished completely. No calls, no letters. He existed only in scraps of conversation with the boys. They visited him but seldom spoke of it. Like two parallel lines, we lived in the same city yet never crossed paths. Twelve years.
Then he appeared.
An ordinary evening. I was preparing supper when the doorbell rang. I opened it—and barely recognised the man before me. Edward seemed shrunken: hunched shoulders, dull eyes, an unfamiliar hesitance in his stance. He’d aged. Greyed. Thinned. Stood there silent, as if unsure why he’d come.
*”Can I come in?”* he finally said. His voice was the same, but laced with such pain my fingers tightened on the doorknob.
I let him in. We sat in silence—too much to say, yet no words fit. I poured tea. He fidgeted with the cup. Then, abruptly:
*”I’ve got no home left. That woman… It didn’t work. I left. Nowhere proper to live. Health’s gone shaky. Everything just… fell apart.”*
I listened. Didn’t know how to respond.
*”I’m sorry,”* he added softly. *”I made a mistake. You were the only one. I realised too late. Maybe… we could try again? Even just to—”*
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 dreamed of a cottage by the sea, argued over paint colours, weathered the mortgage and Oliver’s graduation.
But he’d stayed silent for twelve years. No birthdays. No *how are you?* Now he was back because he had nowhere else. Because he was alone.
I didn’t answer right away. Just whispered, *”I need to think.”*
Days have passed. He hasn’t returned. No calls. And I’ve been weighing it all—sifting memories, listening to my heart. It’s battered, but beating. And it’s silent.
I don’t know if I’ll forgive him. Don’t know if we *should* restart what crumbled. But I know this: love isn’t always the cure. Sometimes it’s the scar. And before reopening an old door, you must be sure the same pain doesn’t wait behind it.
