When James and I got married, I was twenty and he was only eighteen. We hadn’t planned to start a family so young, but two lines on the pregnancy test made the decision for us. Nine months later, I gave birth to twins—two beautiful girls. The three of us faced a whole life ahead, full of youthful naivety and hope.
We lived modestly, always short on money. James worked tirelessly—days at the factory, nights at the warehouse, taking odd jobs as a mover or furniture assembler whenever he could. Despite nursing twins, I did what I could from home—knitting, sewing, writing articles for clients. It was tough, and sometimes it felt impossible, but we held on. When the girls started nursery, I landed a proper job and was promoted within a year. We paid off debts, took our first holiday, and finally breathed easier.
Fifteen years. Fifteen years of building a life together—raising our daughters, sharing chores, weathering storms and celebrating small joys. But then, something shifted. James grew distant. He used to rush home, but now he was always “working late,” despite having a steady job with perfect hours. He claimed emergencies, extra shifts, helping a mate. And I believed him, because I trusted we were a team.
Then one day, my gut screamed like a fire alarm. I checked his phone—calls, messages, location history. The truth stared back at me: my husband had been cheating. For a long time. Methodically. Coldly.
I confronted him, praying I was wrong. But he looked me in the eye and admitted it. He’d reconnected with his first love, Lucy, the girl from his school days. Said he’d never forgotten her, and now he finally knew who he truly loved.
I threw him out. No hesitation. He lingered at his mum’s, half-hearted apologies tumbling out. She 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.
Months passed. He started reappearing, saying he missed us, wanted to be close again. I was wary, but the girls longed for their dad. I shielded them from our mess as best I could. Slowly, we began spending time together—trips to the park, cinema outings, even a family picnic. It almost felt normal. He moved back in, unofficially. We were a family again.
Then—another twist. I found out I was pregnant. Two months along. My hands shook. Would he leave again? James said he’d stay, but in reality, he kept “staying over at his mum’s.” And Lucy—the school sweetheart—was always on the phone. I even met her once, hoping for sense or decency. She just shrugged. “Not my problem. Let him choose.”
He chose. Left me, pregnant, alone. Refused to acknowledge our son. Saw him once. Just once. Then vanished.
Nearly two years on, I’m raising our son alone. My parents help. The girls pretend not to understand, but they do. James? As if we never existed. I don’t call, don’t write. I’ve learned to live without him. But the wound remains—not just from a husband’s betrayal, but from a father abandoning his children for a ghost from the past. Some stories shouldn’t be repeated. Some choices leave scars no apology can heal.
