**Diary Entry**
Fifteen years. Fifteen years we built a life together. When I married William, I was twenty, and he was barely eighteen. We hadn’t planned for a family so soon, but two lines on a test made the decision for us. Nine months later, I gave birth to twins—two beautiful girls. We were young and foolish, but full of hope.
Money was always tight in those early years. William worked tirelessly—days on the factory floor, nights at the warehouse, picking up odd jobs wherever he could. I juggled freelance work from home despite the sleepless nights, knitting, sewing, writing articles. There were moments when I wanted to give up, but we carried on. When the girls started nursery, I landed a proper job, even got a promotion within the year. Slowly, we clawed our way out of debt, managed our first proper holiday. Things felt lighter.
Then, something shifted. William grew distant. He used to hurry home, but now there were always excuses—overtime, helping a mate, last-minute shifts. His job had regular hours, though. My gut twisted, but I brushed it off. We were a team, weren’t we?
But one day, my instincts screamed at me. I checked his phone—calls, messages, location history—and the truth slammed into me. He’d been cheating. For months. Coldly, deliberately.
I confronted him, praying I’d misunderstood. Instead, he looked me in the eye and admitted it. Said he’d reunited with Lucy—his childhood sweetheart—and realised she was the one he’d never stopped loving.
I threw him out. He hesitated, went to his mum’s. She begged me to forgive him, said he was confused. I refused to listen. Filed for divorce. The betrayal burned, not just towards me, but towards our children.
Months passed. He started coming around again, saying he missed us. The girls were overjoyed—too young to grasp the truth—so I swallowed my pride. We went to the park, the cinema, even a weekend trip to the countryside. It almost felt normal again. He moved back in, unofficially. Foolishly, I let myself hope.
Then, another shock: I was pregnant. Two months along. My hands trembled. Would he leave again? William said all the right things, but he kept vanishing—nights at his mum’s, calls with Lucy stretching for hours. I even met her once, tried to reason with her. “Not my problem,” she shrugged. “Let him choose.”
He did. He chose her. Left me—pregnant—alone. Never acknowledged our son. Saw him once. Just once. Then vanished.
Almost two years have passed now. I’m raising my boy on my own, with my parents’ help. The girls are older; they understand more than they let on. As for William? It’s like we never existed. No calls, no messages. I’ve learned to live without him. But the ache lingers. Because the betrayal of a husband is one thing. The heartbreak of a father abandoning his children for some ghost of the past? That’s a wound that never truly heals. A story I’d never wish on anyone.
