He left me with three children and ageing parents to run off with his mistress.
I couldnt stop him.
It all began on my birthday.
At the time, I lived in a small village, with little to my name, and in the shop windows of the nearby town, there were so many lovely thingsmy eyes didnt know where to rest.
I had taken a particular fancy to a pair of sandals.
I stood there, gazing at them, imagining myself wearing them, strolling down the high street, turning heads as I passed
Then someone nudged me gently with their elbow.
I turned and saw a man standing before me, smiling.
“Lovely, arent they?” he said, nodding at the sandals.
“Yes” I murmured, still staring at the window.
“Fancy a coffee? If I buy you those sandals, will you go on a date with me?”
I knew I must have seemed naïve and foolish to him, but in that moment, I didnt care.
“Alright,” I replied.
I wanted that gift. I wanted to feel special, even if just for an evening.
We sat in a café, he ordered me cake, and I began to tell him my story.
I told him my parents had passed away.
It was partly true.
I had indeed buried my father, but my mother
My mother, I had “buried” in my mind long ago, for she had left me as a baby.
I spun the tale to stir his pity.
And it worked.
That was how it all began.
I came into town more often, and we spent time together.
His name was Laurence. He took me into his home, surrounding me with affection.
First, it was the sandals, then dresses, jewellery, fine perfumes.
But noI didnt become his mistress for the gifts.
I loved him.
I believed he loved me too.
But I was naïve.
I made a mistakeI fell pregnant.
And I expected to hear anything but:
“Move in with me. Well raise this child together.”
I couldnt believe my luck.
We married.
I thought fate had finally smiled upon me.
Then one day, there was a knock at the door.
I opened itand nearly fainted.
Standing there was my mother.
With a sack of pickled cabbage, as if wed seen each other just yesterday.
A neighbour had told her where I lived now.
She wanted to make amends.
And Laurence learned the truth.
He learned I had lied.
And just like that, his love vanished.
He shouted, called me a provincial fraud, asked if my father would rise from the grave next, since I erased people so easily from my life.
And he threw us outme, my mother, and her pickled cabbage.
I went back to my grandparents.
I sent my mother away.
And I was left alone with my child.
But Laurence came back.
“Lets try again,” he said. “We have a son.”
And I believed him.
Fool that I was, I thought love could conquer all.
But he didnt take me back to his flat.
We moved into his parents old houseelderly folk who needed tending.
I agreed.
I did everything for him, for his parents, for our son.
Then I fell pregnant again.
One day, we argued, and in anger, he reminded me:
“Dont forgetyoure only a guest here!”
Those words cut deep.
Yet I stayed.
I still believed love could endure.
When the second child came, he said money was tight, his business had failed.
Now we were equalI had nothing, and neither did he.
Then the third arrived.
I thought now, surely, nothing would changewe would stay together no matter what.
He began working longer hours, leaving early, returning late.
I thought he was striving for his family.
I didnt see it crumbling.
One day, he announced:
“I cant live like this. Theres no future here. Im leaving the country.”
I believed him.
He was exhausted, worn down.
I even agreedlet him go, let him find success elsewhere.
But then, by chance, I discovered the truth.
At the airport, there were two tickets for a flight to Italy.
One in his name.
And one in the name of a woman hed been seeing for years.
I understood.
But I couldnt stop him.
He left.
And I stayed.
With three children.
With his parents, who were no longer strangers to me.
In an empty house and a heart full of grief.
I dont know how to go on now.
I only hope, one day, it will hurt less.
