Emily and I sat in the kitchen, clinging to each other in silence. Tears streamed down our faces, unstoppable. We’d been abandoned—mother and daughter, almost at the same time. Me by my husband, and Emily by her boyfriend. The only difference? She was nineteen, and I was forty. But the pain? The same. The bitterness? Identical.
No one had the decency to say it to our faces. Emily got a cold message on social media: *”Sorry, I’ve met someone else. Don’t wait for me.”* And me? A text on my phone: *”We should divorce. I’m in love with another woman.”* After twenty years of marriage. After shared bills, holidays, raising a child, forgiving his temper, enduring his absences. And all I deserved was a line on a screen.
Two hours later, he showed up like he was running an errand. No words, no shame. Just grabbed his things without so much as a glance at me. Only Emily bolted from her room, staring at him like he was a stranger. He said nothing. Just left. The door clicked shut behind him.
Two days earlier, her boyfriend had vanished too. No explanation. While we were out, he took his things and disappeared. The house fell into unbearable silence. We sobbed. Then went numb. Then—rage.
*”Mum… let’s change the locks,”* Emily suddenly said.
I nodded. We did. Then we purged everything that reminded us of them—clothes, trinkets, photos. Bagged it all in black bin liners. Tossed it. Kept only what we needed. Sold his tools. Gave the extra plates to the neighbours—no point keeping dinnerware for two. Fixed the leaky loo, scrubbed the house clean, bought geraniums for the windowsill. We lived, just us. No men. No shouting. No resentment.
*”Mum… can we get a cat?”* Emily asked one evening.
*”What about your dad’s allergy?”*
*”Exactly why it’s perfect he’s gone.”*
So we adopted one. Black, sly, with panther eyes. He became our comfort.
I filed for divorce. My ex agreed to sign the flat over so I wouldn’t fight for the car. A week later, he posted photos with his new *”love”*—a girl barely twenty-three. Three years older than our daughter.
And you know what? I didn’t break. I joined a gym. Chopped my hair. Took extra shifts. Work praised my focus. Emily started smiling again. Six months later, she went on a date. We lived. We breathed. We rebuilt.
Then one evening, he turned up. Knocked. Stood there with a suitcase and a stupid, hopeful look.
*”She left me,”* he muttered. *”I want to come home.”*
*”You don’t have one here,”* I said, calm, blocking the doorway.
Emily stepped beside me. *”Mum, don’t let him in. Please.”*
I didn’t. Shut the door. He stood there, voice muffled through the wood:
*”This is your fault. You pushed me away. You were cold. You—”*
And I thought: *After twenty years, you couldn’t even look me in the eye to leave. You texted. And now you blame me for not taking you back?*
Everyone expected me to cave.
*”You can’t manage alone,”* my mother said.
*”Don’t throw away a second chance,”* his mother pleaded.
*”At your age, no one else will want you,”* my sister whispered.
Even colleagues sighed: *”He came back. People make mistakes. Forgive him.”*
No. I didn’t. And I won’t.
Some things can’t be forgiven. Not out of spite—but self-respect. I’m not a toy you discard, then reclaim. Not a spare tyre. Not a backup plan.
*”You’d really erase twenty years over one mistake?”* he asked later, calling again.
*”I’d erase them for your cowardice,”* I said. *”You could’ve left like a man. Instead, you ran like a boy. And only came back because she dumped you. That’s not love. That’s fear of being alone.”*
Now I know: no ex-husband dictates your worth. No nostalgia is worth reopening the wound.
Emily and I? We live. In quiet. In peace. With our cat. And a new lock on the door.
