I met Daniel at a party hosted by a mutual friend—bright, charming, with a smile that glowed from within. It was the first time I’d truly fallen in love. Before him, there had been no romances—I’d grown up in a small town, raised strictly, with all focus on studies. My parents wouldn’t even let me think about boys. I envied friends who had relationships, but I stayed the course: first a degree, then, perhaps, a family.
But Daniel changed everything. We grew close quickly—he was the one I’d been waiting for, though I hadn’t known it. I bloomed beside him, and he, too, seemed alive in new ways. Even my stern parents approved, and soon we had a quiet wedding. A year later, our twins arrived—Oliver and Henry. It was joy, but also a trial. I wasn’t ready for double responsibility, but Daniel stood by me—learning to be a father, helping with baths, feedings, even midnight wake-ups. He listened. He tried. I believed we were lucky.
Then, as the boys grew, he became a stranger. Late nights home, exhausted, irritable. I began to wonder—was he cheating? The answer came without asking. Once, while he showered, his phone rang. A woman’s voice: Agatha. She told me they’d been seeing each other for over a year. My world shattered. Then came Beatrice. Then Clare. Then Martha and Victoria. I forgave. For the children. For the family.
I feared that if we split, the boys would grow up without an example of a real home. So I endured. Looked away. Scraped the betrayal from my soul. But when the twins left for university, the truth was plain: between Daniel and me, nothing remained. We were neighbours. No love, no respect. We divorced. He left. I stayed. Grew used to silence. To solitude. Tried to fill the void—friends, hobbies, books. Lived quietly. Without complaint.
Twelve years passed. One autumn evening, the doorbell rang. There he stood. Daniel. Grey now, hunched, a stranger. He asked to come in. Over tea, he confessed: he’d never found happiness. Women came and went, jobs never lasted, his health faltered. He had nothing left. Alone. Unhappy. Now, he begged forgiveness. A fresh start.
I sat there, lost for words. Twelve years—no letter, no call, no birthday card. And now—apologies, chances, a new life? It ached inside. Yet my heart still stirred—I still felt something. I’d never loved another. Never let anyone in. He was the father of my sons. Not a stranger. But not the man he’d been.
I didn’t answer. Sat, thinking. Searching for the strength to forgive. Or the strength to let go for good.
