I met Daniel at a party hosted by a mutual friend—charismatic, charming, and grinning like he had his own little sun inside him. Back then, I fell for him properly for the first time. Before him, there’d been no real romances—growing up in a small town with strict parents who’d drilled into me that education came first, always. Boys? Not even a thought allowed. I’d watch my girlfriends with their flings and feel that pang of envy, but I stuck to the plan: degree first, then maybe love.
Daniel flipped that on its head. We clicked instantly—he felt like the person I’d been waiting for without even knowing it. I bloomed beside him, and he seemed to do the same. Even my no-nonsense parents approved, and before long, we had a modest little wedding. A year later, our twins—Oliver and Henry—arrived. Pure joy, yes, but also pure chaos. I wasn’t ready for double the nappies and sleepless nights, but Daniel was there, learning fatherhood on the fly. We bathed them, fed them, took turns with midnight cries. He tried. I thought we’d lucked out.
Then the boys grew older, and so did the distance between us. He came home late, exhausted, snapping over nothing. The suspicion crept in—was he cheating? The answer arrived one evening when his phone rang in the shower. A woman, sounding far too familiar, introduced herself as Vanessa. And then she told me they’d been seeing each other for over a year. My world caved in. Then came Sophie. Then Emily. Then Charlotte and Gemma. I forgave. For the boys. For the family.
I was terrified that if we split, the kids would grow up without knowing what a real marriage looked like. So I endured. Looked the other way. Scrubbed the betrayal from my heart. But when the twins left for uni, the truth was undeniable: Daniel and I were just two strangers sharing a kettle. No love. No respect left. We divorced. He walked out. I stayed. Got used to the quiet. The solitude. Filled the gaps with friends, pottery classes, books. Lived. No complaints. No blame.
Twelve years passed. Then, one dreary autumn evening, the doorbell rang. And there he was. Daniel. Grey now, shoulders slumped, a ghost of the man I’d known. He asked to come in. Over tea, he confessed: he’d never found happiness. Women came and went, jobs never stuck, his health had taken a nosedive. Now he had nothing. No one. And he was sorry. So sorry. Wanted to start over.
And me? I sat there, speechless. Twelve years—not a call, not a Christmas card, not so much as a birthday text. And now? Forgiveness? A second chance? My chest ached. But my heart? It still sputtered like an old engine—because, stupidly, I felt something. I’d never loved anyone else. Never let anyone in. He’s the father of my boys. Not a stranger. But not the man I married, either.
I didn’t answer. Just sat there, thinking. Weighing whether I had it in me to forgive. Or the strength to shut the door for good.
