Should I forgive the man who came crawling back? I don’t want to live like this, but I’m not ready to go back to him either.
Oliver and I were married for fourteen years. We’d been through so much, built so much together. I’d read that most divorces happen in the first three years, and after that—it becomes rare. We were clearly the exception. It might sound like a cliché—a husband leaving for a younger woman—but to me, it was an earthquake. My life shattered like thin ice beneath my feet, and I fell into the void.
Oliver proposed when we were barely adults. I was just an ordinary girl from a modest family, while he came from privilege—an only son with wealthy, well-connected parents. They helped us, gifting us a luxurious three-bedroom flat in Mayfair. We married quickly. At first, we struggled to have children, and I nearly lost hope—but then our son arrived, followed two years later by our daughter. Life felt like a dream: a cosy home, a family, love that felt real.
Then she appeared. The new girl at work—sweet, eager to please, with the eyes of a victim and the stride of a victor. And just like that—he threw me and the kids out. Simple as that. “It’s for the best,” he said. He kept the flat, paid child support—barely enough. How was I supposed to survive? No degree, no work experience, two children clinging to me.
My parents took us in at my grandmother’s cramped old house. It was suffocating, exhausting, terrifying. I had to learn to breathe again. To pinch pennies, hand-wash clothes, push a pram through the supermarket aisles, and work myself to the bone. Slowly, I reassembled myself. Grew stronger. Accepted my new reality.
A year passed. Then—the call. Oliver. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I made a mistake. I didn’t know what I was losing.” He spoke as if we’d only broken up yesterday. Begged to meet. I refused for weeks but eventually caved. We met in some run-down café on the outskirts—not the kind of place where we once shared wine, gazing into each other’s eyes.
And there he was—but not the Oliver I remembered. Not the polished, confident man I’d loved. This man slumped in his chair, eyes swollen, stubble ragged. He’d hollowed out. Everything that once made him the love of my life had vanished. His story was predictable: she’d demanded money, gifts, holidays. Sabotaged his business, leaked secrets to rivals. Then left. And there he was—alone.
He wept. Dropped to his knees. Said we were his family, that he loved the kids, loved me. I braced myself for my heart to crack—but nothing. I felt nothing. No pity. No pain. No love. Just indifference.
“Stop making a fool of yourself,” I told him. Not out of anger—just exhaustion. I couldn’t bear his whining, his pleading stare. It didn’t matter if he shouted. People scream in the streets all the time—nobody stops. For the first time, I felt free of him.
But home felt emptier than ever. Not from loneliness—from unanswered questions. I talked to my mum and friends. My friends were firm: “He betrayed you once—he’ll do it again.” They said I shouldn’t have even met him. Mum disagreed. “The children need their father,” she insisted. “A woman shouldn’t throw everything away. Family matters—even if your heart’s gone quiet.”
I listened to them all, but the answer never came. A month passed. I’m still at Gran’s, cooking, deciding how to live. Oliver sends more money now, claims he’s stopped drinking. Still begs me to come back. Tries to prove he’s changed. But when I look at my life—I know I don’t want it to stay like this. And yet, I can’t go back.
I’m not a child. I’m not twenty anymore. But I’m stuck. Terrified to step forward into the unknown—or backward into betrayal. I don’t know which way to move. Every night, after the kids are asleep, I stare out the window and whisper to myself: Just let me understand what I truly want. Just let me feel something again.
The lesson? Sometimes, the hardest choice isn’t between two paths—but in admitting you’ve already made your decision, even if your heart hasn’t caught up yet.
