**Diary Entry**
Is a man worth forgiving when he comes crawling back? I don’t want this life as it is now, but I’m not ready to return to him either.
Fourteen years Victor and I were married. You’d think we’d weathered enough, built enough. I’d read most divorces happen in the first three years—after that, the odds drop. We were the exception, apparently. Another cliché, really: a husband leaves for a younger woman. But for me, it was the ground giving way. Life cracked like thin ice, and I fell into nothing.
Victor proposed when we were practically kids. Me—a simple girl from an ordinary family. Him—the only son of well-off, influential parents. They helped us out, bought us a posh three-bed flat in the heart of London. We married quickly. At first, we struggled to have children. I’d nearly lost hope when our son came, followed two years later by our daughter. I lived in a dream: a cosy home, a family, children. Everything felt real.
Then she appeared. The new girl at work—sweet, eager, with victim’s eyes and a winner’s stride. And just like that, he threw me out with the kids. Said it’d be better this way. Kept the flat, paid child support—barely enough. How was I supposed to live? No degree, no experience, two children clinging to me.
My parents took us in, cramming us into Nan’s old flat. It was tight, hard, terrifying. I learned to breathe again. Learned to scrimp, to hand-wash clothes, to dash through shops with a pram, to work myself to the bone. Slowly, I pulled myself together. Grew tougher. Accepted it.
A year passed. Then—out of nowhere—a call. Victor. *Sorry*, he said. *Made a mistake. Didn’t know what he was losing.* He spoke as if we’d only just split. Wanted to meet. I refused at first, but eventually gave in. Somewhere on the outskirts, in a cheap café—not the kind of place where we once sipped wine, staring into each other’s eyes.
And you know what? The man across from me wasn’t him. Not the polished, confident Victor I knew. This man slumped in his chair, eyes swollen, stubble creeping across his face. Hollowed out. Everything that made him the love of my life had vanished. His story wasn’t new either: she’d demanded money, gifts, trips. Trashed his business, leaked information to rivals. Then left. And there he was—alone.
He cried. Fell to his knees. Said we were his family, that he loved the kids, loved me. I was afraid I’d break. But I didn’t. I looked at him and felt nothing. No pity. No pain. No love. Just emptiness.
I told him, *Stop making a fool of yourself.* Not even out of anger—just exhaustion. I couldn’t stand the noise, the way he looked at me, pathetic and pleading. Didn’t care if he shouted. There are people who scream in the streets, and no one pays them any mind. For the first time, I felt free of him.
But back home, the flat felt hollow. Not from loneliness—from questions without answers. I spoke to my mum and my girls. My friends were firm: *He betrayed you—he’ll do it again. Shouldn’t have even met him.* Mum, though, was over the moon. Said the kids needed their dad. That I, as a woman, shouldn’t throw it all away. That family matters, even if the heart goes quiet.
I listened to them all and still had no answer. A month’s gone by. I’m still at Nan’s. Cooking my own meals, making my own choices. Victor sends more money now, quit drinking. Still begs me to come back. Tries to prove he’s changed. And when I look at my life, I know—I don’t want it to stay like this. But I can’t go back to him.
I’m not a child. Not twenty anymore. Yet here I am, stuck. Too afraid to step forward—into the unknown. Too afraid to step back—into betrayal. I don’t know where to go. Every night, once 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 again.*
**Lesson learned:** Some wounds don’t heal with apologies. Sometimes, moving forward means leaving even the echoes of love behind.
