Should I forgive the man who returned with his head hung low? I don’t want to live like this, but I’m not ready to go back to him.
James and I were married for fourteen years. You’d think we’d weathered enough, built enough. I’d even read that most divorces happen in the first three years, then become rarer. We, it seemed, were the exception. The story was familiar—he left me for someone younger. But for me, it was a collapse. Life cracked like thin ice underfoot, and I fell into nothing.
James proposed when we were practically children. Me—just a girl from an ordinary family; him—the only son of a well-off, influential one. His parents helped, gifted us a lavish three-bed flat in the heart of London. We married quickly. At first, we struggled to have a child. I’d nearly given up hope, but then came our son, and two years later, our daughter. I lived as if in a dream—cozy home, family, children. It all felt real.
Then she appeared. The new girl at work—sweet, eager, with the eyes of a victim and the stride of a conqueror. Suddenly, he threw me out with the kids. Just like that. “This is for the best,” he said. He kept the flat, paid child support—technically. But how was I to live? No education, no experience, two children in my arms.
My parents took us in at my grandmother’s cramped old flat. It was tight, hard, terrifying. I learned to breathe again. Learned to budget, to wash clothes by hand, to dash to the shops with the pram, to work myself to the bone. Slowly, I pulled myself together. Grew stronger. Made peace.
A year passed. Then—a call. James. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I made a mistake. Didn’t know what I was losing.” He spoke as if we’d only just parted. Begged to meet. I refused for a long time, but eventually, I agreed. We met on the outskirts, in some cheap café—not the kind of place where we once drank wine, gazing into each other’s eyes.
And you know what? The man across from me wasn’t him anymore. Not the polished, confident, proud James. This one had hunched shoulders, puffy eyes, a week’s worth of stubble. He was hollowed out. All that had made him the man of my life was gone. His story wasn’t new either: she’d demanded money, gifts, trips. Sabotaged his business, leaked secrets to rivals. Then left. And there he was—alone.
He cried. Fell to his knees. Said we were his family, that he loved the children, loved me. I was afraid I’d break. But no. I looked at him and felt—nothing. No pity. No pain. No love. Just indifference.
I told him, “Stop making a fool of yourself.” Not even out of spite—just exhaustion. I didn’t want to hear his noise, see his wretched stare. I didn’t care if he screamed. There are people who shout in the streets, and no one pays them any mind. For the first time, I felt free of him.
But the flat felt empty afterward. Not from loneliness—from questions without answers. I shared my thoughts with Mum and my girlfriends. The girls were firm: he betrayed you—he’ll do it again. Said I shouldn’t have even met him. Mum, though, was thrilled. Said the children needed their father. That I, as a woman, shouldn’t throw everything away. That family matters, even if the heart stays silent.
I listened to them all but found no answer. A month passed. I’m still at Gran’s. I cook for myself, decide for myself how to live. James sends money more often, stopped 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. I’m not twenty. But I’m stuck. Afraid to take a step—forward into the unknown, backward into betrayal. I don’t know where to go. And every evening, when the children sleep, I stare out the window and beg myself: just to understand what I really want. Just to feel something again.
