Should I forgive the man who came crawling back, tail between his legs? I don’t want to live like this anymore, but I’m not ready to go back to him either.
Victor and I were married for fourteen years. You’d think we’d weathered enough storms, built enough together. I’d even read that most divorces happen in the first three years, and after that, they become rarer. Apparently, we were the exception. A cliché, really—he left me for a younger woman. But for me, it was the ground giving way. Life cracked like thin ice, and I fell into the void.
He proposed when we were barely more than kids. Me—just an ordinary girl from an ordinary family. Him—the only son of well-off parents, privileged, connected. They helped us, gifted us a lavish three-bed in the heart of London. We married quickly. At first, we struggled to have children, and I’d nearly given up hope—but then our son came, followed two years later by our daughter. I lived in a dream: a cozy home, a family, everything real, everything solid.
Then she appeared. The new girl at work—sweet, eager, with the eyes of a martyr and the stride of a conqueror. And just like that, he kicked me out with the children. Simple as that. “It’s for the best,” he said. He kept the flat, paid child support—just enough to tick a box. But how was I supposed to survive? No degree, no work experience, two children to raise.
My parents took us in at Gran’s old flat. Cramped, exhausting, terrifying. I learned to breathe again. Learned to scrimp, to wash clothes by hand, to race through shops with a pram and work myself ragged. Slowly, I pulled myself together. Grew tougher. Accepted it.
A year passed. Then—out of nowhere—a call. Victor. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I made a mistake. Didn’t know what I was losing.” He spoke as if we’d only split yesterday. Begged to meet. I refused for weeks, but in the end, I went. Somewhere on the outskirts, a shabby café—not the kind of place where we once sipped 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 Victor. This one was slumped, red-eyed, with a week’s worth of stubble. Hollowed out. Everything that made him the man I’d loved was gone. His story was predictable: she’d demanded money, gifts, trips. Gutted his business, leaked secrets to competitors. Then walked away. Left him alone.
He cried. Got on his knees. Said we were his family, that he loved the children, loved me. I was afraid I’d break. But I didn’t. I looked at him and felt nothing. No pity. No hurt. No love. Just numbness.
I told him, “Stop making a fool of yourself.” Not even out of anger—just weariness. I didn’t want to hear the noise, see his wretched gaze. Didn’t care if he shouted. There are people who scream in the streets, and no one bats an eye. For the first time, I felt free of him.
But home felt empty. Not from loneliness—from unanswered questions. I talked to Mum and my friends. My friends were firm: “He betrayed you once, he’ll do it again.” Said I shouldn’t have even met him. Mum, though, was overjoyed. “Children need their father,” she said. “You shouldn’t throw it all away. Family matters, even if your heart’s gone quiet.”
I listened to them all but found no answer. A month has passed. I’m still at Gran’s. Still cooking for myself, still deciding my own life. Victor sends money more often now, quit drinking. Still begs me to come back. Tries to prove he’s changed. And I look at my life and think—I don’t want it to stay like this. But I can’t go back to him either.
I’m not a child. I’m not twenty. But I’m stuck. Terrified to move. Forward—into the unknown. Back—into betrayal. I don’t know which way to turn. And every evening, once the children are asleep, I stare out the window and beg myself—just to understand what I truly want. Just to feel something again.
