**Diary Entry – 25th March**
Should a man who crawls back on his knees be forgiven? I don’t want my life to stay like this, but I also can’t bring myself to go back to him.
Oliver and I were married for fourteen years. You’d think we’d weathered enough to build something lasting. I’d even read that most divorces happen within the first three years—after that, the numbers drop. We were the exception. The story was ordinary enough: my husband left for someone younger. But for me, it was an avalanche. Life cracked like thin ice underfoot, and I plunged into the unknown.
Oliver proposed when we were barely more than kids. I came from an ordinary family, while he was the only son of well-off, influential parents. They helped us—gave us a posh three-bed in central London. We married quickly. At first, we struggled to have children, and I’d nearly given up hope, but then our son arrived, followed by our daughter two years later. I lived in a dream: a cosy home, a family, children. Everything was real.
Then she came into the picture. A new girl at work—sweet, obliging, with the eyes of a victim and the stride of a winner. Suddenly, he threw me out with the children. Just like that. “It’ll be better this way,” he said. He kept the flat, paid child support—technically. But how was I supposed to live? No degree, no work experience, two children to raise alone.
My parents took us in at my grandmother’s cramped old flat. It was tight, exhausting, terrifying. I had to learn to breathe again. Learn to budget, handwash clothes, push a pram through supermarket aisles, work myself to the bone. Slowly, I pulled myself together. Grew stronger. Made peace with it.
A year passed. Then—out of nowhere—a call. Oliver. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was wrong. Didn’t know what I was losing.” He spoke as if we’d split up yesterday. Begged to meet. I refused for weeks, but eventually agreed. Somewhere on the outskirts, in a cheap café—not the kind of place where we once sipped wine, lost in each other’s eyes.
The man across from me wasn’t him anymore. Not that groomed, confident, proud Oliver. This man was stooped, red-eyed, stubble clinging to his jaw like neglect. He was hollow. Everything that had made him the love of my life had vanished. His story was just as clichéd: she’d demanded money, gifts, holidays. Ruined his business, leaked secrets to rivals. Then left. And there he was—alone.
He wept. 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 numbness.
“Stop making a spectacle of yourself,” I told him. Not out of anger—just exhaustion. I couldn’t stand the noise, the pleading look in his eyes. It didn’t matter if he shouted. People shout on the streets all the time—no one bats an eyelid. For the first time, I felt free of him.
But home felt empty—not from loneliness, but unanswered questions. I confided in Mum and my girlfriends. The girls were adamant: “He betrayed you—he’ll do it again.” They said I shouldn’t have even met him. Mum, though, was relieved. Insisted the children needed their father. That as a woman, I shouldn’t throw everything away. That family mattered, even if my heart stayed silent.
I listened to them all but found no answers. A month has passed. I’m still at Gran’s. Cooking for myself, deciding my own life. Oliver sends money more often now, 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. Yet going back to him isn’t an option.
I’m not a child. I’m not twenty. But I’m stuck. Terrified to take a step—forward into uncertainty, backward into betrayal. I don’t know where to go. Every evening, when the children are asleep, I stare out the window and plead with myself: *Just let me understand what I truly want. Just let me feel again.*
**Lesson learned:** Forgiveness isn’t about them—it’s about whether you still recognise yourself in the aftermath. And sometimes, freedom is just another word for no longer caring.
