Should I forgive a man who comes crawling back? I don’t want to keep living like this, but I’m not ready to go back to him either.
James and I were married for fourteen years. You’d think we’d survived enough, built enough together. I’d even read that most divorces happen in the first three years, after which they become less common. We must have been the exception. On the surface, it was a cliché—he left me for a younger woman. But for me, it was like the ground collapsing beneath my feet. Life cracked like thin ice, and I fell into nothingness.
James proposed when we were practically kids. Me—a simple girl from an ordinary family. Him—from a well-off, influential one, the only son. His parents helped us, buying a luxurious three-bedroom flat in the heart of London. We married quickly. At first, we struggled to conceive, and I nearly gave up hope—but then came our son, followed by our daughter two years later. I lived in a dream: a cosy home, a family, children. It all felt real.
And then she appeared. The new girl at work—sweet, eager to please, with the eyes of a victim and the walk of a conqueror. Suddenly, he threw me and the kids out. Just like that. Claimed it was “for the best.” He kept the flat, paid child support—barely enough. How was I supposed to survive without a degree, without experience, with two children to raise?
My parents took us in at my grandmother’s old flat. It was cramped, hard, terrifying. I had to learn to breathe again. Learn to budget, handwash clothes, race through shops with a pram, and work myself to the bone. Slowly, I pulled myself together. Grew stronger. Made peace with it.
A year passed. Then—a phone call. James. He was sorry, he said. He’d made a mistake. Hadn’t realised what he was losing. Spoke as if we’d only just broken up. Asked to meet. I refused for ages, but in the end, I agreed. Somewhere on the outskirts, in a cheap café—not the kind of place where we’d 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 James. This one had slumped shoulders, swollen eyes, a week’s worth of stubble. He was hollow. Everything that had made him the love of my life was gone. His story wasn’t new, either: she’d demanded money, gifts, trips. Destroyed his business, leaked secrets to competitors. And then she left. And there he was—alone.
He cried. Got down on 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. Only numbness.
I told him, “Stop making a fool of yourself.” Not even out of anger—just exhaustion. I didn’t want to hear his voice, see his pitiful stare. Didn’t care if he shouted. There are people who scream in the streets, and no one even glances their way. For the first time in my life, I felt free of him.
But the house felt emptier after. Not from loneliness—from unanswered questions. I poured my thoughts out to my mum and friends. The friends were firm: he betrayed you—he’ll do it again. Said I shouldn’t have even met him. Mum, though, was overjoyed. Said the kids needed their father. That as a woman, I shouldn’t throw everything away. That family matters, even if my heart stays 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. James sends more money now, stopped drinking. Still begs me to come back. Trying 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 to him.
I’m not a child. I’m not twenty. But I’m stuck. Afraid to move. Forward—into the unknown. Back—into betrayal. I don’t know where to go. And every night, when the kids are asleep, I stare out the window and beg myself—just to understand what I truly want. Just to feel something again.
