The Man of My Dreams Left His Wife for Me, But I Had No Idea What It Would Lead To
I’ve been infatuated with him since my university days, living in a small town just outside of Birmingham. It was a blind, intense love, the kind that makes you forget everything else. When he finally noticed me, I lost the last bit of my sanity. This happened years after college—fate brought us together at a law firm. Same career, shared interests—I thought it was no coincidence, but a sign from above, my fairy tale about to come true.
He seemed like the man of my dreams, everything I had imagined. At the time, I was unfazed by the fact that he was married—I didn’t understand the pain that hides behind broken marriages. I felt no shame when James left his wife for me. Who could have thought that this choice would bring me such sorrow? There’s truth in those old sayings: you can’t build your happiness on someone else’s misery.
When he chose me, I was on cloud nine and willing to forgive him anything. But in everyday life, he was far from a prince. His scattered belongings filled the flat, he flat-out refused to wash dishes, and the household burdens fell heavy on my shoulders. At the time, I turned a blind eye—love blinded me, made me soft, pliable, almost powerless.
He quickly seemed to forget about his past marriage, as if it had been erased from memory. There were no children, and he admitted that their wedding had been pushed by her parents. “It’s different with you; you are my destiny,” he whispered, and I melted. My happiness was bright but short-lived, like a flash of lightning. Everything changed when I became pregnant.
Initially, James was overjoyed—a child, his child! We threw a big family party and invited friends and relatives. Toasts, wishes for happiness, health for the baby—that evening remains a bright spot in my memory, an island of warmth in a sea of looming darkness. I don’t regret it, but after that night, my blind love began to fade, like a candle in the wind.
As my belly grew, I saw less and less of James at home. I went on maternity leave, and our meetings were reduced to late evenings. He lingered at work and disappeared at corporate parties. At first, I endured it, but soon it became unbearable. Everyday life turned into a torture; I struggled to get around while pregnant, and his socks and shirts lay everywhere, silent reminders of my naivety. I wondered if we had rushed into having a child. Love fades over time; I knew this, but I never thought it would vanish so quickly.
He still brought me flowers and chocolates, but I needed more—I wanted him near, his support and warmth. And then the truth emerged. An offhand chat with colleagues over coffee opened my eyes: a new woman had joined the office, young and lively. Our team was already stretched thin, and my maternity leave had made the situation critical. A coincidence? I didn’t know if it was her, but James clearly had someone else. His days now consisted of “work,” “meetings,” and “unavoidable events.” One day, I found a note with unfamiliar initials in the pocket of his jacket. My heart sank, but I quietly put it back, deciding to play blind. The fear of being alone at seven months pregnant paralyzed me.
He complained that I was “always on edge,” and every argument ended with his weary sigh, as if I were a burden. I was afraid to talk about what really mattered—I knew it was over. And then it happened. The most terrible words I ever heard were: “I’m not ready for a child. I have someone else.” How he said it—I don’t remember; my mind was a whirlwind, my world collapsing. I thought I would go mad from the pain and humiliation.
But I found the strength. I filed for divorce, even though every word in the application felt like a stab to the heart. He didn’t expect me to do it, didn’t think I would throw his things out the next day. Thankfully, the flat was rented—we didn’t have to argue over it.
“And the child? Think of the child! How will you raise him?” he threw at me as he left.
“I’ll manage. I’ll work from home. My parents will help. Mum always said you were a womanizer; I should have listened,” I replied, slamming the door shut.
The responsibility for my son gave me a backbone I didn’t know I had. I would never have left for myself, but for him—I could. His betrayal was so vile that I erased James from my life as if he had never existed. My eyes opened, and I saw his true self.
The first months after the divorce, including the birth, were hell. I returned to my parents in a nearby town—they welcomed me with open arms, especially doting on their grandchild. I missed James, but I pushed those thoughts away. Deep down, I knew I had done the right thing and would give my son everything I could.
Once I regained my strength, I started working—translating legal documents from home. There were months without income, but my parents supported me until I built a client base. My son grew, the years flew by. I realized this when I knew he needed his own space. My parents didn’t want us to leave, but I craved independence—a home office and a room for him to study. By then, I could afford to rent a flat.
Life settled down. Nursery was replaced by school, first grade by fifth, and for the first time in years, I felt freedom and peace. But then he returned. Our town is small, and everyone in the legal community knows each other. James found my office without effort. How I wished I had moved further away! He claimed he had “sown his wild oats,” regretted the past, that he was “young and foolish.” He begged to meet the son he had never seen.
By law, he has the right to visits, and if he insists, he will get them. But the very thought of it sends chills down my spine. It’s been a few weeks since that conversation. I said I’d think about it, but my mind is in chaos—I don’t trust him and don’t want him near my son. Perhaps this is my penance? A payment for taking him from his first wife? I am seriously considering moving to another town to protect us from this past that is knocking at my door again.
