The man of my dreams left his wife for me, but I had no idea what I was getting into.
I had been infatuated with him since my university days, living in a small town near York. It was a blind, reckless love, one that took over my mind and made me forget everything else. When he finally noticed me, I completely lost my senses. This happened years after university when fate brought us together at the same law firm. With the same profession and shared interests, I thought it was no coincidence but a sign from above, my fairytale about to become real.
He seemed like the ideal man from my dreams. The fact that he had a wife didn’t bother me in my youth—I didn’t know what it was like when a marriage falls apart, nor did I understand the pain hidden behind such stories. I felt no shame when Simon left his wife for me. Who could have predicted that this choice would bring me such misery? The old saying is true: you can’t build your happiness on someone else’s misfortune.
When he chose me, I was on cloud nine, ready to forgive him anything. But in everyday life, he turned out to be far from a prince. His scattered belongings filled the flat, he refused to do the dishes, and all the household chores fell on my shoulders like a heavy burden. Back then, I turned a blind eye to all this—love made me blind, soft, and almost powerless.
He quickly forgot about his previous marriage, as if it had been erased from his memory. They didn’t have children, and as he confessed, her parents had insisted on the wedding. “It’s different with you, you’re my destiny,” he’d whisper, and I melted. My happiness was bright but brief, like a lightning flash. Everything changed when I became pregnant.
At first, Simon was overjoyed—a child, his child! We threw a big family celebration, inviting family and friends. Toasts, wishes for happiness and health for the baby— that evening remains a bright spot in my memory, a warm island in a sea of coming darkness. I have no regrets about it, but after that night, my blind love began to fade like a candle in the wind.
The bigger my belly grew, the rarer Simon was home. I went on maternity leave, and our meetings shrank to late evenings. He stayed late at work and vanished at corporate parties. At first, I endured it, but soon it became unbearable. Life turned into a torture: I, pregnant, could barely move around, and his socks and shirts lay everywhere, silent reminders of my naivety. I asked myself: did we rush into having the child? Love fades over time, I knew that, but I didn’t expect it to evaporate so quickly.
He still brought flowers and chocolates, but that wasn’t what I needed—I wanted him close, his support, his warmth. And then the truth came out. A casual conversation with colleagues over coffee opened my eyes: a new employee had joined the department, young and spirited. The staff was already stretched thin, and my leaving only made things worse. Coincidence? I didn’t know if it was her, but Simon was clearly seeing someone else. His life now consisted of “work,” “meetings,” and “urgent events.” One day, I found a note with unfamiliar initials in his jacket pocket. My heart sank, but I put it back quietly, deciding to pretend to be blind. The fear of being alone in my seventh month of pregnancy paralyzed me.
He started complaining that I was “always on edge,” and every argument ended with his tired sigh, as if I was a burden. I was afraid to talk about the main issue—I knew this was the end. And it came. The most terrifying words I’d ever heard were: “I’m not ready for children. I have someone else.” How he said it, I can’t remember; my head was buzzing, the world was collapsing. I thought I’d go mad from the pain and humiliation.
But I found the strength in me. I filed for divorce, even though each letter in the application felt like a blow to my heart. He didn’t expect me to go through with it, to throw his things out the next day. Thank goodness the flat was rented—no need to divide it.
“And the child? Think of the child! How will you raise him?” he threw out at the end.
“I’ll manage. I’ll work from home. And my parents will help. Mum always said you were a womanizer, I should have listened to her,” I snapped, slamming the door.
Responsibility for my son gave me an inner strength I didn’t know I had. I would have never left on my own, but for him—I could. His betrayal was so despicable that I erased Simon from my life as if he never existed. My eyes were finally open, and I saw who he truly was.
The first months after the divorce, including the childbirth, were hell. I moved back to my parents’ in a nearby town—they welcomed me with open arms and especially doted on their grandson. I missed Simon, but I pushed those thoughts away. Deep down, I knew: I had made the right choice and would give my son everything I could.
As soon as I regained my strength, I took up work—translating legal texts from home. There were months without income, but my parents supported me until I built a clientele. My son grew, years flew by unnoticed. I realized this when I saw he needed his own space. My parents didn’t want us to leave, but I dreamed of independence—my own office, his study room. By then, I could afford to rent a flat.
Life got better. Nursery turned into primary school, reception to year five, and for the first time in years, I felt freedom and peace. But then he appeared again. Our little town isn’t big, and in the legal field, everyone knows each other. Simon tracked down my office without much effort. How I regretted not moving further away! He claimed he’d “sown his wild oats,” regretted the past, and had been “young and foolish.” He begged to meet his son, whom he hadn’t even seen.
By law, he has the right to contact, and if he insists, he could succeed. But the very thought chills my blood. 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. Maybe it’s my punishment? A price for taking him from his first wife? I’m seriously considering moving to another city to save us from this past knocking at our door.
