“You’ve Lost Everything, Rowan”: How a Woman Left with Children Became the Mistress of Someone Else’s Future
For the first time in years, Eleanor felt free. Breathing deeply the crisp air of her hometown, she adjusted the bag on her shoulder and walked toward the churchyard. The children were with her aunt Margaret—her late mother’s sister. They were on holiday, and at last, Eleanor could catch her breath. She had come for a few days to visit her parents’ graves and see the woman who had been like a second mother to her in childhood.
But when she returned, everything shattered in an instant.
“Hand over the keys, Ellie,” Rowan, her husband, said coldly, standing in the doorway. “This is it. Lillian’s pregnant. I’m starting fresh, and you’re free to go.”
“What?” Eleanor nearly dropped her bag. “Rowan, how could you?”
He didn’t even blink.
“You knew this wasn’t forever. But don’t worry—it’s not like you have anything anyway. The house is leased, the business is your uncle’s, the accounts are in your mother’s name. So save the drama. And if you make trouble, I’ll take the kids.”
Once, Eleanor had been the pride of her university. A natural blonde with green eyes, graceful, polished, composed. She’d had a future, plans, a father—Edward Whitmore—who was well-respected. She’d dreamed they’d start a business together one day.
But in a single year, she lost it all. First her father died, then her mother soon after. Hollow-eyed with grief, she stumbled through her final exams, barely aware of the pen in her hand. That was when Rowan first approached her.
“Marry me. There’s nothing left for you here. We’ll start over.”
She didn’t think—she just said yes. They had a room in a dormitory, bought by her father. They moved, began working, then started a haulage firm together. Eleanor even sold her parents’ flat to invest.
At first, the business thrived, and ownership was split equally. Then came maternity leave, the children, and gradually, everything was “transferred” to Rowan’s uncle. She didn’t question it—the house was warm, the children were healthy, there was food on the table. Only after her daughter was born did Eleanor realise she hadn’t just lost her share—she’d lost herself.
She changed physically. Her body ached from sleepless nights, endless laundry, and household drudgery. Rowan, meanwhile, blossomed—gym-toned, tanned, with long hair and women’s attention.
“You’ve let yourself go,” he once sneered. “It’s embarrassing to be seen with you. At least put on a face mask.”
Her mother-in-law never missed a chance to twist the knife:
“Have you looked in a mirror lately? My son’s handsome, and you—you look old enough to be his mother! You don’t deserve him!”
Eleanor tried. She dieted. Took treatments. But exhaustion, betrayal, and indifference eroded her faster than any extra weight.
And now he’d cast her out. Without shouting, without remorse. In her bag—just clothes and the children’s photo albums. No home, no money, no stake in the business, not even stability. Just two children her ex-husband was already preparing to take.
She went to Aunt Margaret, who said, “Leave the children with me. Pull yourself together first. I’ll help.”
And she did. She even proposed a business: a removals company. Margaret invested her savings; Eleanor added money from selling their old dormitory room. They started small—two vans, a couple of movers. Then it grew.
Five years later, Eleanor had a regional network, a dispatch team, her own garage. And Rowan? Rowan lost everything. Lillian had the baby, then divorced him, taking the flat. The “uncle’s” business wasn’t as profitable as promised, and soon he turned his nephew out.
“You were never on the papers. Just a caretaker,” the uncle said. “I don’t trust you anymore.”
“Mum, say something!” Rowan shouted.
“What do you want me to say?” His mother shrugged. “You had it all. You threw it away.”
The remnants of his “glamorous life” became a bunk in a hostel and odd jobs as a lorry driver. Then his health failed, and he applied for a driving position at the city’s largest logistics firm.
At the interview, he saw… Eleanor.
Sleek, poised, confident in a tailored suit. She watched him calmly, even faintly amused.
“Hello, Rowan. Need a job?”
“You look incredible,” he muttered. “Maybe take me on for old times’ sake? I know the routes, the city, I’ve got experience—”
“We don’t hire deadbeat dads,” she said evenly. “You owe back payments.”
“But I tried to pay!” he snapped. “Not the full amount, but I did what I could!”
“The children are eighteen, and you’re still ‘trying.’ We don’t need employees like you.”
He clenched his fists.
“You’re punishing me?”
“No, Rowan. I just learned to set boundaries. You did this to yourself. I survived. Built a life. Without you.”
“New husband help?”
Eleanor laughed and stood. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders; her figure was as slender as in her youth. Only now, her eyes held steel.
“No. I did it alone. After you, I didn’t let anyone close for years. Thank you for that. It’s toughening.”
“Just give me a chance,” he mumbled. “I did love you once.”
Then the door opened. A tall, fair-haired lad—Eleanor’s mirror image—walked in.
“Mum, lunch? Everything alright?”
He shot Rowan a frosty glare.
“Leave. And don’t bother her again, or we’ll have a different conversation.”
Rowan froze. Then he spun on his heel and slammed the door behind him.
Outside, autumn rain drizzled. Rowan lowered his head. He couldn’t pinpoint when it had all gone wrong. But deep down, he knew: it began the day he betrayed the one who’d once believed in him more than she believed in herself.
