The man of my dreams left his wife for me, but I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
I had been secretly in love with him since our college days, living in a small town near Cambridge. It was a wild, all-consuming love that made me forget everything around me. When he finally took notice of me, I lost all remaining sense of logic. This happened years after university—our paths crossed again at a law firm. The shared profession and common interests made me believe it was fate, that my fairy tale was about to come true.
To me, he was the perfect man, straight from my dreams. The fact that he had a wife didn’t bother my younger self—I had no understanding of the pain caused by a marriage falling apart. I wasn’t ashamed when Matthew left his wife for me. Who could have foreseen the heartache that decision would bring? They say you can’t build happiness on the misery of others.
When he chose me, I was on cloud nine, willing to forgive him anything. But in everyday life, he was far from a prince. His scattered belongings overtook the flat; he refused to do the washing up, and all the household chores fell to me like a heavy burden. I used to turn a blind eye to it—love blinded me, made me soft, compliant, almost powerless.
He forgot about his previous marriage quickly, as if erasing it from memory. They didn’t have kids, and as he confessed, her parents had pushed for the wedding. “You’re different, you’re 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.
At first, Matthew was over the moon—a child, his child! We threw a big family party, inviting relatives and friends. Toasts, well-wishes for the baby—that evening remains a warm spot in my memory amidst the coming darkness. I don’t regret it, but after that night, my blind love began to flicker like a candle in the wind.
As my pregnancy progressed, I saw Matthew at home less and less. On maternity leave, our evenings together became rare. He stayed late at work and disappeared for corporate events. Initially, I endured it, but soon it became unbearable. Life became torturous: heavily pregnant, I struggled to move, while his socks and shirts were tossed about, silent reminders of my naivety. I questioned whether we’d rushed into having a child. Love fades over time, I knew that, but I hadn’t expected it to vanish this quickly.
He still brought flowers and chocolates, but I needed more—I wanted him there, his support and warmth. Then the truth came out. A casual chat with colleagues over coffee opened my eyes: a new employee had joined our team, young and lively. The office was strained already, and my maternity leave made it critical. Coincidence? I didn’t know if it was her, but Matthew clearly had someone on the side. His life now revolved around “work,” “meetings,” and “urgent events.” Once, I found a note with unfamiliar initials in his jacket pocket. My heart sank, but I quietly put it back, deciding to feign ignorance. The fear of being alone seven months pregnant paralyzed me.
He complained that I was “always on edge,” and every argument ended with his exhausted sigh, as if I were a burden. I dreaded bringing up the main issue—I knew it was the end. And it came. The harshest words I ever heard were: “I’m not ready for children. I have someone else.” How he said it, I can’t remember, my mind was buzzing, my world crumbling. I thought I would lose my mind from the pain and humiliation.
But I found strength. I filed for divorce, though each word in the application felt like a stab to my heart. He didn’t expect me to go through with it, that I would throw him 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 manage?” he threw at me as a last attempt.
“I’ll manage. I’ll work from home. My parents will help. Mum always said you were a womanizer, I should have listened,” I retorted, shutting the door.
The responsibility for my son gave me a backbone I didn’t know I had. By myself, I’d never have left, but for him—I could. His betrayal was so vile that I erased Matthew from my life as if he’d never existed. My eyes were opened, and I saw him for who he really was.
The first months after the divorce, including the birth, were a nightmare. I moved back to my parents in a nearby village—they welcomed me with open arms, delighted to have a grandson. I missed Matthew but forced those thoughts away. Deep down, I knew I’d done the right thing and was determined to give my son all I could.
As soon as I regained strength, I started working again—translating legal texts from home. There were months without income, but my parents supported us until I built a client base. My son grew, time flew by unnoticed. I realized it when I thought he needed his own space. My parents didn’t want us to leave, but I longed for independence—for my own office, his study room. By then, I could afford to rent a flat.
Life settled. Nursery turned into school, first year became fifth, and for the first time in years, I felt freedom and peace. But then he reappeared. Our village is small, and in the legal community, everyone knows each other. Matthew tracked down my office without much trouble. How I regretted not moving further away! He claimed he’d “matured,” regretted the past, and had been “young and foolish.” He begged to meet our son, whom he’d never seen.
Legally, he has the right to meetings, and if he wants, he’ll get it. But the thought chills me to the bone. A few weeks have passed 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. Is this my punishment? Am I paying for taking him from his first wife? I’m seriously considering moving to another town, to save us from this past that’s knocking on my door once more.