I had been infatuated with him since our college years in a quiet town just outside Cambridge. It was the kind of reckless, consuming love that makes you forget your own sense. Years passed before he even noticed me. By then, we had both joined the same law firm. Shared interests, shared career paths—I thought it was fate, the start of my fairy tale.
To me, Matthew was the man I had always dreamed of. That he was already married didn’t seem like a big deal to my younger self. I didn’t understand yet what it meant to break apart a marriage, the depth of the pain that follows. When he finally chose me and left his wife, I felt like the luckiest woman alive. I was so sure we were meant to be. I forgave him everything, blinded by love and the idea of finally being with him.
But real life quickly revealed another side of him. The romantic gestures faded. He never helped around the house, leaving dirty dishes and clothes wherever he pleased. I was left managing everything on my own, and still I told myself this was normal, that love required patience. I made excuses for him and shouldered the burden without complaint.
He erased his past marriage as though it had never happened. He told me they hadn’t had children, that her parents had pressured him into it, that I was different—I was his real match, his destiny. I wanted to believe that. I needed to believe it. But when I got pregnant, everything began to shift.
At first, he was thrilled. We celebrated with friends and family, raising glasses and receiving blessings for the child. That evening is still warm in my memory, like a pocket of light before the storm. But after that night, I began to see the cracks in our foundation.
As my belly grew, Matthew’s presence at home dwindled. While I struggled through pregnancy alone, he stayed late at work, vanished to corporate events, and came home with excuses. The loneliness began to weigh on me. I could barely move some days, and yet his socks, shirts, and messes remained scattered like reminders of how little he noticed me.
I began to wonder if we’d rushed into parenthood. Love, I knew, could fade—but I didn’t expect it to vanish completely.
He still brought me gifts, chocolates, flowers, but what I truly craved was his presence. His attention. His support. Then, one day, a colleague let something slip during a casual conversation—there was a new hire, young, energetic. With me on maternity leave, she had become his closest work companion. I didn’t want to believe it, but all the pieces fell into place. The late nights. The vague meetings. The unfamiliar note I found in his jacket with initials I didn’t recognize. I said nothing. I put the note back where I found it. I was too afraid. I was seven months pregnant and terrified of being left alone.
He started accusing me of being irritable, impatient. Every disagreement ended with him sighing in frustration, treating me like a burden. And then, the moment came. He looked at me and said, “I’m not ready to be a father. There’s someone else.” I can’t recall the exact tone of his voice. I just remember the sound of everything inside me breaking.
I filed for divorce the next day. Each word on the paperwork felt like a fresh wound. He never believed I’d go through with it. He didn’t expect me to throw him out. Luckily, the apartment was rented—nothing needed dividing.
“And what about the child? Think of the baby! How will you cope?” he shouted as a last-ditch attempt.
“I’ll manage. I’ll work from home. My parents will help. My mother always warned me about you,” I said, closing the door on him and everything we had been.
My son gave me the strength I never thought I had. I wouldn’t have left for myself. But for him—I could endure anything. Matthew’s betrayal cut so deep that I erased him from my life completely. I didn’t even let myself miss him. The illusion was shattered, and I finally saw who he truly was.
The months following the divorce and the birth were brutally difficult. I moved in with my parents in their small village. They welcomed me with warmth and open arms. My mother doted on her grandson, and their support carried me through sleepless nights and endless worry.
When I found my footing again, I started translating legal documents from home. In the beginning, there were weeks without income, but my parents kept us afloat. Slowly, I built up a client base, and life began to settle. My son grew up before my eyes, and before I knew it, he was starting school.
Eventually, I was able to afford a place of our own. My parents didn’t want us to go, but I needed the space—to create a life that was just ours. A home with a study for him, a workspace for me. A future of our own making.
Time passed. Nursery gave way to school, and the early years blurred into one long stretch of learning and healing. For the first time in years, I felt calm. I had peace.
Then one day, he came back.
In a village like ours, word travels fast—especially in the legal field. It didn’t take Matthew long to find me. He walked into my office like no time had passed, claiming he’d changed. He was “older now,” “wiser,” full of apologies and regret. He wanted to see his son, the one he had never met.
Legally, he has the right. If he pushes, I know he’ll be granted visitation. But the thought of it keeps me awake at night. I told him I’d think about it, but my mind is tangled with doubt and dread. I don’t trust him. I don’t want him near my son.
Is this karma? Am I paying for once being the woman who broke up a marriage?
I’ve started looking into moving again. A new town, a fresh start—just the two of us. My son deserves a father, yes, but not one who left before he even arrived. And I deserve a life free from the shadows of a mistake I’ve already paid for a thousand times over.