**Diary Entry – 28th March**
The man of my dreams left his wife for me, and I never imagined how it would end.
I’d pined for him since university, back when I was just a girl from a quiet little town outside Oxford. It was that kind of love—blind, reckless, the sort that knocks the sense right out of you. Years later, fate threw us together again at a law firm in London. Same profession, shared interests—I took it as a sign. My fairy tale was finally coming true.
To me, he was perfect—every inch the man I’d imagined. That he had a wife didn’t bother me then. I was too busy floating on a cloud of infatuation to think about broken marriages or the wreckage left behind. I didn’t feel a shred of guilt when Oliver left her for me. Who’d have guessed that choice would bring me such misery? There’s truth in the old saying: you can’t build happiness on someone else’s sorrow.
At first, I was over the moon. I’d have forgiven him anything. But real life revealed a different man—socks strewn across our flat, dishes piled high, all the domestic drudgery left to me. Still, I ignored it. Love blinded me, turned me soft, pliant, as if I’d lost my will entirely.
His first marriage? Forgotten. A thing of the past. No children, and he swore the wedding had been her parents’ idea. *”You’re different—you’re my destiny,”* he’d whisper, and I’d melt. That happiness burned bright, but brief as a lightning strike. Everything changed when I fell pregnant.
At first, Oliver was overjoyed. We threw a grand celebration—family, friends, toasts to the baby’s health. That night is still etched in my memory, warm and golden before the storm. I don’t regret it, but it was the last flicker of that foolish love before it began to gutter like a candle in the wind.
As my belly grew, Oliver vanished—late nights at work, “team drinks,” excuses stacking up. I bore it as long as I could, but soon, it was unbearable. I waddled around, exhausted, while his mess mocked me. Had we rushed into this? Love fades—I knew that—but not this fast.
He still brought flowers, chocolates, meaningless tokens. What I yearned for was—him. His presence, his support. Then the truth surfaced. Office chatter tipped me off—a new girl in his department, a pretty, fiery thing. Just a coincidence? Maybe. But suddenly his world was just “meetings” and “urgent projects.” Then the note—slipped in his coat pocket, initials I didn’t recognise, a crushing weight in my chest. I tucked it back, pretending I hadn’t seen. Fear froze my tongue—who’d want a seven-months-pregnant woman?
He sighed like *I* was the burden, called me “always on edge.” I avoided confrontation, terrified of the embarrassment. Until the day he said it: *”I’m not cut out for fatherhood. There’s someone else.”* The words blurred, the room spun—shame, rage, disbelief.
But I moved fast. Filed for divorce before my hands could shake. Threw his things out the next morning—our rented flat spared us the mess of ownership.
*”And the baby? How will you manage?”* he spat.
*”I’ll manage. Work from home, lean on Mum and Dad. Mum always said you were a philanderer—should’ve listened.”* The door slammed.
Motherhood gave me a spine I didn’t know I had. For my son, I could do what I never would have for myself. The betrayal was so callous, I excised Oliver from my life as if he’d never existed.
The months after? Hell. Labour, recovery, moving back to my parents’ in Hampshire—a humbling retreat, but they adored their grandson. I missed Oliver, but buried it. Deep down, I knew: I’d done the right thing.
Freelance legal work kept us afloat, barely. Lean months, but my parents helped until I built a client list. Years blurred—nursery, primary school, Year Five—until, one day, I realised I could breathe again.
Then he came back.
Small towns have long memories, and the legal world’s smaller still. Oliver tracked me down. I should’ve moved further. He’d “had his fill,” regretted everything, claimed he’d been “young and stupid.” Begged to meet our son—though he’d never once asked before.
Legally, he could push for it. The thought chills me. I said I’d think, but my mind’s a whirl. I don’t trust him. Is this my reckoning? Payment for stealing him away? I’m half-tempted to pack up, start fresh somewhere new—before the past drags us under again.