**Diary Entry**
Should I forgive a man who comes crawling back? I don’t want to live like this anymore, but I’m not ready to go back to him either.
Victor and I were married for fourteen years. You’d think we’d weathered enough to keep us solid. I’ve read that most divorces happen in the first three years—after that, they become rarer. Guess we were the exception. On the surface, it was the oldest story: a husband leaving for a younger woman. But for me, it was a collapse. Life cracked like thin ice beneath my feet, and I plunged into the void.
Victor proposed when we were little more than kids. I was a girl from an ordinary family; he was the only son of well-off, influential parents. His family helped—gave us a posh three-bed flat in central London. We married quickly. At first, we struggled to have children. I’d nearly given up hope when our son arrived, followed two years later by our daughter. Life felt like a dream: a cosy home, a family, children. It was real.
Then she appeared. The new girl at his office—sweet, obliging, with the eyes of a victim and the stride of a winner. Suddenly, he threw me and the children out. Just like that. “*It’s for the best*,” he said. He kept the flat, paid child support—technically. But how was I supposed to survive? No degree, no real work experience, two children clinging to me.
My parents took us in at Gran’s old flat. It was cramped, exhausting, terrifying. I had to learn to breathe again. Learned to budget, hand-wash clothes, race to the shops with the pram, work myself to the bone. Slowly, I pulled myself together. Grew tougher. Accepted it.
A year passed. Then—a call. Victor. “*I’m sorry*,” he said. He’d made a mistake. Hadn’t realised what he was losing. Spoke as if we’d broken up yesterday. Begged to meet. I refused for weeks, but eventually, I went. Somewhere on the outskirts, a cheap café—nothing like the places where we once drank wine, staring into each other’s eyes.
And you know what? The man sitting across from me wasn’t him. Not the polished, confident, proud Victor I knew. This man was stooped, bloodshot eyes, a week’s worth of stubble. He was hollow. Everything that had made him the love of my life had vanished. His story was cliché: she’d demanded money, gifts, holidays. Ruined his business, leaked secrets to rivals. Then left. And there he was—alone.
He cried. Got down on his knees. Said we were his family, that he loved the kids, loved me. I was afraid I’d break. But I didn’t. I looked at him and felt nothing. No pity. No pain. No love. Just indifference.
I told him, “*Stop making a fool of yourself.*” Not even out of anger—just exhaustion. I didn’t want to hear the noise, see his wretched face. Didn’t care if he yelled. There are people who shout on street corners, and nobody pays them any mind. For the first time, I felt free of him.
But at home, the emptiness settled in. Not loneliness—just questions with no answers. I confided in Mum and my friends. They were split. My friends were firm: he betrayed you, he’ll do it again. Said I shouldn’t have even met him. Mum, though, was relieved. “*The children need their father*,” she said. “*Don’t throw everything away. Family matters—even if your heart’s gone quiet.*”
I listened to them all, but still had no answer. A month later, nothing’s changed. I’m still at Gran’s. Cooking for myself, deciding my own life. Victor sends more money now, stopped drinking. Still begs me to come back. Tries to prove he’s changed. And when I look at my life, I know—I don’t want it to stay like this. But I can’t go back to him.
I’m not a child. Not twenty anymore. But I’m stuck. Scared to move—forward into the unknown, backward into betrayal. I don’t know where to go. Every night, once the kids are asleep, I stare out the window and whisper to myself: *Just let me understand what I truly want. Just let me feel again.*
