The man who haunted my sleep abandoned his wife for me, though I never foresaw how the dream would unravel.
I had stalked his silhouette since the days I roamed the halls of Oxford, a love as blind as a moth to flame. When at last he glanced my way, my head spun into nonsense. It was, truth be told, a few years after I tossed my cap, and we found ourselves sharing the same desk in a London consultancyour specialties mirrored, our meetings inevitable. I called it destiny.
He seemed the perfect gentleman of my reveries. In my youthful fog I cared not that he already wore a wedding ring. I had never known the ache of a broken marriage, so when James announced he would leave his wife for me, I felt no shame. Who could imagine the sorrow that would follow? As the old saying goes, you cannot plant joy on the soil of anothers grief.
When he chose me, I floated on cloud nine, ready to forgive any transgression. Yet in the mundane daylight he was no prince; his belongings littered the flat like fallen leaves, and he refused to lift a dish. The chores sank onto my shoulders, but at that moment I cared little.
He erased his former marriage as quickly as ink disappears. No children had been born; it was his inlaws who had pushed the altar. With me, he promised a fresh start.
My bliss lasted only until my belly swelled. At first James beamed at the thought of a child, and we hosted a grand family tea to announce the news. Relatives raised their cups, wishing us health and happiness for the unborn babe.
That evening remains a bright fragment of the dream, and I do not rue it. Yet from that instant my blind devotion began to dim.
As my stomach expanded, James grew scarce. I was on maternity leave, so we met only in the witching hours. He lingered longer at the office, drifting from one corporate cocktail to another. At first it left me unmoved, but soon the loneliness pressed against my ribs. The simple act of gathering scattered socks became an uphill climb.
I asked myself in the quiet of that dreamscapehad we rushed into parenthood?
I knew affection could cool, yet I never expected it to freeze so swiftly. James still slipped flowers and chocolates through the door, but I craved his presence, not his gifts.
Soon the reason for his endless soirées emerged. Over coffee, a colleague whispered of a new junior solicitor joining our departmenta hire forced by the staff shortage that had deepened when I stepped away. How cruelly ironic.
I could not be sure whether she was the cause, but my husband certainly had no free moments leftbe it meetings, contracts, or yet another office gala. One night I found a slip of paper tucked in his jacket pocket, signed with initials I did not recognise. Something rose in me; I slipped the note back and pretended ignorance.
Alone in the seventh month, I felt terror twist my thoughts, while James dismissed my anxieties as irrational. Each argument ended with his sigh of disappointment. I sensed that confronting him would cast me out, and the dread of abandonment grew so fierce that I believed the fear itself might summon the loss. There is a superstition that fearing something too much summons it.
No matter how charming his early courtship had been, James proved no gentleman. The most bitter words ever spoken to my ears were: Im not ready for children, and, I have someone else. I cannot recall their exact cadence, but in that instant I felt my mind splinter.
I never imagined I could summon the strength to petition for divorce. He, apparently, did not expect me to tolerate his conduct, nor that I would empty his belongings the very next morning. I was oddly relieved that we had been renting a flatno walls to split.
Think of the child, he pleaded. How will you support him?
Ill manage, I replied. Ill work from home, and my parents have offered help. Mother always warned me he was a philandererI should have listened.
Perhaps the weight of my unborn son gave me resolve; alone, I might never have left.
I also realised I could not raise a child beside a man like him. His betrayal was such a foul stain that I wanted no further contact. It felt as if a veil lifted from my eyes.
The first months after the split, and the birth itself, were a vortex of hardship. I moved back into my parents house in Manchester, where my grandparents gushed with joy at the new grandson. I missed James, yet I forced the memory aside, convinced I had chosen the right path and could provide everything my son would need.
When my strength returned, I sought work. I had dabbled in legal translation, and I turned it into a fulltime remote gig. There were lean months, but my parents bolstered me. Soon I built a steady roster of clients and no longer leaned on them.
My son grew swiftly, and the years slipped by unnoticed until his room became too small. My parents hesitated to let us go, but I needed my own flata home office for me, a study for him. By then I could afford a modest flat in Leeds.
From that point, pieces fell into place. Nursery became primary school, first grade turned into fifth, and for the first time in ages I tasted freedom and genuine happiness. Then, like a phantom, James resurfaced.
Our legal community is a tight knot; news travels faster than a courier pigeon. He discovered the address of my new office. Regret draped over his shoulders; he confessed he had been reckless and youthful, lamenting never having known his son. He begged to meet the child.
By law, a father cannot be barred from seeing his offspring, and I know that if James truly wishes it, he will find a way. The thought petrifies me. Weeks have passed since our conversation; I told him I would think, yet my mind churns in circles, unable to process. I am desperate to shield my son from his return.
Now I wonder if this is some twist of fatea punishment for having taken James from his first wife. Perhaps I should flee to another town, to another corner of England, to escape the echo of his presence.
