I learned that my wife had left her children for a new marriage
I met Catherine at a corporate party at our company, where I had just started working. We worked in different departments, and I knew almost nothing about her. She caught my eye immediately—tall, slender, with a gentle smile that was hard to look away from. We spent the entire evening together, dancing until we dropped, laughing, chatting about everything under the sun. After the party, I called a taxi and took her home to one of the residential areas in Manchester. The next day, I flew to work as if on wings—I couldn’t wait to see her again.
On the way, I stopped by a flower shop, bought a bouquet of roses, and got her favorite chocolates. Catherine greeted me with a beaming smile, and from that day on, we were inseparable. We were in our thirties, so we didn’t linger over the romance—we were too mature for prolonged courtship. I asked her to move in with me, and she agreed without hesitation. Life with her was like a fairy tale: Catherine turned out to be a wonderful homemaker, cheerful, and spontaneous. No worries, no clouds on the horizon—just happiness and harmony.
I decided it was time to take the next step. I bought a ring with a small diamond, got down on one knee, and proposed to her. She said “yes,” and we plunged into wedding plans. But when it came to the guest lists, I noticed something odd: Catherine had almost no relatives. She explained that she only had distant relatives with whom she’d lost touch long ago. I shrugged it off—everyone has their own family stories.
The day before the wedding, she went off with friends to a beauty salon—to get ready for the big day. She’d forgotten her phone on the kitchen table. I grabbed it, deciding to take it to her, as I knew the address of the salon. But, sitting in the car, I heard it ring. “Mum” flashed on the screen. I hesitated but decided to answer—what if it was urgent? An exhausted, trembling voice of an older woman poured through the line, accusing: “Cathy’s completely lost her conscience! Left her kids with us, the elderly, doesn’t send money, and now she’s vanished! They’re sick, there are no medicines, how are we supposed to care for them?”
I introduced myself, feeling my hands grow cold. “What’s happened?” I asked, and the truth hit me like a cold wave. It turned out Catherine had two children she’d left with her parents in a village near Liverpool and moved to the city for a “better life.” At first, she sent money, then stopped. The elderly were scraping by on a meager pension, and the kids were growing—they needed clothes, food, doctors. I asked for a bank account number and sent what I could—for medicine and groceries. Then I turned the car around and headed home. The beauty salon faded into the background, as did my illusions.
At home, I packed her things into suitcases—carefully, but with a heavy heart. When she returned—groomed, with a new hairstyle and polished nails—I silently handed her the luggage. She was taken aback and began questioning what had happened. I tossed her the phone without saying a word. Her eyes widened—she understood everything. She began to explain, to justify herself, but her voice sounded like noise in an empty void. I didn’t want to listen. After the conversation with her mother, she died for me as a woman, as a person.
Men can be deceived, connived, misled—we’re not saints. But abandoning your children to rely on elderly parents, forgetting them, not helping, and lying to my face that there’s no family? It was beyond my understanding. She stood before me—beautiful, yet empty like a burnt-out shell. In that moment, I saw her true self—and it was unbearable.
The wedding never happened. I severed all ties with her, erasing her from my life like a bad dream. But questions remained. What do you think, can Catherine be understood? Could a woman who betrays her closest ones be a loyal wife? Should I trust her words of love and her promises that with me, it would be different? I look towards the future and see nothing but the shadow of her lies. Maybe I’m too strict, but for me, a mother who abandons her children for a new life is not a woman, but a ghost I never want to see beside me.
