I dreamed of happiness, made plans for the future, and all I got were insults!
My name is Helen Crawford, and I live in a quiet town nestled among the English countryside’s rolling hills. I saw him again at the reunion — 20 years after we had last met. Stephen stood before me, broader in the shoulders, with a tousled mane of hair, but his eyes — large, deep, and filled with that familiar longing — pierced through me just like when we were young. He asked me to dance, just like those days when we were together. I felt his warmth, his breath, his strength, and my body trembled as if time had rolled back. That night, he invaded my dreams again, and I realized that old love hadn’t died.
Why did we part ways? I don’t remember. For three years, we lived as husband and wife, making plans: a cottage with a garden, a little flower and candle shop, thinking of names for children — Mary, Edward… Then he vanished — no words, no trace, leaving me in emptiness. After a couple of glasses of wine and some dancing, we both understood at the reunion: this was a chance to start anew. Six months later, I moved to his place in Canterbury. His wife had passed away, and I hadn’t found anyone with whom I could nest. At first, everything seemed fine, but dreams of happiness turned into a nightmare.
I sought love, but all I received were humiliations. Stephen had two sons — 16 and 18 years old, Tom and James. I didn’t try to be their mother — that would have been foolish. I simply wanted friendship, understanding, hoping they would accept me into their lives. I tried my best: surrounding them with care, cooking, buying gifts, compromising for peace in the house. But instead of warmth, I got coldness. It got worse when their late mother’s parents visited. I respected them as much as I could — they were family, after all. But every visit turned into an ordeal: they looked at me like an outsider, and I felt like a shadow.
I was 38, not accustomed to the new city, the unfamiliar people, their home. Constant attempts to please everyone wore me out. I struggled to breathe amidst the chaos left behind by the boys, their indifference. The elder, Tom, even started bringing his girlfriend over while I was at work. They sprawled in our bedroom, in our bed, soiling the sheets. She used my creams, comb, slippers, wrecking the kitchen so that I spent hours cleaning up after her. The younger, James, was always grumbling: the clothes I bought weren’t right, the food wasn’t like his mum’s. “You’re just a housewife, sitting at home doing nothing,” he threw in my face. I endured as long as I could. And when I tried talking to Stephen, he’d brush it off like my words were meaningless.
I wanted to befriend the neighbors — they say they’re closer than family. But I was disappointed there too: everyone talked about how perfect his late wife was. And me? I was alive, I had loved him all these years, gave up everything — my job, city, familiar life — for him and his family. I decided that if I had a child, everything would change, and I’d gain respect. But when I brought it up, Stephen cut in: “I have children, I don’t want more.” And me? I was left empty-handed, with a dream of motherhood he stomped on.
After that, everything spiraled downhill. Stephen changed — he wasn’t the young man from my past. Life had burned away his warmth, and he looked at me with irritation. He found faults in me, criticized me, just like his sons. I tried my hardest, but it was all in vain. The last straw was when I came home from work to find Tom’s girlfriend wearing my robe. She walked around the house like it was hers, and this was personal, like the underwear she might have worn behind my back! I held back, quietly said, “Please don’t touch my things.” And she laughed in my face: “Oh, come on, don’t freak out!” Why did she treat me like this? I fed her, cleaned after her like she was my own, and she spat in my soul.
I lost it, ran out of the room. Stephen stormed out of the kitchen, red with anger, and started yelling at me. I stood there, mute, not believing my ears. He called me lazy, shouted for me to get out of his house, throwing things at me — a cup, a book, whatever was at hand. Tears filled my eyes, I grabbed a bag, and I dashed out onto the street as I was. I caught the first train to my hometown, back to my parents. The next morning, he sent my things by courier — coldly, without a note, like rubbish.
Time heals, they say. I try not to think about it. The pain dulls, but the wound remains. I believe I’ll find someone who will love me — the real me, with my dreams and scars. Stephen was my first love, but not my destiny. I wanted happiness, but ended up with fragments. Now I’m back in my hometown, among familiar streets, learning to breathe again, hoping for light ahead, not new insults.
