I dreamed of happiness, made plans for the future, and ended up with nothing but insults!
My name is Elena Smith, and I live in the quaint town of Oakworth, nestled in the English countryside. I met him again at our school reunion—20 years later. Alex stood before me, broader in shoulders, with tousled hair, but his eyes—big, deep, and full of the same longing—pierced through me just like they did in our youth. He asked me to dance, just like when we were a couple. I felt his warmth, his breath, his strength—and my body shivered, as if time had rolled back. That night, he invaded my dreams once more, and I realized the old love never faded.
Why did we part ways? I don’t remember. For three years, we lived as though married, making plans—cozy cottage, a little flower and candle shop, even picking names for children—Anna, Thomas… Then he disappeared—without a word, without a trace, leaving me in emptiness. At that reunion, after a few glasses of wine and dancing, we both knew it was a chance to start anew. Six months later, I moved to be with him in Bristol, into his house. His wife had passed away, and I hadn’t found anyone to build a nest with. At first, everything was fine, but my dreams of happiness soon turned into nightmares.
I wanted love, but received nothing but humiliation. Alex had two sons—Tim and Charlie, aged 16 and 18. I didn’t try to become their mother—it would have been foolish. I just wanted friendship, mutual understanding, for them to accept me into their lives. I tried my best: surrounded them with care, cooked, bought gifts, made compromises for peace in the house. But instead of warmth, I received coldness. Things worsened when their late mother’s parents visited. I respected them as much as I could—they were part of the family. But each visit was a trial: they looked at me as an outsider, and I felt like a shadow.
At 38, I wasn’t accustomed to a new town, new people, their home. Constant attempts to please everyone exhausted me. I was suffocating from the chaos left by the boys, from their indifference. The older one, Tim, started bringing his girlfriend over while I was at work. They lounged in our bedroom, our bed, leaving dirty sheets. She used my creams, hairbrush, slippers, leaving the kitchen in such a mess that I spent hours cleaning up her havoc. The younger one, Charlie, was always complaining: 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 snapped at me. I put up with it as long as I could. When I tried talking to Alex, he waved me off as if my words were meaningless.
I wanted to befriend the neighbors—they say they can be closer than family. But there, too, I faced disappointment: everyone talked about how perfect Alex’s late wife was. And me? I was alive, I loved him all these years, and I gave up everything—my job, my city, my accustomed life—for him and his family. I decided that having a child would change everything, that I would finally gain respect. But when I brought it up, Alex said flatly, “I already have children, I don’t want more.” And me? I was left empty-handed, with a dream of motherhood crushed.
After that, everything went downhill. Alex changed—he was no longer the boy from my youth. Life had burned away his warmth, and he looked at me with irritation. He picked faults in me, criticized me just like his sons. I tried my hardest, but it was all in vain. The breaking point came when I returned from work to find Tim’s girlfriend wearing my robe. She wandered through the house as if she owned it, using my personal belongings like they were nothing! I kept calm and quietly said, “Please, don’t touch my things.” She laughed in my face: “Oh, come on, don’t freak out!” Why did she treat me this way? I fed her, cleaned up after her, treated her like one of my own, and she spat on my soul.
That was the last straw. I ran out of the room. Alex stormed out of the kitchen, red with anger, yelling at me. I stood there, mute, unable to believe what I was hearing. He called me lazy, shouted for me to get out of his house, and hurled things at me—a cup, a book, whatever was at hand. With tears in my eyes, I grabbed a bag and dashed out onto the street just as I was. I caught the first train back to Oakworth, to my parents. The next morning, he sent my belongings via courier—coldly, without a note, like trash.
They say time heals all wounds. I try not to dwell on it. The pain subsides, but the scar remains. I believe I will find someone who loves me—for who I truly am, with my dreams and scars. Alex was my first love, but he wasn’t my fate. I sought happiness and ended up with broken pieces. Now, back in Oakworth, among familiar streets, I am learning to breathe again, hoping for light ahead, not new miseries.
