He betrayed us, and now he wants to come back, but I want no part of such happiness.
I first met Edward at my very first job, in an office in Manchester. Fresh out of university, I was young, naïve, hopelessly green. Edward took me under his wing straight away—guiding me through tasks, explaining the finer points, always there with a word of encouragement. I was endlessly grateful, and my heart softened under his attention.
Before long, he began inviting me to lunch, offering lifts home. The older colleagues whispered warnings: “Watch yourself, Emily, Edward’s a right charmer.” But I brushed them off, certain they were just jealous. To me, he was perfect—kind, thoughtful, the finest man alive. I fell in love, and by the way he looked at me, I thought he felt the same. A year later, Edward proposed. Without hesitation, I said yes. We married and moved into my flat—a gift from my parents before the wedding.
At first, life was like a fairy tale. But then I fell pregnant and left work for maternity leave, followed swiftly by a second child. Two babies, sleepless nights, endless chores. I changed—gained weight, swapped heels for slippers, bright dresses for cosy pyjamas. Who was there to see me at home, after all? Edward barely lifted a finger with the children. I didn’t want to burden him—he worked hard, he was tired. I managed as best I could alone.
He started staying late at the office, vanishing at weekends—business trips, “urgent matters.” He claimed it was all for us, and I believed him. I believed until a friend told me she’d seen Edward in a restaurant with a young brunette—his new colleague. Some wealthy man’s daughter, with a posh flat in Mayfair and a flashy car. Edward didn’t bother denying it. He admitted they’d been carrying on for half a year, and he was leaving me for her. “It’s your own fault,” he spat. “You stopped being a woman. All you care about is nappies, baby food, and gossiping with the neighbours. She’s the real deal.”
I was shattered. “And what about the fact I’m the mother of your children? That I’ve held this house together, stayed up nursing them when they’re ill?” I screamed. But he didn’t care. She hadn’t given birth, hadn’t “ruined” her figure. She slept with a face mask while I rocked the pram. Edward packed his things and walked out, leaving me with two babies and a broken heart.
It was a betrayal that nearly destroyed me. I barely ate, barely slept, barely wanted to live. Thank God for my mother—she took the children while I pieced myself back together. I realised: for my sons, I had to stand. Edward wasn’t worth my tears.
Time passed. I enrolled the boys in nursery, found a new job—I couldn’t return to the old office, where every corner reminded me of him. I lost weight, found my spark again, began to live anew. Then, out of the blue, like a bolt from the heavens, Edward reappeared.
All that time, he’d never once called, never asked after the boys. Sent pitiful child support—that was all. His mother, Margaret, showed no interest either, ringing occasionally out of duty. My parents were my only support. Without them, I’d have fallen apart. And now, just as my life had finally settled, he turned up.
For the children’s sake, I let him visit. But the moment he walked in, it was clear he didn’t care about them. He asked about *me*—was I seeing anyone, how was I getting on. Then the charm came out, the smouldering looks. I was stunned. “If you want to see the boys, fine,” I said sharply. “But I’ve no interest in your newfound ‘happiness.’” I lied, said there was someone else, that life was wonderful. And what do you know? Edward vanished again, as if he’d never been there. Once more, the boys meant nothing.
Now his mother rings daily, lecturing me: “He’s come to his senses, wanted to save the family, and you’ve destroyed it all, robbed the boys of their father!” I learned the truth: his “love” had dumped him for someone wealthier. He had nowhere to go. Margaret didn’t want him back—she had “her own life.” So they decided to “save the family,” suddenly remembering us.
But I’m no fool. That sort of “happiness” isn’t for me. I’ve already stepped on that rake—I won’t do it twice. My boys deserve better than a father who’d betray them. What would you do? Forgive him for the children’s sake? Or agree that no father is better than one like him?
