He swore he loved me, but his mistress bore his child.
I forgave the affair, but I couldn’t survive the betrayal.
“You’re my life, my woman, my only one…” whispered Andrew, gazing into my eyes with such tenderness it stole my breath. His words were balm to my soul. I believed them as firmly as one believes the dawn after the darkest night. But now, looking back, I realise—he stared straight into my eyes and lied without shame. Lied when he vowed his love. Lied when he called their affair just a mistake. And I… I forgave. I held on. I tried to save what had already shattered.
We’d been together ten years. We lived in Manchester, building a life side by side—sharing joys, struggles, paying the mortgage, planning a future. I won’t say everything was perfect, but who lives in a fairy tale? We were an ordinary couple with a long history. I loved him—deeply, quietly, maturely.
When I accidentally saw a message on his phone, my heart clenched. “You were amazing last night,” a woman named Olivia had written. I picked up the phone, marched over, and asked bluntly, “Are you cheating on me?” He froze. Then came the excuses—a business trip to Birmingham, exhaustion, too much wine. He called it a mistake, swore she meant nothing, that I was everything. I looked at him and believed. I believed because I didn’t want to break. He bought me a heart-shaped locket, offering it like penance. And I… I sobbed, whispering, “Let’s move on. What matters is us and our future.” He claimed Olivia no longer worked at his office, that he’d pushed for her resignation, that it was over. And I let myself believe it.
To erase the shadow of his infidelity, he whisked me away to the French Riviera—Cannes, Nice, candlelit dinners under the stars, walks along the shore, champagne, kisses. I thought we’d fixed it. I even dared to dream again—of holidays, a quiet life, a future together. But the real storm was still gathering.
On the evening of my fortieth birthday, he sat across from me, eyes downcast, and murmured, “There’s something I need to tell you…” My blood ran cold. A thousand thoughts raced—illness? Job loss? Debt? Then he exhaled: “Olivia’s pregnant.” That sentence destroyed me. It couldn’t get worse.
Turns out, she was six months along. He’d known the whole time. Hidden it, lied to my face, lived a double life. I sat there, numb. He begged forgiveness, swore he wanted to stay with me, claimed he’d just pay child support. That I was his priority, that he wouldn’t leave. But all I heard was the roar of pain in my skull. I couldn’t give him a child. She could.
When the boy was born, Andrew glowed with pride. He became different—attentive, caring, but not toward me. I, on the other hand, withdrew, simmering with anger, crying at night. I grew cold, resentful. One day, when the child turned one, I packed my bags. Scrawled two words on a scrap of paper: “I’m leaving.” And I walked out. No tears. No drama. Just because I couldn’t take it anymore.
To keep from losing myself, I plunged into a whirlwind of new routines—galleries, films, coffees with friends, weekend trips. It dulled the ache, just a little. Life taught me how to be me again. Time passed. I heard Andrew was expecting another child—Olivia was pregnant again. Inside, there was no pain left. Just quiet relief that it was all behind me.
Then I met someone else. Nothing like Andrew. Quiet, steady, kind. He didn’t swear undying love—he just stayed. Woke me with coffee and a kiss. Asked about my day. Looked me in the eye—honestly. And now, when I open my eyes each morning, I smile. Not because someone says, “You’re my life.” But because beside me is a man who truly wants me. No lies. No drama. No broken-heart lockets.
