The love I dreamed of destroyed my life. Now I don’t know how to carry on.
Everything went wrong…
Sometimes I close my eyes and slip back to my school days in Manchester. I counted down to graduation, desperate to move to London—not just for the city, but for Liam, my boyfriend. He’d already started medical school there after leaving school early. We’d been together since secondary school. Everything felt bright, real, eternal.
When I passed my A-levels and got into uni in London, we moved in together straightaway. Our tiny rented flat became home. We cooked together, crammed for exams, scrimped every penny, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Often, we went to bed hungry because we couldn’t afford food. But I didn’t care—as long as he was beside me. I truly believed in our love. And he’d whisper before sleep that I was his everything, his fate.
Time made us stronger, more serious. We talked about the future—marriage, kids. I secretly browsed wedding dresses online, imagining our big day: white roses, a silk veil, proud parents, happy tears. Our families assumed we’d marry right after graduation—four years together, and everyone saw us as one.
Then, one day, it all shattered.
On a weekend when Liam was buried in revision, my new uni friend, Emily, invited me to her uncle’s country house near Oxford. His 40th birthday—Oliver, her glamorous uncle, a successful businessman living in New York, always bringing back extravagant gifts. I thought it’d be a harmless weekend escape. I didn’t know it’d be the beginning of the end.
Oliver was magnetic. Charming, witty, confident. His stories were like something from a film. I hung on his every word, his every glance. When he asked if I had a boyfriend, I lied—I don’t know why. Said I’d just ended things, that it was messy. His eyes lit up. That’s how our secret affair began. I thought it was a fling. But I fell so hard I lost myself. This man—older, worldly, mysterious—made me feel alive. He offered to take me to New York. And I… said yes. It felt like a fairy tale. I didn’t even talk to Liam. While he was in lectures, I packed my things and left a note: *”I’m sorry. It’s over. We want different things.”*
In America, I dropped out of uni, gave up everything. Worked as a nanny, took odd jobs—just to stay near Oliver. He demanded perfection. Breakfast at exactly 7 AM. Dinners he liked. If I wore a simple dress, he frowned. If I gained or lost weight, he snapped. And when he snapped, he changed. Screamed, called me names, once locked me in until I squeezed into his favourite dress. I stayed silent. Ashamed, terrified. But after every storm came tenderness—he’d turn gentle, doting. I mistook it for love. Now I know: it was obsession. Weakness. Sickness.
At 43, he decided he wanted a son. Promised if I had a boy—Henry, after his grandfather—he’d be the happiest man alive. But pregnancy never came. After two years, I suggested seeing a doctor. He exploded. The next day, he threw my bags out and told me to disappear forever.
Tears, fear, loneliness—it swallowed me. I came back to England. Got a job at a local shop, cared for my mum after her stroke. Thought things couldn’t get worse. Then, one day, pain ripped through me—I called an ambulance. The injection helped, but the doctor ordered tests. When I went back, my heart stopped. The specialist was… Liam.
He didn’t acknowledge our past. Just clinical: scans, tests, ultrasounds. Polite, professional. Then, bluntly, he said the pain might be gynaecological—more tests needed. A week later, he mentioned, casually, *”My wife’s a colleague. Our daughter’s four.”* The stab inside wasn’t jealousy—it was regret. Then, a foolish impulse. I tried to kiss him. He stepped back, gentle but firm. *”We’re over. I’m your doctor. I have a family. Don’t forget that.”*
That severed the last thread to my old life. But the worst was yet to come. He confirmed what Oliver never knew: I’m infertile. I’ll never have children.
I’ve lost it all: love, future, health, dreams. Once, I just wanted a wedding, a home, happiness. Now, I’m left hoping fate has even a shred of kindness left for me. That life isn’t over. That I might still learn how to be happy—even just a little.
