**Diary Entry**
I used to dream about him back in university days, back when I lived in a sleepy town near Oxford. It was the kind of love that blinds you—reckless, intoxicating, the sort that makes you forget reason entirely. When he finally noticed me years after graduation, I lost what little sense I had left. Fate threw us together in a law firm. Same profession, shared interests—I took it as a sign, as though my fairy tale was finally beginning.
To me, he was perfect. That he had a wife back then didn’t faze me—I was too young to understand the pain of broken marriages, too naive to grasp the wreckage left behind. I felt no shame when Daniel left his wife for me. Who knew that choice would bring me such grief? They say you can’t build happiness on someone else’s sorrow—turns out they’re right.
When he chose me, I floated on air, ready to forgive him anything. But in reality, he was far from the prince I imagined. His clothes littered the flat, he refused to wash a single dish, and the weight of daily life crushed me. Still, I looked past it—love made me soft, pliable, almost spineless.
His past marriage faded quickly, as if erased. No children, he said, just a wedding pushed by her parents. *”You’re different—you’re my destiny,”* he’d whisper, and I melted. My happiness burned bright but brief, like a struck match. Then I got pregnant.
At first, Daniel was overjoyed—his child! We threw a party, invited family, friends. Toasts, eagerness for the baby—that night lingers in my memory, a flicker of warmth before the coming storm. I don’t regret it. But afterwards, my blind love began dimming like a candle in the wind.
The bigger my belly grew, the less I saw of Daniel. Maternity leave meant evenings alone. He stayed late, vanished to work events. I endured it, but it became unbearable—pregnant and exhausted, stepping over his scattered shirts like accusations. Had we rushed into this? Love fades, yes—but not this fast.
He still brought flowers, chocolates. But I wanted *him*—his presence, his support. Then the truth surfaced. A coffee break with colleagues uncovered it: a new hire, young and lively. My maternity leave had strained the team. Coincidence? I didn’t know if it was her, but Daniel was seeing *someone*. His life became “work,” “meetings,” “urgent plans.” Once, I found a note in his jacket pocket—unknown initials. My heart clenched, but I slid it back, playing ignorant. Fear of facing single motherhood at seven months paralysed me.
He complained I was “always on edge,” every argument ending with his weary sigh like *I* was the burden. I avoided the truth, knowing it meant the end. Then it came. The deadliest words: *”I’m not ready for kids. There’s someone else.”* How he said it is a blur—I felt everything shatter.
But I found strength. Filed for divorce, each form like a stab. He never expected me to toss his things out the next day. Thank God the flat was rented—nothing to split.
*”And the baby? How will you manage?”* he threw at me.
*”I’ll cope. Work remotely. My parents will help. Mum always said you were a cheat—should’ve listened.”* I slammed the door.
Motherhood gave me a spine I never knew I had. Alone, I might have stayed, but for my son—I walked away. His betrayal was so vile, I erased Daniel as if he’d never existed. My eyes opened, and I saw him for what he was.
The first months—birth, recovery—were hell. I moved back to my parents in the next town over. They embraced us, adored their grandson. I missed Daniel, but buried the thought. Deep down, I knew: I’d done right.
Once stronger, I freelanced—legal translations from home. Lean months came, but my parents helped until I built clientele. Years flew. I realised how much time had passed when my boy needed his own space. Mum and Dad resisted, but I craved independence—an office for me, a study for him. By then, I could afford rent again.
Life settled. Nursery turned to school, Year One to Year Four. Peace, at last. Then *he* reappeared. Our town’s small, legal circles tighter. Daniel found my office easily. I wished I’d moved away.
*”I’ve had my fill of mistakes,”* he said. *”I regret everything. I was young and stupid.”* Begged to meet his son—*our* son, whom he’d never seen.
Legally, he has rights. The thought chills me. Weeks have passed since that talk. I said I’d consider it, but chaos reigns—I don’t trust him. I won’t risk my boy. Is this my reckoning? Payback for stealing him first? Some nights, I consider fleeing to another city, just to keep the past from knocking again.