He was the man I had secretly loved since college. Years went by before our paths crossed again, and when they did—at a law firm in the outskirts of Cambridge—it felt like destiny had come full circle. We were both lawyers, both passionate about the same things, and the connection between us felt electric. I was completely swept off my feet. It didn’t matter to my younger, naive self that he was married. Love, after all, makes you believe you’re the exception.

When Matthew finally chose me over his wife, I believed my fairy tale was beginning. I didn’t think about the pain his ex-wife must have felt. I told myself they were unhappy anyway, that I was simply what he’d been missing. But as I would later learn, you can’t build lasting happiness on someone else’s broken heart.

In the beginning, I excused everything. His messiness, his laziness, the way he treated our home like a hotel. He never lifted a finger around the house—I cooked, I cleaned, I did it all. I told myself it didn’t matter. He was mine now. I had “won.”

But I hadn’t won anything.

Matthew barely spoke of his previous marriage. He dismissed it as a mistake, something his ex had been pressured into by her family. “With you, it’s different,” he used to whisper. “You’re the one I was always meant to be with.” And I believed him. Every word.

When I found out I was pregnant, his reaction was pure joy—or so it seemed. We celebrated. We hosted a party with friends and family. Everyone toasted to our future and to our unborn child. That night felt like a glowing ember in what would soon become a very cold fire.

Because everything changed after that.

As my belly grew, Matthew became increasingly absent. He stayed late at work, missed appointments, skipped dinners. I told myself he was just busy. I tried to understand. But as the months passed, I found myself alone more often than not—waddling around the flat, exhausted, surrounded by dirty laundry and cold silence.

He brought home flowers sometimes. Chocolates. Gestures that felt like band-aids over a widening wound. I didn’t want flowers. I wanted him. I wanted presence. I wanted the man I thought I knew.

And then came the rumors.

A colleague mentioned a new assistant in the office—a young, energetic woman who seemed to be getting a lot of Matthew’s attention. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t even ask. But I found a note in his coat pocket one day. It wasn’t signed, but it was flirty. Too familiar. My heart sank.

Still, I said nothing.

I was seven months pregnant and terrified. I didn’t know how to be alone. I couldn’t even tie my shoes without gasping. The thought of facing motherhood by myself was paralyzing.

Then one night, after yet another argument where he accused me of being “too emotional,” the words came out.

“I don’t think I’m ready to be a father. And… I’ve met someone else.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I remember the room spinning. I remember clutching the edge of the table to steady myself.

The next morning, I filed for divorce.

He didn’t believe I’d go through with it. But I did. I told him to pack his things and leave. The flat was rented—no assets to fight over, thankfully. Just a life, torn apart.

“And what about the baby?” he asked, panicked at the door. “How are you going to do this alone?”

“I’ll manage,” I said, without even blinking. “My mother warned me about you. I should’ve listened.”

That was the last time I saw him.

The following months were a blur of pain, recovery, and raw determination. I moved in with my parents in the nearby village. They welcomed me and the baby with love and open arms. My mother cried when my son was born. My father built a cradle with his own hands. And I… I survived.

When my son was a few months old, I began freelancing from home—translating legal documents. The early days were hard. Some months, I earned almost nothing. But slowly, I rebuilt a client base. My son grew. Time passed. The house filled with laughter and crayons, bedtime stories and soft lullabies.

Eventually, I was able to afford a small flat of my own. My parents didn’t want us to leave, but I needed that independence—for me, and for my son.

Years flew by. Nursery became school. First grade turned into fifth. I felt strong. Whole. For the first time in a long while, I wasn’t looking over my shoulder.

And then… Matthew came back.

He showed up at my office one morning like a shadow from a life I’d buried. He said he regretted everything. That he had been foolish. That he had “grown.” That he wanted to meet the son he’d never known.

Legally, he has the right. I can’t stop him forever if he pursues it. But the thought terrifies me. It churns in my stomach like ice water.

I told him I’d think about it. That was weeks ago. I haven’t answered his follow-up messages.

Part of me wonders… is this karma? Am I paying the price for the pain I once helped cause? Did I steal a man who was never mine to keep?

I’m now seriously considering moving again—starting fresh in a new town, away from old ghosts and their guilt. I’ve spent years creating something stable, something safe. I will protect it at any cost.

Because now, I no longer live for a dream or a man.

I live for my son.

And no one will take that from me.