**Diary Entry**
He swore he loved me, yet his mistress bore his child. I could forgive the betrayal, but not the lie.
*”You’re my life, my everything,”* Andrew would whisper, gazing at me with such tenderness it made my heart stop. His words soothed me; I clung to them like the promise of dawn after the darkest night. But now, looking back, I realise he stared straight into my eyes and lied. Lied when he vowed his love. Lied when he claimed she meant nothing. And I… I forgave. I held on. I tried to salvage what had already shattered long ago.
We’d been together ten years. Living in Manchester, building a life—sharing joys, hardships, paying the mortgage, planning a future. It wasn’t perfect, but who lives in a fairy tale? Ours was an ordinary love with a long history. I loved him—deeply, quietly, without drama.
Then I saw the message on his phone. *”You were amazing last night,”* from a woman named Emily. I confronted him. *”Are you cheating on me?”* He froze. Then came the excuses—a business trip to Leeds, exhaustion, too much wine. *”It was a mistake,”* he said. *”She’s nothing. You’re everything.”* I believed him because I wanted to. He bought me a heart-shaped locket, offered it like a peace offering. I cried, whispered, *”Let’s forget. It’s us that matters.”* He swore Emily had left the company, that he’d ended it. I chose to trust him.
To erase the shadow of his infidelity, he whisked me away to the Cornish coast—quaint villages, candlelit dinners under the stars, champagne by the shore. For a while, I thought we’d healed. I dared to dream again—of travels, of quiet happiness, of a life with him. But the storm was only gathering.
On my fortieth birthday, he sat across from me, eyes lowered. *”I need to tell you something.”* My blood froze. A thousand fears raced through me—illness? debt? Then, softly: *”Emily’s pregnant.”* Those words destroyed me. She was six months along. He’d known. Lied to my face, lived a double life. I sat there, numb. He begged forgiveness, swore he’d stay, promised only to pay child support. *”You’re the one I want.”* 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 beamed with pride. He became tender, attentive—just not to me. Meanwhile, I grew colder, angrier, crying myself to sleep. The day the child turned one, I packed my things, left a note—*”I’m done.”*—and walked out. No tears, no scene. Just silence.
To keep from drowning, I threw myself into a new life—art shows, films, coffee with friends. Slowly, the ache dulled. Time taught me to breathe again. Then came the news: Emily was expecting their second. By then, it barely stung. Just a quiet reminder: I’d survived.
Now, there’s someone else. Nothing like Andrew. Steady, kind, real. He doesn’t swear undying love—he shows it. Wakes me with coffee, asks about my day, looks at me without lies. And for the first time in years, I smile when I open my eyes. Not because someone calls me *”their life,”* but because I’m valued—honestly, simply, without broken lockets or shattered hearts.
**Lesson learned**: Love isn’t in grand declarations. It’s in the quiet moments where no lies hide.