I once sat on a bench in a quiet London square, weighed down by sorrow. Beside me appeared a woman in her early forties, and before long, we fell into conversation. As if she had long been searching for someone to hear her story, she poured out her heart—a tale of pain, blind love, and self-destruction. Little did I know then that her words would stay with me forever. Now, I share them with you, hoping they might open someone’s eyes.
Her name was Eleanor, and when it all began, she was just twenty-three. Fresh out of university, bright-eyed and ambitious, she had landed a promising position at a bank in Manchester—her first proper job, her first taste of success. Then, a few months in, *he* arrived—Thomas. An unremarkable man at first glance, yet something about him drew her in. He would sit beside her in meetings, linger near her at office gatherings, and she welcomed his attention. It felt as though something tender was blossoming between them.
One evening, after a company event, he offered to drive a colleague home to a village outside the city—and suggested Eleanor join them to avoid gossip. Along the way, he confessed how deeply he admired her. The next day, he appeared at her doorstep with an enormous bouquet of roses. And so, their romance began. Flowers, stolen glances, whispered words—Eleanor was over the moon. Until the day it all shattered.
At the annual office party, Thomas walked in—not alone, but with a woman. Plain, unassuming, yet the murmurs began at once: *That’s his wife!* Eleanor’s world collapsed. She fled the banquet, weeping until dawn. Yet by morning, there he stood at her door again, tulips in hand, eyes brimming with tears, swearing his marriage was long dead, that they stayed together only for their child, that his heart belonged to her.
And she believed him.
He vowed to file for divorce. Begged her to wait—just until his son was older, then until he started school. Then, his wife fell pregnant again. *How can I leave her now, with another child on the way?* he pleaded, eyes full of guilt. So Eleanor waited. Loved. Trusted. Day after day, he came to her, promising *just a little longer*, that everything would be as she dreamed. And day after day, he delayed.
Ten years slipped by. He would arrive, carry off her hope, and leave her in loneliness. Still, she endured. Her mother begged her to see reason, even confronted Thomas’s parents once—only to find her «separated» son-in-law lounging on their sofa, cradling his youngest boy, kissing his wife’s cheek without a shred of pretense. He had been living two lives all along.
At thirty-three, Eleanor was broken. A decade of pain, humiliation, wasted years. Life had passed her by while she clung to the roadside, clutching a bouquet of lies.
Yet her story did not end in tragedy. She found the strength to walk away—for good. Later, she met another man, quiet and kind, with no grand declarations but a heart full of honesty. At thirty-five, she became a mother for the first time. Now her son is seventeen, and though her friends dote on grandchildren, Eleanor doesn’t regret a thing. *I had my child when I was truly ready to be a mother,* she says. *I loved someone who deserved it. And most of all, I forgave myself for my blindness.*
As for Thomas? He’s still with his wife. Sometimes he calls. Sometimes he messages. Sometimes he watches her stories online. But Eleanor no longer responds. She knows the worth of her years. Her heart. And her happiness.