My Ex-Husband Left Me for Another Woman Five Years Ago—Now He Wants Me to Be a Mother to His Son. My…

I set my mug down on the table and heard my phone buzzing. Unknown number, but the sound gave it awaydrawn-out rings, persistent, as if the caller was absolutely certain I owed them an answer. I glanced at the screen and sighed: It was him. Victor. My ex-husband, whod left me five years ago for someone elseand had a child with her.

I didnt pick up straight away. Instead I stood at the window, watching the local children play football in the street, wondering: Why? Why now?

The phone stopped. Then promptly started up again.

I huffed and answered.

Hi, Olivia, Victors voice was soft, almost apologetic. I really need to speak to you. Its urgent.

What about? I sat on the windowsill, phone pressed to my ear, bracing myself for the next inevitable favour. Victor had a knack for asking thingsalways with that tone that made refusing feel practically criminal.

Can we meet? Id rather not discuss it over the phone, you know

No, I dont know, I replied evenly. Say what youve got to say now, or lets not bother at all.

He paused, then sighedthe world-weary, rumbly sigh of a man whos either been having too many late nights or too many cigarettes.

Its Sylvia. Shes ill. Stage four. The doctors say two, maybe three months left.

Sylviathe woman for whom hed left me. The mother of his son. I felt a chill, not out of sympathy, but from the sense that he was gearing up to ask for somethinga request that would really take the wind out of me.

Im sorry, I said, keeping my voice neutral. But I dont see why youre calling me.

Olivia I need your help. I have no one else to turn to.

I stayed silent. Outside, a crow landed on next doors hedge and fixed me with a look, as if to say, Dont you fall for it.

Please, Olivia. Cant we meet? Ill explain everything. Its important. Its about Matthewmy son.

Your son, I mentally corrected him. Not mine. Never mine.

All right, I said briskly. Tomorrow. Three oclock at that café on High Street.

I hung up and sat there in the kitchen, staring into nothing. My tea went cold; the cucumber on my chopping board started to wilt. There was still an old photo stuck to my fridgeVictor and me at a country cottage, all smiles and holding hands. Id been meaning to take it down for ages, but somehow never did. Or maybe I just couldnt admit that the woman in that photo didnt exist anymore.

The next day I arrived at the café early, ordered tea, plonked myself by the window, and waited. Victor showed up ten minutes later, looking thinner, with balding patches at his temples. He sat opposite, nodded at the waitress, and gave me a look that begged forgiveness before wed even said hello.

Thanks for coming, he said quietly.

Well? I wrapped my hands around the teacup, warming my fingers. I havent got long.

Im not sure where to start

Try starting with why Im here.

He rubbed his face and took a deep breath.

Sylvias dying. Its certain. Chemo isnt helping, and its too late for surgery. Shes got no family lefther mother passed away three years ago, she never knew her father. Matthew will be left alone. Hes five.

I sat in silence. Something inside me twisted, but I wouldnt let it show.

I want to ask you he hesitated, stared at the table, for help. Financial help, I mean. Sylvias treatment and careits just Im broke, Olivia. I promise Ill pay you back, but right now I have nothing.

How much? I asked.

About fifty thousand pounds. Maybe more.

I put my cup down; my tea sloshed, staining the tablecloth with a brown blotch.

Fifty thousand, I repeated. And where do you suppose Id get that sort of money, Victor?

You could sell your flat. The one on Rosemead Avenue. You always said you didnt need it, that you werent living there.

The flat on Rosemead. A poky little place in a tired old buildingmy parents wedding gift to me. Later, Id given it to Victor for his birthday, when I genuinely thought we were a forever thing. Hed been renting it out, pocketing the cash. Now he wanted it sold.

Are you being serious? I gave him a long, level stare. You want me to sell the flat I gave you?

Olivia, I know its awful, but

No, I said, firm as polished oak. No, Victor. My gift wasnt a life sentence.

He turned ashen.

But Sylvias dying! Matthew will end up an orphan!

Matthew has a father, I stood up and grabbed my bag. Hes sitting right in front of me. Your responsibility, not mine.

Olivia, please

I didnt wait. I left the café and hurried down the street, clutching my phone so hard my fingers trembled. Did I do the right thing? Or was I just being a stone-hearted, selfish cow?

Back home, I rang my oldest friend, Mary. Shed been my uni lifeline, the one who never told me off for not staying for the sake of the family after my divorce.

He asked you to sell your flat? Mary repeated in disbelief. Olivia, the mans lost the plot!

Mary, the womans dying. Theres a kid in the mix too.

So what? Thats not your circus. You owe him absolutely nothing. Not a thing.

But I feel terrible, I admitted. Like Im abandoning someone at the absolute worst moment.

Youre allowed to say no, Oliviaeven if it breaks your heart, Mary replied, steel in her tone. Remember that. You dont have to carry the weight of his bad choices.

I lay down on the sofa and closed my eyes, Victors words and Sylvias face spinning round my headthe face Id glimpsed only once, years ago, when I caught sight of them together and she looked so radiant and happy. She stole my husband, Id seethed. And nownow she was dying, and I was meant to help?

No. I didnt have to.

Two days later, Victor called again. No request to meet this timejust his voice, sharp and desperate.

I get that youre angry, Olivia. But think of Matthew. He didnt ask for any of this.

Im not angry, I said calmly. I just dont want to be involved.

Theres one last thing. He hesitated. If Sylvia dies would you consider being Matthews guardian? Just for a while, until I can sort myself out?

For a moment, I genuinely couldnt grasp what hed said.

Pardon?

Well, youre a mother. You brought up Natalie. Matthew needs someone I cant do it alone

Victor, I cut in, voice cold as January frost, You want me to mother the child you had while you were cheating on me?

I know how it sounds, but

No, I said. Absolutely not. Erase me from your plans. I will not be cast in your new family saga.

I slammed the phone down and sat on the floor, back to the wall, my heart pounding like a faulty washing machine.

Where did he get the nerve?

That evening, Nataliemy grown-up daughter, smart and stylish, PR hotshot with her own city flatarrived with her usual efficiency.

Mum, Dad spoke to me, she said, already unbuttoning her coat. He said Sylvias dyingand about Matthew.

I nodded, switched the kettle on.

What exactly did he say to you?

That you refused to help. That you were cold.

I turned round. Natalie stood in the hallway, arms folded, watching me with obvious confusion.

Cold? I echoed. Thats a new one.

Mum, how could you be so heartless? Its a child, for heavens sakehe did nothing wrong.

Youre right, I said, putting out the mugs. But his father is responsible. Not me.

You could still help, though! Even a little!

Natalie, Im not selling the flat. Im not becoming anyones guardian. This is your fathers story, not mine.

Youre being selfish, Natalie whispered, disappointment etched in every word.

It hurt. But I didnt fuss.

Maybe I am. Thats my choice.

Natalie left half an hour later, her tea untouched. The flat felt as quiet as an empty church.

The following week was a marathon of Victors texts and callsbouncing between pleading and guilt-trips, some even implying Id be sued or that Natalie would hate me forever.

I ignored him. Read, then deleted.

One evening, Sylvia herself appeared at my door, a thin spectre with a headscarf and haunted eyes.

May I come in? she asked softly.

I let her in, brewed tea. She sat in my kitchen, silent, staring at her mug.

Im not asking you to love Matthew, she said at last. Just to give him a chance. When Im gone, hell need someone who cares.

Doesnt he have a father? I asked.

Victor cant cope alone. You must know that.

I did. Victor was charming, yes, but when it came to actual responsibility he always ducked out.

I cant, I replied. I am truly sorry, but I cant.

Sylvia nodded, rose, and turned at the door.

You are a strong woman, she said. I always envied that about you. But I see nowits a strength that comes from being cold inside.

The door closed. I stood in the hallway, rooted.

Cold inside.

That night I didnt sleep. I lay on my sofa, watched the shadows climb the ceiling, and thought about Matthew. Victor. Sylvia. Maybe I really was cold. Maybe once upon a time Id been soft, willing to forgive and martyr myself for other people.

But then Victor had betrayed me. Walked out. And Id realised that all that sacrificing was pointless: you still get left behind.

But was I right?

I got up and stared out at the silent street. Beyond the glare of the lamplight, somewhere, a dog barked.

I have the right to say no, I repeated Marys words. Even if it hurts. Even if people talk.

I didnt have to clean up after other peoples bad decisions. I didnt have to be the heroine in someone elses soap opera.

The next morning, I called Victor.

Lets meet. Same café, today.

He arrived looking hopeful, sat across from me, hands knotted into anxious shapes.

Olivia, I knew youd

Dont, I said. Listen carefully. I will not sell the flat. I gave it freely, but it was not a lifelong favour. I will not mother your child. This isnt my tragedy, or my problem.

But

You made choices, Victor. You built this life. You left me for someone else, you had a child. You deal with it. Dont expect me to fix it.

He looked pale.

So youre happy for Matthew to suffer?

I want you to stop using him to twist my arm. I stood up, shouldered my bag. Youve got family, and friends. Sylvias got people who care. Ask them, not me.

Youre heartless, he whispered. Chilling.

I straightened my jacket.

Maybe. But its my life, and I wont let you barge in again.

I walked home, lighter somehow, back unbowed, not looking back.

Weeks passed. Victor stopped calling. Natalie kept her distance. Mary came round to drink tea and talk about anything except Victor or Matthew or sad women in headscarves.

I went back to my daily routinework, dinner, old novels. I sat by my window and watched the neighbours children chase each other with sticks, their laughter carrying up to me.

Now and then, Id wonder about Matthew. What he looked like. Who he took after. But the thoughts floated away easily, dissolving like clouds on the breeze.

One morning, I received a message from Natalie: Mum, Im sorry. You were right.

I smiled as I replied: Thank you, love. Im proud of you.

I sat at my window, tea steaming, looking round at my small, sunlit flat. It was my place. My home. My life.

No, I hadnt been a hero. I hadnt swooped in to save the child, or sacrificed myself on the altar of noble womanhood.

But Id saved myself. And some days, thats a triumph in itself.

A quiet victoryno brass bands, no standing ovation.

Just tea, a book, and the comforting hum of the world carrying on as it always has.

At last, I felt no guilt for choosing myself.