A love I imagined ruined my life. Now I don’t know how to go on.
Everything went wrong…
Sometimes I shut my eyes and drift back to when I was still in school in Sheffield. I used to count down the days until graduation, dreaming of moving to London—not just for the city, but for my love, Oliver, who had already started medical school there. We’d been together since secondary school. Everything felt bright, real, eternal.
When I passed my A-levels and got into university in the capital, we moved in together straightaway. Our tiny rented flat became a proper home. We cooked together, crammed for exams, pinched every penny, and fell asleep in each other’s arms. Often we went to bed hungry because we couldn’t afford food. But I didn’t need anything else—just him beside me. I felt it was real love. And he’d whisper before bed that I was his everything, his fate.
As time passed, it all grew more serious. We talked about the future—marriage, children. I secretly browsed wedding dresses online, imagining our big day—white flowers, a silk veil, our parents, happy tears. Both our families assumed we’d marry right after graduation. We’d been together four years, inseparable.
Then, one day, everything shattered.
On a weekend when Oliver was buried in coursework, my new uni mate, Gemma, invited me to her uncle’s cottage near Winchester. His birthday—Oliver Blackwood, turning 37. She’d spoken of him often—her favorite uncle, a successful businessman, lived in New York, always bringing lavish gifts. I agreed, thinking it’d be a quiet two-day escape. I didn’t know it’d be the beginning of the end.
Oliver was intoxicating. Clever, magnetic, self-assured. He told stories I’d never even heard in films. I hung on every word, every glance. And when he asked if I had a boyfriend, I—for no reason I understood—lied. Said I’d just ended things, that it was messy. His eyes lit up. That’s how our secret affair began. I thought it was a summer fling. But I fell in so deep I lost myself. He was everything Oliver wasn’t—older, worldly, enigmatic. He offered to take me to New York. And I… said yes. It felt like a fairy tale. I never even spoke to Oliver. While he was in lectures, I packed my things and left a note: *Sorry. It’s over. We’re on different paths now.*
In America, I dropped out of uni, abandoned everything. I worked odd jobs—babysitting, waitressing—just to stay close to him. He demanded perfection. Breakfast at the exact right time. Dinners he approved of. If I wore a plain dress, he’d scowl. If I gained or lost weight, he’d rage. And when he raged, he changed. Shouting, name-calling, once even locking me in until I squeezed into *that* dress. I stayed silent. Ashamed. Terrified. But after every storm came calm—gentleness, affection. I mistook it for love. Now I know it was sickness. Weakness.
When he turned 40, he wanted a child. A boy. Promised if I gave him a William—after his grandfather—he’d be the happiest man alive. But nothing happened. Nearly two years passed. When I suggested seeing a doctor, he exploded. The next day, he threw my things out the door and told me to disappear forever.
Tears, fear, loneliness—they swallowed me whole. I came back to England. Got a job at a corner shop, looked after my mum—she’d had a stroke. I thought nothing could be worse. Then, one day, pain twisted through me so badly I called an ambulance. The injection numbed it, but the doctor told me to come back for tests. I went. And nearly collapsed. The doctor was… Oliver.
He didn’t let on that he knew me. Just clinical. Exams, scans, ultrasound. Polite. Professional. Then, briskly, he said the pain might be gynecological, that I’d need further tests. A week later, I returned. He never mentioned the past, but offhandedly said, *I’ve got a wife now—another doctor—and a daughter, four years old.* A pang shot through me—not jealousy, but regret. Then, a wild impulse. I tried to kiss him. He stepped back gently. *We’re not together anymore. I’m your doctor. I have a family. Don’t forget that.*
That severed the last thread to my old life. But the worst was yet to come. He confirmed what I’d feared—infertility. Something we’d never even guessed with Oliver was now undeniable. I’d never have children. Never.
I lost everything—love, future, health, dreams. All I’d ever wanted was a white dress, a home, a happy family. Now all I can do is hope fate has something left for me. That life isn’t over. That I might still learn to be happy—even just a little.
