Fabricated love wrecked my life. Now I’ve no clue how to carry on.
It all went sideways…
Sometimes I shut my eyes and drift back to my schooldays in Sheffield. I’d count down to graduation, dreaming of moving to London—not just for the city, but to be with my sweetheart, Oliver, who’d already started at medical school there. We’d been together since Year 10. Everything felt bright, genuine, endless.
When I passed my A-levels and got into uni in the capital, we moved in together straightaway. Our tiny rented flat became home. We’d cook, cram for exams, pinch every penny, and fall asleep tangled up. Often, we’d go to bed hungry because groceries stretched thin. But I didn’t need anything else—just him. I was certain it was real love. And he’d whisper before bed that I was his everything, his fate.
Time made things firmer, weightier. We talked about the future—marriage, kids. I secretly browsed wedding dress designs, picturing our big day—white roses, a lace veil, parents dabbing happy tears. Both families assumed we’d wed after graduation. Four years together, and we were practically a single entity in their eyes.
Then, one day, it all collapsed.
One weekend, while Oliver was buried in revision, my new uni mate, Gemma, invited me to her uncle’s countryside place near Oxford. His 40th birthday. She’d gushed about him—her favourite uncle, a slick entrepreneur, lived in New York, always brought lavish gifts. I agreed, figuring it’d be a harmless break. I didn’t know it’d unravel my life.
Nathan was magnetic. Sharp, charismatic, self-assured. His stories were wilder than any film plot. I hung on his every word, every glance. When he asked if I had a boyfriend, I—for reasons I still don’t grasp—lied. Said I’d just split up, that things were messy. His eyes lit up. That’s how our secret fling began. I thought it’d be a fling. But I fell so hard, I lost all sense. This man—grown, worldly, enigmatic—made me dizzy. He offered to take me to New York. And I… said yes. It felt like a fairytale. I didn’t even talk to Oliver. While he was in lectures, I packed my things and left a note: *I’m sorry. It’s over. We’re on different paths.*
In America, I dropped out of uni, abandoned everything. Took odd jobs—babysitting, temp work—just to stay near Nathan. He demanded perfection. Breakfast at precise times. Dinners to his taste. If I wore a simple dress, he frowned. If I gained or lost weight, he’d snap. And when angry, he transformed. Shouting, name-calling, once even locking me in until I squeezed into *his* favourite dress. I stayed silent. Ashamed, terrified. But after storms came tender days—sweet, doting. I mistook it for love. Now I see: it was sickness. Weakness.
At 43, he wanted a child. A son. Promised he’d be over the moon if we named him Arthur, after his grandfather. But pregnancy never came. Nearly two years passed. When I suggested seeing a doctor, he exploded. The next day, he shoved my bags out the door and told me to vanish forever.
Tears, terror, loneliness—it all caved in. I crawled back to England. Got a job at a local shop, cared for Mum after her stroke. Thought things couldn’t worsen. Then one day, pain crippled me. An ambulance came. Morphine dulled it, but the doctor ordered tests. When I returned, I nearly choked. The doctor was… Oliver.
He didn’t let on he knew me. Strictly professional: scans, tests, ultrasounds. Polite, detached. Then, briskly, he said the pain might be gynaecological—further checks needed. A week later, he dropped, almost casually, *“My wife’s a colleague here. Our daughter’s four.”* A pang hit—not jealousy, but regret. Then, a reckless urge. I tried to kiss him. He gently pushed me back. *“We’re done. I’m your doctor. I have a family. Don’t forget that.”*
That severed the last thread to my past. But the worst came after. Tests confirmed I’d never have children. The one thing Nathan and I never guessed—now it’s certain. No kids. Ever.
I’ve lost it all: love, future, health, dreams. And once, all I’d wanted was a pretty wedding, a home, a happy family. Now, I just hope fate’s got *something* decent left. That life isn’t over. That I might yet learn to be happy—even a little.
