I dreamed of happiness, planned a future, and only received insults.

My name is Elena López, and I live in Soria, where the quiet streets are hidden beneath the shade of pine trees.
I saw him again at our high school reunion — after 20 years.
Sergio stood in front of me, his shoulders broader, his hair messy, but his eyes — large, deep, filled with the same melancholy — pierced me just as they had in our youth.
He invited me to dance, just as he used to when we were a couple.
I felt his warmth, his breath, his strength, and my body trembled, as if time had turned back.
That night, he appeared in my dreams again, and I realized that the old love had never died.

Why did we break up?
I don’t remember.
For three years, we lived as husband and wife, making plans: a little house with a garden, a small flower and candle shop, choosing names for future children — María, Elías…
And then, he simply disappeared — without a word, without a trace, leaving me in the void.
At the reunion, after a few glasses of wine and several dances, we both knew: it was a chance to start over.
Six months later, I moved with him to Salamanca, into his house.
His wife had passed away, and I had never found anyone to build a home with.
At first, everything seemed fine, but the dreams of happiness quickly turned into a nightmare.

I sought love and only found humiliation.
Sergio had two sons — Álvaro, 16, and Ignacio, 18.
I didn’t try to be their mother — that would have been a mistake.
I just wanted friendship, understanding, to be accepted into their lives.
I did everything I could: I cared for them, cooked, bought gifts, yielded to maintain peace at home.
But instead of warmth, I found coldness.
Everything worsened when the parents of his late wife visited.
I respected them as much as I could — they were part of the family.
But each visit became a trial: they looked at me like a stranger, and I felt like a shadow.

I was 38 years old, not used to the new city, to strangers, to his house.
The constant efforts to please everyone exhausted me.
I suffocated under the mess the boys left behind, under their indifference.
Álvaro, the eldest, started bringing his girlfriend over while I was at work.
They would lie on my bed, soil my sheets.
She used my creams, my hairbrush, my slippers, destroyed the kitchen, and I would spend hours cleaning up.
Ignacio, the younger one, constantly complained: that the clothes I bought weren’t to his taste, that the food wasn’t like his mother’s.
“You’re just a housewife, you do nothing,” he would throw in my face.
I endured as much as I could.
And when I tried to talk to Sergio, he brushed me off, as if my words were meaningless.

I wanted to make friends among the neighbors — they say neighbors are closer than family.
But there too, I found disappointment: everyone talked about how perfect his late wife had been.
And me?
I was alive, I had loved him all these years, I had left everything — my job, my city, my life — for him and his family.
I decided: if I had a child, everything would change, they would start to respect me.
But when I brought it up, Sergio was blunt: “I already have children, I don’t want more.”
And me?
I was left empty-handed, with my dream of motherhood shattered.

After that, everything collapsed.
Sergio changed — he was no longer the young man I had known.
Life had extinguished his warmth, and he looked at me with irritation.
He pointed out my flaws, criticized me, just like his sons.
I gave my best, but it was all in vain.
The last straw came when I came home from work and found Álvaro’s girlfriend wearing my robe.
She walked around the house as if she owned it — and that was mine — something personal, like underwear she could have taken behind my back!
I restrained myself and said quietly, “Please, don’t touch my things.”
And she laughed in my face: “Come on, don’t make a fuss.”

Why did she treat me like this?
I fed her, cleaned up after her as if she were my own, and she spat on my soul.

I broke down and ran out of the room.
Sergio came out of the kitchen, furious, and charged at me shouting.
I stood frozen, unable to believe what I was hearing.
He insulted me, told me to leave his house, threw things at me — a cup, a book, whatever he could grab.
Tears blurred my vision.
I grabbed my bag and fled into the street just as I was.
I boarded the first train back to Soria, to my parents’ house.
The next morning, he sent my things by courier — coldly, without a note, as if they were garbage.

They say time heals.
I try not to think about it.
The pain lessens, but the wound remains.
I believe that one day I will find someone who will love me — as I am, with my dreams and my scars.
Sergio was my first love, but he was not my destiny.
I dreamed of happiness, but I found only broken pieces.
Now, I am back in familiar Soria, among familiar streets, learning to breathe again, hoping that ahead of me lies the light — and no more shadows.