The Man of My Dreams Left His Wife for Me, But I Had No Idea What I Was Getting Into.

I had admired him since my university years, when I lived in a small village near Segovia. It was blind, passionate love—the kind that makes you lose your mind and forget everything else. When he finally noticed me, I lost the little sanity I had left. We reunited years after college, and fate brought us together at a law firm. Same profession, shared interests… I decided it wasn’t a coincidence—it was a sign, my fairytale about to come true.

To me, he was the perfect man, a dream come true. The fact that he had a wife didn’t bother me when I was young. I didn’t understand what a broken marriage meant or the pain it could cause. I didn’t feel any shame when Iván left his wife for me. Who would have thought that this decision would bring so much sorrow? As the saying goes: you can’t build happiness on someone else’s suffering.

When he chose me, I was over the moon, ready to forgive him for anything. But in our day-to-day life, he turned out to be no prince. His things were scattered all over the apartment, he refused to do the dishes, and the entire burden of the household fell on my shoulders like a crushing weight. Back then, I chose to ignore it—love made me blind and submissive.

He quickly forgot his previous marriage, as if he had erased it from memory. They had no children, and according to him, the wedding had been her parents’ decision. “It’s different with you—you’re my destiny,” he would whisper, and I melted every time. My happiness was intense but short-lived, like a flash of lightning. Everything changed when I became pregnant.

At first, Iván was overjoyed—his child, his son! We threw a big party, invited family and friends. Toasts, well-wishes, health and happiness for the baby—that night is etched in my memory as a warm shelter before a coming storm. I don’t regret it, but after that night, my blind love began to fade, like a candle in the wind.

As my belly grew, Iván was home less and less. I went on maternity leave, and our moments together dwindled to late-night exchanges. He stayed at work late, attended company events. At first, I tolerated it—but soon, it became unbearable. Housework became torture: I could barely move, and his socks and shirts lay everywhere like silent reminders of my naivety. I wondered if we had rushed things with the baby. I knew love could grow cold, but I didn’t expect it to disappear so quickly.

He still brought flowers and chocolates—but that wasn’t what I needed. I craved his presence, his support, his warmth. Then the truth came out. A casual conversation over coffee with some coworkers opened my eyes: a new hire had joined the department—a young, energetic woman. The team was already overwhelmed, and my maternity leave had only made things harder. Coincidence? I didn’t know if it was her, but Iván clearly had someone else. His life now revolved around “urgent work,” “meetings,” and “important events.” One day, I found a note with unfamiliar initials in his jacket pocket. My heart sank, but I chose to pretend I hadn’t seen it. The fear of being alone at seven months pregnant paralyzed me.

He started saying I was “always nervous,” and every argument ended with a tired sigh—as if I were a burden. I was afraid to bring up the real issue, because I knew it would be the end. And it was. The most painful words I’ve ever heard were: “I’m not ready to have kids. I’m with someone else.” I don’t remember how he said it—my mind went blank, and my world crumbled. I thought I would lose my mind from the pain and humiliation.

But I found strength within myself. I filed for divorce, even though every word in that petition felt like a stab to the heart. He didn’t expect me to go through with it—or to kick him out the very next day. Luckily, the apartment was rented, so we didn’t have to divide anything.

—“And the baby? Think of the baby! How will you raise him?” —he said, as he left.

—“I’ll manage. I’ll work from home. And my parents will help. My mother always said you were a womanizer. I should’ve listened,” —I replied, closing the door.

The responsibility for my son gave me a strength I never knew I had. For him, I made it through. His betrayal was so vile that I erased Iván from my life as if he had never existed. My eyes opened—I finally saw who he really was.

The first few months after the divorce—including childbirth—were pure hell. I moved back in with my parents, to a nearby town. They welcomed me with open arms, delighted by their grandson. I missed Iván, but I pushed those thoughts away. Deep down, I knew I had made the right choice, and that I would give my son the best of me.

Once I regained my strength, I returned to work—translating legal texts from home. There were months with no income, but my parents supported me until I built up a steady clientele. My son grew, and the years flew by. I realized it when I saw that he needed his own space. My parents didn’t want us to leave, but I dreamed of independence: my own office, his study room. By that point, I could afford to rent an apartment.

Life became stable. Preschool was followed by elementary school, and between first and fifth grade, I finally experienced peace and freedom for the first time in years. But then… he came back.

Our town is small, and in the legal field, everyone knows everyone. Iván found my office easily. How I regretted not moving farther away! He said he had “lived his life,” that he regretted the past, that he had been “young and foolish.” He begged to meet his son—the son he had never seen.

Legally, he has the right to request visitation. And if he pushes, he’ll get it. But just the thought chills me to the core. It’s been weeks since that conversation. I told him I’d think about it, but my mind is a storm. I don’t believe him. I don’t want him near my son.

Is this my punishment? The price for stealing him from his first wife?
I’m seriously considering moving to another city—just to protect us from a past that refuses to stay buried.