He slammed the door shut that night. His gaze was cold, his heart already decided. “She has returned. I want a divorce. This house is yours,” he said briefly, without looking back.

You fell silent, your body stiff, only able to watch his back as he walked away. Those words stabbed like a dagger. The house he claimed was yours now felt empty, because what meaning do walls and a roof have if the one you love leaves for someone else?

The nights after that became long. You sat in the corner of the bed, holding your belly that was slowly growing. No one knew that secret. No one knew there was a small life beating inside you, the fruit of a love now deemed meaningless. You couldn’t bring yourself to tell, couldn’t bear to hold it back. So you wrote. Page after page, you poured your pain into a diary. About the longing that never faded. About your desire for someone by your side when the pains of pregnancy struck. About the tears that fell each night when you asked—why not me? Why her?

You also wrote about your love. A love that still remained, though it no longer should. A love that bound you to memories once beautiful, then shattered just like that.

Time passed. Two years of solitude. Your child was born, grew with eyes like his, a smile that reminded you of the man who left you. You raised him alone, with a love that sometimes felt enough, but often felt painful.

Until one day, that door opened again. He stood at the threshold, his face a little older, his eyes filled with feelings he could not explain. His steps were heavy as he entered the house he once abandoned.

His hand traced the table, the shelves, the walls, as if searching for something lost. Then he found it—a worn diary with pages beginning to yellow. He opened it, and read.

One page. Two pages. The longer he read, the more his eyes trembled. The words you had written flooded his mind: about your loneliness, your longing during pregnancy, your unending tears. About your love that, though wounded, was still written there.

*His heart felt like it shattered. He collapsed to the floor, the book slipping from his hands. In his heart, regret grew, gripping tightly. He realized too late that the love he had thrown away had never disappeared—it had only turned into wounds you carried alone.

Meanwhile, you stood in the corner of the room, your gaze no longer the same. No more hysterical cri No more pleading. Only coldness, only exhaustion.*

You looked at him, then whispered softly, “Welcome back to your home… though my heart no longer belongs to you.”

And for the first time, he understood: the greatest loss is not when you leave. The greatest loss is when you return… and realize it’s already too late.