A Second Chance at True Love

Oh, how I adored the feeling of Christmas—the pleasant smell in the air, the radiant white snow falling heavily, and the sound of Christmas joy filling every corner of the house. The only better feeling for me was watching my wonderful husband and beautiful daughter sitting close to the fireplace, enjoying a nice, relaxing cup of hot cocoa. I loved my family more than anything in the world. I loved my husband, Adam Harrington—the rock of my life. Adam was my high school sweetheart. We met during one of our physical and health education classes. He was one of those boys who aced all his exams and was too good-looking for his own good. On top of that, he was incredibly fit—much faster and stronger than the other boys. Watching him dominate on the ice hockey rink left little flutters in my teenage heart. I, on the other hand, was as ordinary as they came. Back then, I went by Betty before I embraced my full name, Elizabeth. I was pretty enough to have my own line of admirers and crushes, but none stood out to me as sharply as Adam did. Adam was my first and only love. When we first started dating, a lot of boys tried to break us apart by filling my head with lies about Adam. They told me he was a spoiled brat who came from a snobby family, a cheat who enjoyed the company of many women, and that I was just another check on his roster. But I refused to believe them. I followed my gut and poured my entire love into Adam. I even applied to the same college as him, and thanks to my academic prowess, I landed a full scholarship to the same Ivy League school. In my heart, I knew it was destiny for Adam and me to be together. Yes, that was the only explanation—destiny. College was a smooth ride for us. I focused on my academics, while Adam, being the guy he was, explored the campus and enjoyed his popularity. There were times, however, when I began to distrust Adam. One time, Adam invited me to his home during one of our holidays. I had planned to spend the break applying for an internship or finding any way I could make an extra buck to support myself. But Adam had assured me that I didn't have to worry about anything financially. He told me that he had my back, and as long as I remained with him, he would make sure I never lacked anything again. Those words—coming from his mouth at that time—were all I needed to hear. I agreed to visit him and followed him to his home on the far side of the city. His home was massive, much bigger and grander than anything I had ever seen. The walls were thick and imposing, the gardens stretching far beyond what my eyes could grasp. Fountains and pools adorned the grounds, and statues of famous historical figures loomed like silent sentinels. I stood in awe at the sight, feeling like a small girl in a fairytale who had just stumbled into a castle. The opulence was overwhelming, and the lavishness of it all made me feel even more dependent on Adam. But as I entered the house, something didn't sit right. It wasn’t the size or the wealth that made me uneasy—it was the way Adam's parents seemed to always be away, leaving him in charge of everything. It was as if their absence gave him free reign to do as he pleased. I had hoped for a welcoming, intimate time together, but instead, it was as if I were just another part of the house—a servant, no different from the cleaning staff who barely glanced in my direction as they passed by. Adam's behavior—though not overtly cruel—gave me the impression that he saw me more as a convenient presence than someone he truly cherished. I had planned to spend a week with him, but after just three days, I felt utterly drained. In those three days, Adam treated me less like his girlfriend and more like a maid. His parents were away, and so I was expected to dote on him like a mother tending to a child—washing his clothes, making his meals, and running errands that were far beyond my role as his partner. At first, I didn’t complain. After all, he had said this was my “role as a woman,” and I was happy to oblige. But as the days wore on, the constant demands became unbearable. The first night, after I had spent hours preparing his favorite meal—only to watch him hardly acknowledge it—I began to feel a creeping discomfort. He didn’t even bother to thank me. Instead, he made some offhand comment about how it was about time I learned how to take care of him properly, as if it was an expectation rather than an act of love. There was no warmth in his tone, no gratitude, only a sense of entitlement that started to gnaw at me. By the third day, I had reached my breaking point. I feigned sickness, claiming I had a headache that would be better dealt with back at my dorm. Adam barely reacted. He gave a simple, distracted “Take care of yourself” as I left, as if it was no more than an inconvenience for him that I needed to go. As I boarded a bus back to my apartment, I felt a tight knot in my chest. It wasn’t just the work I had done—it was the overwhelming realization that I had given so much of myself to him, only to be treated like a nobody in his world. There was another time, a moment that still stings when I think about it, that I showed up unannounced at Adam’s dorm. I had been missing him terribly, and with midterms finally behind us, I thought surprising him with his favorite cookies and a movie night would brighten his day. I knocked, but no one answered. The door, however, was slightly ajar, so I stepped in, balancing the box of cookies and trying not to make too much noise. That’s when I saw her. Tina Turner. She was sprawled across his bed, her perfectly manicured nails idly twisting the sheets as if she belonged there. Her lips were smudged with cherry-red lipstick, her hair a little too tousled for my liking. Adam stood near the edge of the bed, his shirt untucked, and his expression a mix of shock and guilt. “Betty!” he exclaimed, his voice too loud, too cheerful, as if I hadn’t just caught him in a compromising position. Tina, on the other hand, didn’t even flinch. She glanced at me, gave a sly little smirk, and then went back to fixing her hair like I was nothing more than a pesky roommate interrupting her evening. “Adam, what’s going on?” My voice trembled as I set the cookies down on his desk. “Tina just stopped by. Her dad and mine are working on a deal, and she needed some advice on a project.” He chuckled nervously, taking a step toward me, but I could see the way his eyes darted toward Tina, as if checking to see what she’d say next. “And the bed? What kind of advice do you give lying down?” My voice cracked, but I held my ground, though my knees felt ready to give out. Tina let out a laugh, soft and smug, like she enjoyed watching me squirm. “Relax, Betty. It’s not what it looks like.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I wanted to slap that smirk right off her face, but instead, I looked at Adam, hoping—begging—for him to say something, to defend me, to prove me wrong. But all he did was sigh, run a hand through his hair, and mumble something about how I was overreacting. “Go home, Betty,” he finally said, his voice soft but firm. “You’re being ridiculous.” Ridiculous. That word hit me harder than I expected. I stumbled out of the dorm, tears blurring my vision, clutching the box of cookies so tightly the cardboard bent under my fingers. It wasn’t long after that night that I knew I had to fight harder to keep Adam’s attention. Tina wasn’t just a rival; she was a threat, one I couldn’t afford to lose to. So I gave him everything. Every part of me that I had held sacred, every boundary I swore I’d never cross—I tore them down for Adam. It wasn’t long before I realized I was pregnant. Three months along by the time I worked up the courage to tell him. When I finally broke the news, I expected him to be thrilled, or at least surprised. But instead, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable. “Are you sure?” he asked, as if I’d make something like that up. “Yes, Adam. I’m sure.” “Well,” he said after a long pause, “I guess we’ll have to get married now.”