I had been married to my wife for over 35 years. Once upon a time, we were happy, but now, everything had changed. I was already in my sixties, while she was fifty-six. We had one son, but he had left home years ago, built his own life in a different city, and rarely visited. The first few years without him were unbearable. The house felt hollow, silent—almost foreign. Every morning, I would wake up, look at the woman lying next to me, and realize she was a stranger.
Our conversations had become shallow, limited to household matters. Whenever I tried to discuss something deeper, something meaningful, she would either brush me off or reply absentmindedly, as if I were an annoying background noise.
I longed for peace, for nature, for a different kind of life. The noise of the city exhausted me, and our apartment, which once felt like a home, had become nothing more than a lifeless box. Countless times, I suggested we sell it and move to the countryside, where the air was fresh, where the mornings were filled with birdsong, and where the sunsets could be admired from a wooden porch. But she always rejected the idea.
“The countryside? Over my dead body,” she scoffed once, and that was the end of the conversation.
Eventually, we reached a compromise—we bought a small house in a remote village, agreeing to spend summers there. As soon as spring arrived, I eagerly moved in, hoping that things might change, that maybe she would see the beauty of this place. But she, reluctant and resentful, only visited occasionally, as if fulfilling some unwanted duty.
Lost in Loneliness
Living in the countryside gave me a sense of peace I hadn’t felt in years. I worked in the garden, planted fruit trees, built small greenhouses. Nature soothed me, but at the same time, loneliness crept in. My wife openly despised everything about rural life. She refused to touch a shovel, found gardening pointless, and scoffed at the idea of preserving fruits or vegetables for winter.
Her world revolved around the television. She spent her days watching endless soap operas, their exaggerated emotions more captivating to her than anything in real life.
Sometimes, after a long day of work, I would come inside, hoping for a conversation. She barely looked away from the screen. If I ever asked for help, she would suddenly develop a headache, claim to feel dizzy, or complain about her blood pressure.
I found myself drowning in solitude.
When autumn arrived, our arguments escalated. I wanted to stay in the countryside, but she refused to live there permanently. One evening, as I once again brought up the idea of moving, she looked at me with cold detachment and said:
“If you love that place so much, then stay there alone. I have no intention of coming with you.”
That was the breaking point. I finally understood—she didn’t care. She didn’t care where I lived, what I did, or how I felt. She just wanted to continue her life, unchanged, inside those four walls, with her television as her only companion.
A Neighbor Who Changed Everything
Next to our house lived a woman named Emily. She was fifty-five, lived alone, and had an energy about her that was both calming and captivating. She was always smiling, always kind, and over time, I found myself drawn to her.
Unlike my wife, Emily listened. She was interested in my thoughts, my dreams, my stories. We often had tea together, sitting on her porch, talking about everything and nothing. There was a warmth in her company that I hadn’t felt in years.
I caught myself looking forward to our conversations, waiting for the evenings when she would bring over freshly baked pastries and sit beside me.
She was so different from my wife. With her, there were no cold silences, no uninterested glances. Even when we didn’t speak, the silence between us was warm, filled with understanding.
I realized I was falling for her. It wasn’t just infatuation—it was something deeper. A longing, a rediscovery of emotions I thought were lost forever.
But Emily was an honorable woman. She sensed my growing feelings and one evening, she said:
“I am not that kind of woman. As long as you are married, nothing can happen between us.”
It was the hardest thing to hear. I was trapped between two worlds—one filled with loneliness and indifference, and the other full of warmth and possibility.
The Night That Changed Everything
Christmas arrived. I had prepared a feast, hoping my wife would finally come. But, as expected, she called last minute, complaining about her health, making it clear she had no intention of visiting.
That evening, Emily stopped by. She saw the untouched dinner, the unlit candles, the loneliness that filled the air. She stayed.
We talked for hours, sharing stories, laughter, memories. And at some point, without planning it, without overthinking it, everything changed.
That night, we crossed the line. Not just physically, but emotionally. For the first time in decades, I felt truly alive.
From that moment on, my trips back to the city became less frequent. My wife didn’t even question my absence—she was too engrossed in her fictional television world.
But I know I cannot keep this secret forever. One day, I will have to tell her. Our marriage is nothing but an illusion now, and she deserves to know the truth. Maybe she will be relieved, maybe she will be indifferent.
The Fear of Judgment
I fear what my son will think. Will he see me as a traitor? Will he understand that his mother and I have been living separate lives for years?
And what about our friends? Whose side will they take?
But my biggest fear is for Emily. Rural communities are unforgiving. Gossip spreads like wildfire, and once people find out, she will be judged.
And yet, despite all these fears, I cannot turn back. I have wasted too many years trapped in a lifeless marriage, pretending that things were fine. For the first time in decades, I feel something real.
Life is too short to spend it in an empty home, beside someone who no longer sees you.
For the first time, I am choosing happiness. And no matter what happens next, I know one thing—I am finally alive.
