I’ve never loved my wife, Annabelle, and I’ve told her this more than once. It’s not her fault — our life was quite bearable.
My name is Andrew White, and I live in Truro, in the heart of Cornwall, where the echoes of history linger in the day-to-day life. I never loved my wife, Annabelle, and I’ve thrown this harsh truth in her face several times. She never deserved it — she never made scenes, never reproached me, always tender and caring, almost saintly. Yet, my heart remained cold, like the frost on the Thames in winter. Love was absent, and it gnawed at me from the inside.
Every morning, I woke up with one thought: to leave. I dreamed of finding a woman who would ignite a fire within me, who would be my breath of fresh air. Fate played a cruel joke on me, turning everything upside down so that I still can’t find my bearings. With Annabelle, it was comfortable, like an old armchair. She kept the house immaculate, she looked so stunning that people on the street would turn to glance at her, and friends patted me on the back, saying, “Where did you find someone like her, you lucky man?” I couldn’t understand what I did to deserve her loyalty. Just an ordinary bloke, nothing remarkable, yet she loved me as if I were her whole world. How is that possible?
Her love suffocated me. Worse was the thought that if I left, another man would get her. Someone more successful, more handsome, wealthier — someone who would truly appreciate what I failed to see. When I imagined her in someone else’s arms, my mind clouded with rage. She was mine — even if I never loved her. This sense of possession was stronger than me, stronger than reason. But can you live your whole life with someone to whom your heart is silent? I thought I could, but I was wrong — inside me, there was a growing storm I couldn’t contain.
“I’ll tell her everything tomorrow,” I decided as I went to bed. In the morning, at breakfast, I mustered the last bit of courage. “Annabelle, sit down, we need to talk,” I began as I looked into her calm eyes. “Of course, dear, what is it?” she replied with her usual gentleness. “Imagine us getting a divorce. I leave, we live separately…” She laughed, thinking I was joking, “What kind of strange fantasy is this? Is it a game?” “Listen further, I’m serious,” I interrupted her. “Okay, I imagined it. And then?” she asked, still smiling. “Be honest: would you find someone else if I left?” She froze. “Andrew, what’s wrong? Why are you even thinking about this?” she said with a hint of alarm in her voice. “Because I don’t love you and never did,” I blurted out, like a blow.
Annabelle turned pale. “What? You’re joking? I don’t understand.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you with someone else drives me mad,” my voice trembled with tension. She was silent for a moment, then quietly, with a certain sad wisdom, she said, “I won’t find anyone better than you, so don’t worry. Go, I’ll stay on my own.” “Promise?” I blurted out. “Of course,” she nodded, looking straight into my eyes. “Hold on, but where will I go?” I stammered. “You have no place?” she seemed surprised. “No, we’ve been together for so long. Looks like I’ll have to stay nearby,” I mumbled, feeling the ground slipping away beneath me. “Don’t worry,” Annabelle replied. “After the divorce, we’ll split the place for two smaller ones.” “Really? I didn’t expect you to help me like this. Why?” I asked, bewildered. “Because I love you. When you love someone, you don’t hold them by force,” her words sounded like a verdict.
A few months passed. We divorced. Then I heard rumors: Annabelle lied. She found someone else — tall, confident, with a kind smile. She never intended to split the house she inherited from her grandmother. I was left with nothing — no home, no family, no trust in people. The deceit hit me like a stab in the back, and I still hear her voice: “I’ll stay alone.” A lie. A cold, calculated lie, and I believed it like a fool.
How can I trust women now? I don’t know. My life with her was convenient but empty, and now I don’t even have that. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her calmness, her words — it was all an act. Friends say, “You’re to blame, Andrew, what did you expect?” And they’re right. I didn’t love her but wanted to keep her like a possession. And she left, leaving me in the solitude I so feared. Perhaps this is my reckoning — for the coldness, for the selfishness, for not valuing her heart. Now I am alone, and the silence around cuts deeper than her departure. What do you think of my actions? I don’t even know who the bigger fool is — me or her.
