I never loved my wife and told her so repeatedly. It wasn’t her fault—we got along decently enough.
My name is Andrew Wolfe, and I live in York, a city in North Yorkshire, England. I never loved my wife, Sally, and often threw this bitter truth in her face. She didn’t deserve it—she never made a scene, never reproached me, always tender and caring, almost angelic. Yet my heart remained cold, like the River Ouse frozen in winter. Love was absent, gnawing at me from within.
Every morning, I awoke with one thought: to leave. I dreamt of finding a woman who would ignite a fire in me, someone I could feel alive with. But fate played a cruel joke, turning my world upside down, leaving me unsettled. With Sally, everything was convenient, like an old, comfortable chair. She kept the house impeccably, looked stunning enough to turn heads when we walked down the street, and friends would clap me on the back, saying, “Where’d you find her, you lucky bloke?” I couldn’t comprehend why I deserved her devotion. Just an average guy, unremarkable, yet she loved me as if I was her whole world. How was that even possible?
Her love suffocated me. Worse was the thought: if I left, another man might take her—a more successful, handsome, wealthy one; someone who would appreciate what I overlooked. The idea of her in someone else’s arms drove me mad with rage. She was mine—even if I never loved her. This sense of possession was stronger than me, stronger than common sense. But can you live an entire life with someone for whom your heart is silent? I thought I could, but I was wrong—a storm was brewing inside me that I couldn’t contain.
“Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything,” I decided as I went to bed. In the morning, at breakfast, I mustered what courage I had. “Sally, sit down; we need to talk,” I began, looking into her calm eyes. “Of course, darling, what’s the matter?” she responded with her usual softness. “Imagine us getting a divorce. I’m leaving, we’ll live separately…” She laughed, as if I was joking: “What a bizarre idea! Is this a game?” “Listen and take me seriously,” I interrupted. “Sure, go on. And then?” she asked, still smiling. “Tell me honestly: would you find someone else if I left?” She froze. “Andrew, what’s going on? Why are you even thinking about this?” her voice tinged with concern. “Because I don’t love you and never did,” I blurted out like a blow.
Sally turned pale. “What? Are you joking? I don’t understand,” she said. “I want to leave, but the thought of you being with someone else drives me insane,” I admitted, my voice trembling. She was silent for a moment, then spoke softly, with a sad wisdom: “I won’t find anyone better than you, don’t worry. Go ahead and leave, I’ll be on my own.” “Promise?” I asked impulsively. “Of course,” she nodded, looking me in the eyes. “Wait, but where would I go?” I stammered, realizing the ground was slipping from under me. “You don’t have anywhere to go?” she asked, surprised. “No, we’ve been together forever. Looks like I’ll have to stay nearby,” I mumbled, feeling lost. “Don’t worry,” Sally replied. “After the divorce, we’ll split the place into two smaller flats.” “Really? I didn’t expect you’d help me that much. Why?” I asked, bewildered. “Because I love you. When you love someone, you don’t hold them against their will,” her words felt like a sentence.
Several months passed. We divorced. Then rumors reached me: Sally had lied. She found someone else—tall, confident, with a kind smile. The house that her grandmother left her hadn’t been divided. I ended up with nothing—no home, no family, no faith in people. The betrayal unveiled itself like a stab in the back, and I still hear her voice: “I’ll be alone.” Lies. Cold, calculating lies, and I believed them like a fool.
How can I trust women now? I don’t know. My life with her was comfortable, but empty, and now even that’s gone. I sit in a rented room, staring at the walls, replaying that conversation in my head. Her calm, her words—it was all a mask. Friends say, “You’ve only yourself to blame, Andrew. What did you expect?” And they’re right. I didn’t love her, yet wanted to keep her like a possession. But she left me in the solitude I so feared. Maybe this is my punishment—for my coldness, my selfishness, my failure to appreciate her heart. Now I’m alone, and the silence around cuts deeper than her leaving. What do you make of my actions? I don’t know who was the greater fool—me or her.
