I never loved my wife and I told her so many times. It wasn’t her fault—we lived a decent life.
My name is Andrew Wolfe, and I live in Redditch, where Worcestershire bears its scars of history and mundane routine. I never loved my wife, Sarah, and told her this blunt truth more than once. She didn’t deserve it—she never caused a scene, never complained, always gentle and caring, almost saintly. Yet my heart remained as cold as frost on the Thames come winter. There was no love, and it gnawed at me from the inside.
Every morning I woke up with the same thought: to leave. I longed to find a woman who would ignite a fire in me, someone I could breathe for. But fate played a cruel joke, turning everything upside down, leaving me dazed. Being with Sarah felt comfortable, like an old armchair. She kept the house perfectly, so much so that passersby looked back at her, and friends patted me on the back, saying, “Where did you find such a treasure, lucky bloke?” I couldn’t grasp what I did to earn her devotion. Just an ordinary man in every respect, while she loved me as if I were her entire world. How was such a thing possible?
Her love suffocated me. Even worse was the thought that if I left, someone else would take her—someone more successful, more attractive, wealthier, someone who would appreciate what I couldn’t see. The mere thought of her in another’s arms drove me incandescent with rage. She was mine—even if I never loved her. This possessiveness was stronger than me, stronger than reason. But how could I live my life with one to whom my heart was silent? I thought I could, but I was mistaken—a storm brewed inside me that I couldn’t contain.
“Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything,” I decided as I lay down to sleep. In the morning at breakfast, I gathered the last shreds of courage. “Sarah, sit down, we need to talk,” I started, looking into her calm eyes. “Sure, dear, what’s going on?” she responded with her usual softness. “Imagine we’re getting divorced. I leave, we live separately…” She laughed, as if I was joking, “What an odd fantasy! Is this a game?” “Listen further, I’m serious,” I cut her off. “Okay, imagined it. And what?” she asked, still smiling. “Be honest: will you find someone else if I leave?” She froze. “Andrew, what’s with you? Why would you even think about it?”—her voice tinged with concern. “Because I don’t love you and never did,” I blurted out, like a blow.
Sarah went pale. “What? You’re joking? I don’t understand.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you being with someone else drives me mad,” my voice trembled with tension. She paused, then with a quiet, sad wisdom said, “I won’t find anyone better than you, don’t worry. Go, I’ll stay alone.” “Promise?” I blurted. “Of course,” she nodded, looking into my eyes. “Wait, but where can I go?” I stammered. “You don’t have a place?” she asked, surprised. “No, we’ve been together all our lives. Looks like I’ll have to stay nearby,” I muttered, feeling the ground slipping away. “Don’t worry,” Sarah replied. “We’ll split the house and each get a smaller place after the divorce.” “Really? I didn’t expect such help from you. Why?” I asked, shocked. “Because I love you. When you love, you don’t hold on by force,” her words sounded like a sentence.
Several months passed. We divorced. Then word reached me: Sarah had lied. She found someone else—tall, confident, with a kind smile. The house from her grandparents, she had no intention of splitting. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no faith in people. The deceit unraveled like a backstab, and I still hear her voice: “I’ll stay alone.” Lies. Cold, calculated lies, and I believed them like a fool.
How can I trust women now? I have no idea. My life with her was comfortable but empty, and now, that’s gone too. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her calmness, her words—they were all a facade. Friends say, “It’s your fault, Andrew, what did you expect?” And they are right. I didn’t love her but wanted to keep her like a possession. She left, leaving me in solitude, something I feared so much. Maybe it’s my penance—for my coldness, for my 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 greater fool is here—me or her.
