I’ve never loved my wife, and I’ve told her that more times than I can count. It’s not her fault; we lived reasonably well.
My name is Andrew Wolfe, and I reside in Epping, where the scars of history and grey days linger. I never truly loved my wife, Susan, and I’ve thrown this harsh truth at her like a glass of cold water. She didn’t deserve it—never made a scene, never criticized, always gentle, caring, almost saintly. Yet, my heart was as cold as ice on the Thames in winter. The absence of love gnawed at me internally.
Every morning, I’d wake with one thought: to leave. I longed to find a woman who would ignite a fire in me, one I could breathe for. But fate dealt a cruel hand, upending everything so terribly that I still can’t pull myself together. With Susan, it was comfortable—like an old armchair. She kept our home immaculate and turned heads on the street. Friends would clap me on the back, saying, “Where’d you find her, you lucky bloke?” I couldn’t fathom why I deserved her devotion. An ordinary man with nothing remarkable about him, yet she loved me as if I were her whole world. How is that even possible?
Her love suffocated me. Worse yet was the thought that if I left, another man would take her. Someone more successful, more handsome, wealthier—someone who would see what I’d missed. Imagining her in someone else’s arms sent my mind into a rage. She’s mine—even though I never truly loved her. This possessive feeling outweighed reason. But can you live a lifetime with someone your heart is silent towards? I thought I could, but I was wrong—a storm was brewing inside me, unstoppable.
“Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything,” I resolved as I went to bed. The next morning at breakfast, I mustered the courage. “Susan, sit down, we need to talk,” I began, looking into her calm eyes. “Of course, darling, what’s wrong?” she replied with her familiar softness. “Imagine us divorcing. I leave, we live separately…” She laughed, thinking I was joking: “What strange fantasies are these? Is this a game?” “Listen, I’m serious,” I interrupted her. “Alright, I imagined it. Now what?” she asked, still smiling. “Honestly, would you find someone else if I left?” She froze. “Andrew, what’s wrong with you? Why on earth are you thinking about this?”—her voice carried a note of alarm. “Because I don’t love you and never have,” I blurted out, like a bitter strike.
Susan 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 paused, then quietly, with a kind of sad wisdom, said: “I won’t find anyone better than you, don’t worry. Go, I’ll remain alone.” “Promise?” I blurted out. “Of course,” she nodded, looking into my eyes. “Wait, but where would I go?” I faltered. “You have no place?” she was surprised. “No, we’ve been together our whole lives. Looks like I’ll have to stay nearby,” I mumbled, feeling the ground slip from beneath me. “Don’t worry,” Susan replied. “After the divorce, we’ll split the house into two smaller ones.” “Really? I didn’t expect you to help me like that. 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.
Months passed. We divorced. Then rumors reached me: Susan lied. She found someone else—tall, confident, with a kind smile. She had no intention of splitting the house she inherited from her grandmother. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no trust in people. The betrayal hit like a knife to the back, and I still hear her voice: “I’ll remain 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 comfortable but empty, and now there’s not even that. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, and replaying that conversation. Her calmness, her words—it was all a mask. Friends say: “You brought this on yourself, 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 feared so much. Perhaps this is my punishment—for my coldness, for my selfishness, for taking her love for granted. Now I’m alone, and the silence around me 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.
