So, I wanted to go back to my ex-wife after 30 years of marriage, but it was too late.
Now I’m 54, and I’ve got nothing left. My name’s Edward. My wife, Elizabeth, and I were together for three decades. Our whole life, I thought I was doing my duty—I worked, brought in the money, while she took care of the home and the kids. I never wanted her to get a job; I figured it was better she stayed home with the family.
I thought we had a decent life—no fireworks, but mutual respect. Over the years, though, I started feeling tired of it all. Everything felt dull, routine. The love faded, leaving just habit. I thought that was normal—until one evening, everything changed.
I stopped by the pub for a pint, and there I met Victoria. Twenty years younger than me—gorgeous, carefree, full of life. A whirlwind. We got talking, and I fell for her like a teenager. Secret meetings turned into an affair.
A few months in, I decided I couldn’t keep living a double life. I convinced myself Victoria was my second chance at happiness. I worked up the courage and told Elizabeth everything.
She listened in silence—no tears, no shouting. Just a quiet, “I see.” At the time, I took it as proof she’d fallen out of love too. Only now do I realise how much I hurt her.
We divorced fast. Sold our shared flat in London. Victoria insisted Elizabeth shouldn’t get a penny—said we’d start fresh. Elizabeth barely managed to buy a tiny one-bed flat with her share. Meanwhile, I put in my savings to get a two-bed place with Victoria.
I never once thought about how Elizabeth would manage—no career, no work experience. I was too busy chasing what I thought was my happy ending.
Our grown-up sons refused to speak to me. They saw me as a traitor, and honestly, who could blame them? Back then, I didn’t care—I was too wrapped up in happiness. Victoria was expecting, and I couldn’t wait for the baby.
When our son was born, he was a beautiful boy… but he looked nothing like me. Or Victoria. Friends whispered suspicions, but I brushed them off—how could anything be wrong with my new life?
Meanwhile, everyday life became unbearable. I was the only one working, the only one keeping things together. Victoria lived as she pleased—out all night, coming home drunk, throwing fits.
The stress and exhaustion messed up my work, and eventually, I got fired. Money ran short; debts piled up. Life turned into a nightmare.
Three years of this.
Then my brother—who never trusted Victoria—pushed for a DNA test. The results were brutal: the boy wasn’t mine.
We divorced immediately. No arguments, no excuses.
I was left with nothing—no family, no home, no respect from my kids. Just shame and loneliness.
After a while, I decided to fix things. I bought flowers, a cake, a nice bottle of wine, and went to beg Elizabeth’s forgiveness. I dreamed of starting over.
But when I got to her old address, a stranger answered the door. Turned out, she’d moved years ago.
I tracked down her new place. Knocked. A man opened the door—her *husband*.
After the divorce, she’d landed a good job, met a decent man, and built a whole new life. Without me.
We ran into each other at a café once. I tried to talk, to bring up the past, to ask for another chance.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Didn’t say a word. Just stood up and walked away.
And that’s when I truly understood the weight of my mistakes.
Now I’m 54. No wife, no job, no sons by my side.
I lost everything that mattered. And it’s all my fault.
Sometimes life doesn’t give second chances. And the pain of your own betrayal? That’s the bitterest of all.
