I wanted to go back to my ex-wife after thirty years of marriage, but it was too late.
Now I’m 54. And I have nothing left.
My name is Victor. My wife, Emily, and I spent three decades together. All those years, I believed I was doing my duty—working, earning money, while she took care of the house and the kids. I never considered the idea of her getting a job; I thought it was better for her to stay home with the children.
I thought we had a good life—no grand passions, but mutual respect. Over time, though, I grew tired. Everything felt routine, dull. Love faded, leaving only habit. I thought that was normal—until everything changed one evening.
I stopped at a pub for a pint and met Victoria. She was twenty years younger—lovely, carefree, full of life. A whirlwind. We talked, and like a lovesick boy, I fell head over heels. Secret meetings turned into an affair.
After a few months, I couldn’t keep living a double life. I convinced myself Victoria was my second chance. Summoning my courage, I told Emily everything.
She listened quietly. No tears, no shouting. Just a soft “I see.” At the time, I took it as proof she’d grown cold too. Only now do I realise how deeply I hurt her.
The divorce was quick. We sold our flat. Victoria insisted Emily got nothing—we’d start fresh, she said. Emily used her share to buy a tiny one-bedroom flat, while I pooled my savings with Victoria’s for a two-bedroom place.
I didn’t spare a thought for how Emily would manage without work experience. I was sure the best chapter of my life was beginning.
Our grown sons refused to speak to me. They saw me as a traitor, and I can’t blame them. Back then, though, I didn’t care—I was happy. Victoria was expecting, and I couldn’t wait to meet our child.
When our son was born, he was beautiful… 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?
Days turned 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.
Exhaustion and stress made me slip at work, and I lost my job. Money ran thin. Debts piled up. Life became a never-ending nightmare.
This went on for three years.
Then my brother—who never trusted Victoria—insisted on a DNA test. The results were merciless: the boy wasn’t mine.
We divorced without another word.
I was left with nothing—no family, no home, no respect from my children. Only shame and loneliness.
Eventually, I tried to fix things. Bought flowers, a cake, a nice bottle of wine, and went to beg Emily’s forgiveness. I dreamed of starting over.
But when I reached her old address, a stranger answered the door. Emily had moved long ago.
I found her new place. Knocked. A man answered. The man in Emily’s life now.
Turns out, after the divorce, she found a good job, met someone decent, and built a new life—without me.
We bumped into each other once at a café. I tried to talk, to bring up the past, to ask for another chance.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Said nothing. Just stood and walked away.
That’s when the weight of my mistakes crushed me.
Now I’m 54. No wife, no job, no sons by my side.
I lost everything that mattered. And I’ve no one to blame but myself.
Sometimes, life doesn’t give second chances. And the pain of your own betrayal is the bitterest of all.
