Now I’m 54 years old, and I have nothing left.
My name is William. My wife, Margaret, and I spent thirty years together. Our entire married life, I believed I was doing my duty: I worked, earned the money, while Margaret took care of the home and raised our children. The idea of her getting a job never crossed my mind—I thought it better for her to stay home, close to the kids.
I thought we had a decent life—no grand passion, but mutual respect. Over time, though, I began feeling weary. Everything seemed dull, routine. Love had faded, leaving only habit. I assumed that was normal—until everything changed.
One evening, I stopped at a pub for a pint and met Victoria. She was twenty years younger—beautiful, carefree, full of life. A whirlwind. We talked, and I, like a foolish schoolboy, fell head over heels. Secret meet-ups turned into an affair.
After a few months, I couldn’t keep living a double life. I convinced myself Victoria was my salvation, my second chance at happiness. Gathering my courage, I told Margaret the truth.
She listened in silence. No tears, no shouting. Just a quiet, “I understand.” At the time, I thought she must have fallen out of love with me too if she accepted it so calmly. Only now do I see the pain I caused her.
The divorce was swift. We sold our shared flat. Victoria insisted Margaret shouldn’t get a penny—we were starting fresh, she said. With her share, Margaret bought a tiny one-bedroom flat. I put in my savings and bought a two-bedroom place with Victoria.
I never once considered how Margaret would manage without a career or work experience. I was certain my best years were just beginning.
Our grown sons refused to speak to me. They saw me as their mother’s betrayer, and they weren’t wrong. But back then, I didn’t care—I was happy. 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 shrugged them off—how could anything be wrong now?
Meanwhile, daily life grew unbearable. I was the only one working, the only one keeping the household together. Victoria lived as she pleased—staying out late, coming home drunk, throwing fits.
Exhausted and stressed, I began failing at work until they finally sacked me. Money ran short. Debts piled up. Life became a waking nightmare.
Three years passed like this.
Then my brother, who never trusted Victoria, insisted on a DNA test. The results were merciless: the boy wasn’t mine.
We divorced immediately. No words needed.
I was left with nothing: no family, no home, no respect from my sons. Only shame and loneliness.
Eventually, I decided to make things right. I bought flowers, a cake, a bottle of wine, and went to beg Margaret’s forgiveness. I dreamed of starting over.
But when I reached her old address, a stranger answered the door. Margaret had moved long ago.
I found her new home. Knocked. A man answered—the man she’d built a new life with.
After the divorce, she’d landed a good job, met someone decent, and moved on. 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 I finally 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 no one’s fault but mine.
Sometimes, life doesn’t give second chances. And the pain of your own betrayal is the bitterest of all.
