In a quiet town by the River Thames, where life moved at a gentle pace and family dramas unfolded behind closed doors, my tale of a former wife and a new spouse weighed heavily on my heart. I, Thomas, believed I’d made the right choice when I left behind endless quarrels, yet now a longing for the past gnawed at me.
My ex-wife, Margaret, always found reason for a row. I was no saint—I had my flaws—but her constant nitpicking wore me down to the bone. She scolded me for everything: my exhaustion after work, the hours I spent with our son, William, already ten years old. She disliked when I took him to football matches or the fairground—for me, it was joy as much as fatherly duty. Yet Margaret grumbled that I only played the fun parent, leaving her the stern one. I grew weary of her control and accusations.
One day, I snapped. After yet another spat, I packed my things and left. I rented a flat nearby so William could visit whenever he pleased. It seemed the only sensible choice—Margaret and I no longer understood one another, and living together had become unbearable. Three months later, she filed for divorce. I tried to steady myself, savouring the silence, the freedom from shouts and reproach. It was like breathing fresh air after suffocation.
Six months passed. William mentioned offhand that a “gentleman” sometimes visited his mother. I brushed it aside, though unease stirred in me. I decided it was time to move on. I courted women, but nothing serious came of it. I craved stability, a family. Then came Eleanor—young, lovely, unattached, with no past dragging behind her. She never dictated my actions or staged scenes. I thought life with her would be different, simpler.
We married without fanfare—having been wed before, I saw no need for grandeur. Life with Eleanor seemed serene; I even considered children. At times, I confess, I wanted to prove to Margaret that I could be happy without her, that I’d found someone better, someone who didn’t make my life hell.
But everything shifted when Margaret called: William had taken a football to the nose during practice. I rushed to the hospital and saw her for the first time in ages. She looked radiant—just as I remembered her when we first courted. She spoke to me calmly, without her usual barbs. Her perfume lingered in the car, and suddenly, something twisted in my chest.
William’s nose wasn’t a simple matter—he needed surgery. I saw more of Margaret as we discussed his care. One evening, out of habit, I stepped into their house, slipped off my shoes, and put the kettle on. Only when I couldn’t find my mug did I remember it wasn’t my home anymore. I merely gave them a lift.
Eleanor was Margaret’s opposite—composed, tidy, fond of order, and an excellent cook. We never quarrelled, and in bed, all was flawless. Yet her coolness chilled me. She never laughed at my jokes or shared my love for films. Her emotions lay behind glass—I couldn’t reach them. Life with her was like a showhome: pristine but hollow, without soul.
I caught myself texting Margaret often, excusing it as concern for William. But the truth was, I ached. I ached for our home, her bright laughter, the way she matched my sarcasm and sparred with me until we were breathless. The rows faded; only the good remained.
One day, dropping off William, I met her new man. He was older than me, slight, with silver streaks. I nodded at his greeting, though inside, I seethed. This stranger was in my house, sleeping in my bed! I lost my temper, demanding he stay away from my son’s home.
“So, shall I take William to his place instead?” she shot back. “Or send our boy to you, to sleep between you and Eleanor? Buy him a bed first—then tell me whom to see!”
We shouted as we always had. William, unable to bear it, shut himself in his room. Margaret marched to the kitchen, muttering under her breath. I followed and, without thinking, pulled her close. My lips brushed her neck. She sighed but pushed me away at once.
“What are you doing? Go! Back to your wife!” she cried, eyes blazing.
I left, my world tilting beneath me. At home waited Eleanor—perfect, polished, but a stranger. She’d done nothing wrong, yet I couldn’t pretend. I yearned for Margaret, for her fire that once maddened me, for mornings she wore my shirt, for evenings we awaited our favourite show together.
I’d left Margaret believing it was for the best. Now I knew—my home was where she and William were. I longed to return, but how? I had a new wife who deserved no betrayal, and an old one whose flame still burned within me. I was lost, yet my heart pulled me back—to what was real, to where I truly belonged.
