In a quiet town along the Thames, where life moves at a steady pace and family dramas unfold behind closed doors, my tale of a past love and a new marriage weighs heavily on my heart. I, Edward, thought I had made the right choice by walking away from endless quarrels, yet now, the ache for what once was haunts me.
My former wife, Margaret, always found reason to argue. I am no saint—I have my flaws—but her constant nitpicking wore me down to the bone. She blamed me for everything: my exhaustion after work, the time I spent with our ten-year-old son, Thomas, taking him to football matches or the fair. To me, these were moments of joy, but to her, they were proof I played at parenting while she bore the burden of discipline. I grew weary of her control and scorn.
One day, I reached my limit. After yet another row, I packed my things and left. I took a flat nearby so Thomas could visit whenever he wished. It seemed the only way—Margaret and I no longer understood each other, and living together had become unbearable. Three months later, she filed for divorce. I tried to steady myself, savouring the quiet, the freedom from shouting and blame. It was like breathing fresh air after suffocating.
Half a year passed. Thomas mentioned in passing that a “gentleman” sometimes visited his mother. I brushed it off, though unease stirred in my chest. I decided it was time to move on. I met women, but nothing serious came of it. I wanted stability, family. Then came Beatrice—young, lovely, with no children or past to drag behind her. She never told me what to do, never staged scenes. I thought with her, life would be different. Simpler.
We married without fanfare—having been wed before, I saw no need for grandeur. Life with Beatrice seemed serene; I even considered children. Sometimes, I admit, I wanted to prove to Margaret I could be happy without her, that I had found someone better—one who didn’t make every day a battle.
But everything shifted when Margaret called: Thomas had taken a football to the nose at practice. I rushed to the hospital and saw her for the first time in months. She looked radiant—just as I remembered her when we first met. She spoke to me calmly, without her usual barbs. Her perfume lingered in the car, and suddenly, something clenched in my chest.
Thomas’s injury was worse than expected—his septum needed surgery. I began seeing Margaret more often to discuss his care. One evening, out of habit, I stepped into their home, slipped off my shoes, put the kettle on. Only when I couldn’t find my favourite mug did I remember: this was no longer my house. I was just dropping them off.
Beatrice was Margaret’s opposite—quiet, tidy, a fine cook. We never argued, and in bed, all was well. But her coolness chipped away at me. She never laughed at my jokes, never shared my delight in old films. Her emotions were behind glass—unreachable. Life with her was like a showhome: flawless, yet empty.
I caught myself texting Margaret constantly, pretending it was about Thomas. The truth? I ached for her. For our home, her sharp laugh, the way she matched my sarcasm and argued until we were hoarse. The fights faded; only the good remained.
Once, fetching Thomas, I met her new man—older than me, slight, with silver at his temples. I nodded at his greeting, but inside, I simmered. This stranger was in my house, sharing my bed! I snapped, demanding he stay away from my son.
“Shall I drag Thomas to his flat instead?” Margaret shot back. “Or pack him off to you, to sleep wedged between you and Beatrice? Buy him a bed first, then dictate my life!”
We shouted as we always had. Thomas fled to his room. Margaret muttered under her breath as she walked to the kitchen. I followed and, without thinking, pulled her close. My lips grazed her neck. She sighed—then shoved me away.
“What are you doing? Go! Back to your wife!” she cried, eyes blazing.
I left, the ground crumbling beneath me. At home, Beatrice waited—perfect, untouchable, and utterly distant. She had done nothing wrong, yet I could not pretend. I longed for Margaret, for her fire that once thrilled me, for mornings in my shirts, evenings waiting for our favourite show.
I left her by choice, believing it was right. Now I know: my home is with her and Thomas. I want to return—but how? I have a wife who deserves no betrayal, and an ex whose flame still burns me inside. I am lost, yet my heart pulls me back—to what was real, to where I truly belong.
