I want to go back to my ex-wife: the new one turned out to be empty
In a small town by the Thames, where life moves at a leisurely pace and family dramas play out behind closed doors, my story with my ex-wife and new spouse is tearing me apart. I, James, thought I’d made the right choice by leaving the endless arguments, but now nostalgia for the past haunts me.
My ex-wife, Emily, always found a reason for a row. I’m no saint—I have my flaws—but her nitpicking drove me up the wall. She blamed me for everything: for being tired after work, for not spending enough time with our son, Oliver, who was already ten. She disliked it when I took him to football matches or the funfair—for me, it wasn’t just about being a dad but about joy. Emily, though, grumbled that I was just having fun with him while she had to play the strict parent. I grew weary of her control and accusations.
One day, I’d had enough. After yet another fight, I packed my things and left. I rented a flat nearby so Oliver could visit whenever he liked. It felt like the only solution: Emily and I couldn’t understand each other, and living together had become unbearable. Three months later, she filed for divorce. I tried to pick up the pieces, relishing the silence, the freedom from shouting and blame. It was like a breath of fresh air after suffocating for years.
Six months passed. Oliver mentioned offhand that “some bloke” was visiting his mum. I brushed it off, but unease gnawed at me. I decided it was time to move on. I dated a few women, but nothing serious came of it. I wanted stability, a family. Then came Charlotte—young, beautiful, no children, no baggage. She didn’t tell me what to do, didn’t make scenes. I thought with her, everything would be different, easier.
We married without a big fuss—having been in a marriage before, I didn’t need the fanfare. Life with Charlotte seemed peaceful; I even thought about having children. Sometimes, I admit, I wanted to prove to Emily that I could be happy without her, that I’d found someone better who wouldn’t turn my life into hell.
But everything changed when Emily called: Oliver had been hit in the nose with a football during training. I rushed to the hospital and saw her for the first time in ages. She looked stunning—just like I remembered her when we first met. She spoke to me calmly, without the usual jabs. The scent of her perfume lingered in the car, and suddenly, my chest tightened.
Oliver’s nose wasn’t a simple fix—he needed surgery on his septum. I started seeing Emily more often, discussing our son’s health. One day, out of habit, I walked into their flat, took off my shoes, put the kettle on. Only when I couldn’t find my mug did I realise this wasn’t my home anymore. I was just dropping them off.
Charlotte was the polar opposite of Emily. Calm, neat, she loved order and cooked lovely dinners. We never argued, and in bed, everything was perfect. But her coldness was crushing. She didn’t laugh at my jokes, didn’t share my excitement over films. Her emotions were behind glass—I couldn’t reach them. Life with her was like a show home: flawless, but soulless.
I caught myself texting Emily constantly, pretending it was about Oliver. But the truth was—I missed her. I missed our home, her bright laugh, the way she matched my sarcasm and argued with me till she was hoarse. I forgot the fights, remembering only the good.
One day, dropping Oliver off, I ran into her new man. He was older than me, shorter, with a touch of grey. I nodded at his “hello,” but inside, I was seething. This stranger was in my house, sleeping in my bed! I lost it and shouted at Emily, demanding he stay away from where my son lived.
“So what, should Oliver and I go to his place?” she snapped. “Or send our son to you, so he can sleep between you and Charlotte? Buy him a bed first, then tell me who I can see!”
We yelled at each other like old times. Oliver, unable to take it, shut himself in his room. Emily stormed into the kitchen, muttering under her breath. I followed and, without thinking, pulled her into my arms. My lips brushed her neck. She sighed but shoved me away.
“What are you doing? Go! Back to your wife!” she shouted, her eyes blazing.
I left, feeling the ground give way beneath me. At home, Charlotte waited—perfect, impeccable, but a stranger. She’d done nothing wrong, but I couldn’t pretend. I ached for Emily, for her fire that once drove me mad, for mornings when she wore my shirt, for evenings when we waited together for the next season of our favourite show.
I left Emily believing it was for the best. But now I see—my home is where she and Oliver are. I want to go back, but how? I’ve a new wife who doesn’t deserve betrayal, and an ex whose flame still burns inside me. I’m lost, but my heart pulls me back—to what’s real, to where I truly belong.
