**Loneliness in Marriage. A Husband Leaves for Another. A Diary Entry**
For twenty years, I shared my life with Gregory. We had our ups and downs, but I never regretted a single day with him.
I always tried to be a good wife, accommodating his every whim, never contradicting him. What else could I do? A woman must be wise. Otherwise, she risks losing her man—there were plenty of divorcées circling him like vultures. I forgave his affairs more than once. Once, he even tried to leave. But I told him I wouldn’t live without him, and fear made him stay.
Gregory liked his drink—who doesn’t? But at least he worked, bringing in just enough to keep us afloat. I worked two jobs myself. That’s how we managed.
When our daughter was born, I was on maternity leave, unable to work. He grew resentful, begrudging every pound spent. But once I returned to work, I bought everything myself—for me and our little girl.
One morning, he staggered in, worse for wear. When I asked where he’d been, he flew into a rage and raised his hand at me. I stayed silent. A wife must understand a man needs time away from family.
Then, one day, he didn’t just raise his hand. I wore black sunglasses to hide the bruises, telling everyone I’d walked into a cupboard door.
It happened again. And again. Soon, it was constant. Doctors, stitching up my broken nose and ribs, urged me to report him. But I couldn’t. Gregory was my love, my life. If I did, he’d leave in anger.
Our daughter needed a father.
Though he barely noticed her—he’d wanted a son. A second child never came, though I’d longed for one.
When Emily grew older, she begged me to leave. Strange, I thought, since children usually love their parents no matter what. But she feared him—he’d turned his hand on her too. Gregory was the authority, and we obeyed, but punishment still came.
Years passed. I turned forty. Emily moved in with her boyfriend.
Gregory grew quieter, barely speaking to me, though I stayed devoted, silent in my love. I still did everything for him, hoping to please him.
Then one evening, he came home early, restless. Pacing the flat as if wrestling with words.
“Gregory, what’s wrong?” I finally asked.
A pause.
“I’ve had enough. I’m leaving.”
The world tilted. I gripped the chair.
“Leaving? Where? What about us?”
“What ‘us’?” he snarled. “Look at you! I’ve wasted my life tolerating you. Now I’ll live for myself—with a woman who deserves me.”
“There’s someone else?” Tears spilled.
“Obviously. You’re a withered old woman. I’m still handsome—anyone would want me. But you? I’m sick of your love.”
He grabbed his bag.
“I’ll get my things tomorrow,” he threw over his shoulder.
And just like that, twenty years ended.
Later, I learned he’d had a mistress for three years. That’s where he went.
Today, I turned fifty. Five years divorced, yet I’m still not whole.
In the split, he took everything but the flat—my mother’s legacy. It all felt like a nightmare. How could this happen? After all I did for him!
Now, I understand. You cannot live another’s life. You cannot forgive unrepentant cruelty. You must never degrade yourself or endure abuse. And I pushed my daughter aside for him. Now, she barely speaks to me—her childhood was spent in fear.
How I wish I’d known sooner! So much wasted.
The clock ticks loudly. Another birthday alone. But I’ve learned—I’ll spend whatever time I have left in peace, free from another’s whims.
A knock at the door. There stood Gregory, sheepish, clutching daisies.
“Hello. I’m back for good. You’re the best, the most beautiful. Let me in?” His smile was effortless, as if years didn’t matter.
“No. Leave—and don’t come back.”
I shut the door. For the first time, I knew: my loneliness ends now. The past stays behind.
*Note: This is a true story, told by a friend.*
*What do you think? Did the wife do right? How should a woman act in marriage?*
