I realised my mistakes and wanted to return to my ex-wife after 30 years, but it was already far too late
My name is Oliver Whitaker, and I live in Canterbury, where the grey skies of Kent stretch endlessly over the fields. Im 52 years old, and I have nothingno wife, no family, no children, no jobjust emptiness, like the cold wind howling through an abandoned house. I destroyed everything I had with my own hands, and now I stand amid the ruins of my life, staring into the abyss I dug myself.
For three decades, I shared my life with my wife, Eleanor. I was the provider, working long hours to support us while she cared for our home. I liked having her there, keeping her to myself, away from the world outside. But over time, I grew irritated by her attentiveness, her habits, even her voice. Love faded, worn down by routine. I thought it was normaljust how things were meant to be. I settled into that dull stability. Then fate tested me, and I failed.
One evening, at the pub, I met Lydia. She was 32, twenty years younger than mebright, lively, with a spark in her eyes. She felt like a dream come true, a breath of fresh air in my stagnant world. We started seeing each other, and within weeks, she became my mistress. For two months, I led a double life until I realised: I didnt want to go home to Eleanor anymore. I thought I was in love with Lydiaor at least, I convinced myself I was. I wanted her to be my wife, my new future.
I gathered my courage and confessed to Eleanor. She didnt scream or smash platesshe just stared at me with hollow eyes and nodded. I thought she didnt care, that her feelings had died long ago. Now, I see how deeply I wounded her. We divorced. We sold the house where our children, Thomas and William, had grown up, where every corner held memories. Lydia insisted I leave Eleanor with nothing. I obeyedtook my share and bought a spacious flat for Lydia. Eleanor was left with a tiny bedsit, and I didnt even help her financially. I knew she had no income, no way to survive, but I didnt care. My sons called me a traitor and cut all ties. At the time, it didnt matterI had Lydia, a new life, and I thought that was enough.
Lydia became pregnant, and I eagerly awaited our child. But when the boy was born, something felt wrong. He didnt look like meor even her. Friends whispered, my brother warned me, but I brushed it off. Life with Lydia turned into a nightmare. I worked myself ragged to support her, the baby, while she demanded money, vanished at night, returned drunk. The flat was always a mess, no food, constant arguments. Eventually, I lost my jobexhaustion and anger took their toll. Three years passed in this torment before my brother persuaded me to take a DNA test. The result hit me like a hammer: the boy wasnt mine.
I divorced Lydia the same day I found out. She disappeared, taking whatever she could carry. I was aloneno wife, no children, no strength left. So I decided to go back to Eleanor. I bought flowers, wine, cake, and went to her like a grovelling dog. But her bedsit was occupied by another tenant, who gave me her new address. I arrived trembling with hope. A man answered the door. Eleanor had found work, remarried a colleague, and she looked happyalive, glowing, in a way Id never seen before. She had rebuilt her life without me.
Later, I found her at a café. I fell to my knees, begging for forgiveness. She looked at me as if I were a pitiful fool and walked away without a word. Now I see the idiot I was. Why did I leave the woman I spent 30 years with? Why did I trade my family for a younger woman who drained me and left me ruined? For an illusion, for blind belief in love? Im 52, and Im hollow. My sons wont answer my calls, my job slipped through my fingers like sand. I lost everything I ever cherished, and the blame is mine alone.
Every night, I dream of Eleanorher calm eyes, her voice, her warmth. I wake to the chill of solitude and realise: Im the one who pushed her away. She wont wait for me, wont forgive me, and I dont deserve it. My mistake burns like a brand on my soul. I wish I could turn back time, but its too late. Far too late. Now I wander the streets of Canterbury like a ghost, searching for what I destroyed. I have nothing leftonly regret, which will follow me to the grave. I tore apart my family, my life, and I carry that weight alone, knowing theres nothing left to fix.
Some wounds never heal, and some losses cant be undone. The price of betrayal is paid in loneliness.
