They say we are the architects of our own misfortune. And I am a perfect example of that. Everything that’s happened to me is my own doing, not destiny, bad luck, or someone else’s influence. Just my blindness, arrogance, and naive infatuation with a facade instead of substance.
My name is Roman. I’m from Manchester. I’m 38 now and have been in a marriage that’s been a trial instead of a joy for the past three years. But once, I thought I had hit the jackpot.
Back then, I was 32, living independently, with a good job, two flats inherited from my grandmother, and a small shop I rented out. My parents had long since moved to a house outside the city, and I enjoyed single life, believing I would soon meet ‘the one.’
I always dreamed of a wife with a magazine-cover look: long legs, a doll-like figure, shiny hair, and flawless makeup. I believed that having such a woman would guarantee my success and make others envy me.
At the same time, there was Nina—my best friend. Smart, kind, with a gentle sense of humor, she always knew how to support me. We often went for walks, talked about everything, and sometimes, after parties, she stayed over. I took it all for granted. She was simply a good person by my side. I never thought it might mean more to her.
Then one day, while on a skiing trip with friends in Blackpool, I met her—Laura. Slim, striking, with plumped lips, long nails, and golden curls down to her waist. She looked just like I imagined my ‘ideal wife.’
During that week, we didn’t ski much but spent most of our time in the hotel, drinking, laughing, and flirting. In the peak of alcohol and hormonal haze, I foolishly proposed to her. Yes, right there in the hotel room, with a sleepy voice and a glass of champagne in hand.
Laura, upon hearing about my flats, business, and family, merely smiled modestly and nodded. Within days, she had moved in with me.
When I told Nina about this, she was stunned but calm. Without any drama, she said:
“Roman, you rushed this. Women from holiday resorts rarely come for love. Try to get to know her better.”
I was furious. I accused her of being jealous and didn’t even invite her to the wedding. I thought she was just upset that I hadn’t chosen her.
And very soon, my fantasy crumbled like a house of cards.
First, Laura forbade me from touching her chest:
“I have implants. You can’t squeeze them.”
Then it became clear she didn’t cook at all—not even remembering to turn on the kettle. Salads? No. Dinner? No. Dusting? Never. I did everything, and my mother brought us food in pots.
Laura went to salons, spas, and shopping like it was her job. She spent my money as if it was a game of Monopoly.
When I suggested having kids, she coldly responded:
“Are you crazy? My body is my investment. Not for at least another ten years.”
We didn’t talk—we coexisted. Whatever I brought up, she either didn’t understand or pretended it was boring. She had her own interests: nails, sugaring, Instagram stories. And I had my despair.
So I turned back to Nina. I sought warmth, conversation, and understanding from her. She listened, encouraged, joked, and tried to restore my confidence. I poured my heart out, and she was just there.
But one day, she told me she was getting married. To my acquaintance, Dave.
“I love you, Roman,” she said. “I always have. But I’m tired of waiting. And with Dave, even though there’s no passion, I’ll have peace. And sometimes, that’s more important.”
That’s when it hit me—all that I had lost. All I had ruined with my own hands.
I could have been with a woman who would have been my pillar, a true friend, a wife, the mother of my children. But I chose a doll. A shell without substance.
Now I live in a beautiful cage, next to a woman alien to me. I don’t know how long this charade will last. But one thing I know for sure: I lost Nina forever. And that’s my biggest mistake.
If you’re reading this and have someone beside you who understands, supports, and cares for you—don’t let them go. Don’t trade something real for something shiny. Because one day, you might wake up in luxury… and feel nothing but emptiness.
