They say you are the architect of your own misfortune. And I, unfortunately, am living proof of that. Everything that happened to me was of my own making. No fate, no ill luck, no meddling by others. Just my blindness, arrogance, and naive infatuation with appearances rather than substance.
My name is Robert. I’m from Nottingham. I’m currently 38 and have been married for three years, though it feels more like an ordeal than a joy. But once upon a time, I thought I had struck gold.
When I was 32, I lived on my own, had a successful job, two flats inherited from my grandmother, and a small shop that I rented out. My parents had long since moved to a cottage in the countryside, and I savored my bachelor lifestyle, convinced I’d soon meet “the one.”
In my daydreams, my future wife had a glossy appearance: long-legged, with a doll-like figure, shiny hair, and impeccable makeup. I believed such a woman would be the key to my success and the envy of others.
Meanwhile, there was Emma, my best friend. Intelligent, kind, with a gentle wit, she always knew how to support me. We often strolled together, had heart-to-heart talks, and sometimes, after parties, she’d stay over. I took it for granted. To me, she was just a good friend. I never considered it might mean more to her.
Then one winter, on a skiing trip in the Lake District with some friends, I met her—Laura. Tall, stunning, with pouty lips, long nails, and golden curls down to her waist. She looked exactly like my imagined “perfect wife.”
We barely skied that week, instead spending most of our time in the hotel room, drinking, laughing, and flirting. In the midst of our boozy thrill, like a fool, I proposed. Yes, in the hotel room, slurring my words, champagne glass in hand.
Laura, upon learning about my properties, business, and parents, just smiled modestly and nodded. Within days, she had moved in with me.
When I told Emma, she was taken aback. Calmly, without drama, she said:
“Rob, you rushed things. Women from holiday spots rarely come back for love. Try to get to know her better.”
I was furious. Accused her of jealousy. I didn’t even invite her to the wedding. I thought she was just upset I didn’t choose her.
My whimsical fairy tale soon crumbled.
Initially, Laura forbade me from touching her chest:
“I have implants. They can’t be messed with.”
It then emerged she didn’t cook at all—couldn’t even be bothered to put the kettle on. Salads? No. Dinner? No. Dusting? Never. I did everything while my mom brought over food in pots.
Laura went to salons, spas, and shopping like it was her job. She spent my money as if it were Monopoly money.
When I mentioned having children, she coldly replied:
“Are you crazy? My body is my investment. Not for another ten years.”
We didn’t talk—we coexisted. Anything I brought up, she either didn’t understand or pretended to be bored. She had her topics: nails, beauty treatments, Instagram stories. I had my yearning.
I found myself drawn back to Emma. I sought warmth, conversation, understanding from her. She listened, encouraged, joked, tried to restore my self-esteem. I complained, poured out my soul, and she was simply there for me.
But one day, she told me she was getting married. To my acquaintance, David.
“I love you, Rob,” she said. “Always have. But I’m tired of waiting. With David, even without passion, I’ll have peace of mind. Sometimes, believe me, that’s more important.”
That’s when I grasped everything. Everything I’d lost. Everything I’d destroyed with my own hands.
I could have been with a woman who’d have been my pillar, a true friend, a wife, the mother of my children. Instead, I chose a doll. A façade without substance.
Now, I live in a gilded cage alongside a woman who’s a stranger to me. I don’t know how long this charade will last. But one thing I’m sure of: I lost Emma forever. And that is my greatest mistake.
If you’re reading this, and there’s someone in your life who understands, supports, and cherishes you—don’t let them go. Don’t trade genuine connection for glossy appearances. Because one day, you might wake up in satin sheets… only to realize you’re surrounded by emptiness.
