I never loved my wife and told her so more than once. It wasn’t her fault—we lived reasonably well.
My name is Andrew Wolcott, and I live in Richmond, where the grey days echo with memories of history. I never loved my wife, Susan, and threw this harsh truth at her as often as the bitter wind in winter. She didn’t deserve it—she never caused scenes or blamed me, always kind and caring, almost saintly. Yet my heart stayed as cold as ice on the Thames in December. There was no love, and it gnawed at me from within.
Every morning, I woke up with one thought: to leave. I dreamed of finding a woman who would ignite a fire within me, someone I could truly cherish. But fate played a cruel trick, turning everything upside down, and I still can’t get my bearings. With Susan, I was comfortable, like in an old armchair. She kept the house spotless, looked stunning enough to turn heads on the street, and friends patted me on the back saying, “Where did you find such a gem, lucky man?” I couldn’t comprehend what I did to deserve her devotion. Just an ordinary bloke, nothing special, yet she loved me as if I were her entire world. How is that possible?
Her love suffocated me. Worse was the thought that if I left, someone else would have her. Someone more successful, handsome, richer—someone who’d appreciate what I didn’t see. When I imagined her in another’s arms, jealousy fogged my mind. She was mine—even if I never loved her. This possessiveness was stronger than me, stronger than common sense. But can you live your whole life with someone to whom your heart is silent? I thought I could, but I was wrong—a tempest brewed inside me, one I couldn’t contain.
“Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything,” I resolved as I went to bed. In the morning at breakfast, I gathered my remaining courage. “Susan, sit down, we need to talk,” I began, looking into her calm eyes. “Of course, dear, what’s the matter?” she responded with her usual gentleness. “Imagine we’re getting a divorce. I’m leaving, we live apart…” She laughed as if I were joking: “What strange fancies? Is this a game?” “Listen on, I’m serious,” I cut her off. “Alright, I imagined it. And then?” she asked, still smiling. “Be honest: would you find someone else if I left?” She froze. “Andrew, what’s wrong with you? Why are you even thinking about this?” she said with concern in her voice. “Because I don’t love you and never have,” I blurted out, like a blow.
Susan turned pale. “What? You must be joking. I don’t understand.” “I want to leave, but the thought of you with someone else drives me insane,” my voice shook with tension. She paused, then said quietly with a sad wisdom, “I won’t find anyone better than you, don’t worry. Leave, I’ll remain on my own.” “Promise?” slipped out of me. “Of course,” she nodded, looking me in the eyes. “But wait, where do I go?” I asked confused. “You have nowhere?” she inquired surprised. “No, we’ve been together all our lives. Seems like I’ll have to stay nearby,” I muttered, feeling the ground slip from under my feet. “Don’t worry,” Susan replied. “After the divorce, we’ll split the house into two smaller ones.” “Really? I didn’t expect you to help me like this. Why?” I asked, stunned. “Because I love you. Real love doesn’t hold on by force,” her words sounded like a verdict.
A few months passed. We divorced. Then rumors reached me: Susan lied. She found someone else—a tall man with confidence and a kind smile. She never even considered splitting the house she inherited from her grandmother. I was left with nothing—no home, no family, no trust in people. The deception revealed itself like a stab in the back, and I still hear her voice: “I’ll stay alone.” Lies. Cold, calculating lies, and I believed them like a fool.
How can I trust women now? I don’t know. My life with her was comfortable yet empty, and now even that’s gone. I sit in a rented room, staring at the wall, replaying that conversation. Her calmness, her words—it was all a façade. Friends say, “You’re to blame, Andrew, what did you expect?” And they’re right. I didn’t love her, but wanted to keep her like a possession. And she left, leaving me in the loneliness I feared so much. Perhaps this is my penance—for the coldness, for the selfishness, for not valuing her heart. Now I am alone, and the silence around cuts deeper than her departure. What do you think of my actions? I don’t know who the bigger fool is—me or her.
